21. Kieran
Chapter 21
Kieran
“I like Miss Summer with us,” Aoife mumbles half asleep as I slip her into bed. I’d excused myself from the table to put Aoife to bed twenty minutes ago. It’s something I do each time we come to the yacht, and not something I get to do often at home. Allie handles bedtime, unless she is off for a night.
I usually mess it up, as Aoife reminds me. I don’t sing any songs, and apparently, I don’t do the voices very well when it comes to the limited selection of books here. But getting to do this simple parenting task reminds me of when she was a wee little one. Not but a tiny baby who could fit in the palm of my hand.
“Aye,” I finally answer her. “I do, too.”
“Can she come again?”
I give her a smile as she yawns while her eyelids fall closed. “She’s welcome anytime.”
Even though I suspect Summer is on the run, and now trying to get out of town. The bag. The anxious look in her eyes. She’s attempting to leave, and I’m not sure she’s planning on returning. Which means Aoife is going to lose her teacher.
It’s that fact that has me pushing up to leave the bottom bunk where Aoife is nestled and march back up the stairs.
I’ve avoided this most of the night, and frankly I’m surprised. Maybe I feel like it’s an invasion of Summer’s privacy and I really want to do things right with her. She’s whittled her way into my decisions at this point.
But I remind myself who I am. This city is mine. Despite Riku’s recent diabolical plan to twist my balls, I will not have people in my town hunting down Summer Smith.
Sending a quick text to one of my guys on the ground, I pad back toward the front of the yacht.
The crew is clearing the table, but beyond that, so close to the bow, is Summer as she faces the open ocean and drinks in the setting sun.
I watch her. Unapologetically.
Her short but thick hair whips in the rampant breeze. Arms draped around herself, almost in a hug, she leans ever so slightly into the misting wind currents. Images of her, there, mine for the taking, flicker through my thoughts. Shite. No. She’s too young for me.
But perhaps she doesn’t think so. Has my age even been on her mind?
When Aoife mentioned Summer was mumbling my name while she was asleep—the thrill that shot through my veins almost had me itching like an addict. I hope it wasn’t truly a nightmare, and by the red that crept over her cheeks, I think it was something more.
While she’s too young, I can picture it. Us. Here on our yacht.
I grab a blanket as I walk toward the bow, passing Michael as Cara continues to clear the dishes and pack up the table.
“Can we get you anything else tonight, sir?”
“Only privacy,” I answer, and he nods quickly before hustling away.
“What can I do?” Summer’s voice pulls at me from where she’s now standing in front of Cara.
She’s trying to help clean up. Cute. I immediately shake the word cute from my vocabulary. Summer Smith is gorgeous. Even with what she’s going through, she always tries to help as if it’s the first thing on her mind.
I rub at my chest when I think about her trying to get out of dodge.
“Ye can put this on.” I nearly grunt the words, but I’m not sure she notices. Nor do I think she realizes I suck in a painful breath as I wrap the blanket around her shoulders. Or how the walls I’ve spent years building seem to crumble when she checks in to make sure Aoife got to sleep all right, her voice laced with genuine care. It’s in these two small moments that my defenses falter.
It’s a mistake when I ask if she’s leaving. I already know the answer and yet my mouth opens anyway. I regret it immediately because her whole expression tightens, and unmistakable sadness floods her face.
I’m not sure what I say next. All I know is that I have a desire to keep Summer Smith in Boston. I’m also not sure when I get so close to her, or when I lean down to brush my lips against hers.
This woman.
I swore I’d never fall again, but she’s challenging my resolve. It’s different than with Aoife’s mother, and I’m struggling to put my finger on why. I want to coax things from Summer. More than just whispers and pleas. Laughter—or her witty attitude, which makes me want to kiss her senseless.
The biggest reason I’m falling is that I don’t impress Summer Smith at all. Unlike most women who pursue me she doesn’t fawn over me, she fights me. And what can I say? I’m not normally one to step out of the ring.
Just as I’m about to deepen our featherlight kiss, my phone dings. It hauls me out of my delirium, and I stare at Summer. She licks her puffy pink lips, and I have to distract myself with the message on my phone.
It’s a reply from my guy on the ground. But instead of written words, I receive photos. Pictures of Summer Smith’s apartment trashed. Her mattress has been flipped, and the couch slashed open with what must have been a sharp blade, judging by the clean, jagged cuts. Even the likes of her closet have been flung to the floor.
Is this what she’s running from? Who the hell do these people think they are threatening her?
My jaw cracks in my ears as I clench my teeth, and rage simmers below my calm exterior. “Who broke into yer apartment?”
Her pupils darken, and shock douses the almost-kissed look off her face.
“H-how do you know that?”
“Answer me question.”
“Answer mine.”
I scowl at her, and she scowls back. Seconds pass, chipping away at the resolve hardened on Summer’s face. Finally, she cracks.
“I don’t know who they are.” Her amber eyes, reflecting the last of the setting sun dart back and forth. Is she lying?
I bite my cheek to keep from growling at her pathetic answer. That’s not enough information. Not nearly enough.
“How do you have pictures of my apartment?” she follows up almost immediately.
“I sent someone to check on yer place.”
Her mouth parts, then she closes it again before repeating the motion. “Why?”
“Because ye’re runnin’. I told ye I could help ya.”
“So you sent someone to my place?! I told you I didn’t want you and Aoife involved.”
“Ye clearly don’t know who I am.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” She folds her arms over her chest, and I stare at the olive blanket she’s dropped to the floor.
“Nothing.” I grit out the words. Would this sweet preschool teacher ever want me if she knew who I was? If only she knew what I was capable of.
I’m not sure how much I want to admit—to Summer or to myself—but I find the words trickling out, nonetheless. “If ye need a safe spot to land, to be, the yacht is yers. Use it. Stay here. I have twenty-four-seven security on me yacht. The crew is vetted and most of them full time. Ye’d be protected.” It’s then I lift my face back to hers. What can only be confusion churns in the depth of her magnificent eyes while a soft, selfish voice whispers on my shoulder, at least you’ll be able to keep her.
Summer scuffs the tip of her shoe on the teakwood deck, diverting her gaze to it. “Is that really a good idea?”
“And why not?”
“Kieran …”
“Ye have no idea what hearin’ me name on yer mouth does to me.”
Her head snaps back to mine, and among the slapping of the waves against the hull, or the motoring engine of nearby boats, she gasps. It’s a sound I want to explore, and that’s not possible if she’s not here.
“Ye’ll stay here.” A fierceness stabs at my chest. I’m beyond giving her a choice at this point.
“I-I’m not sure.”
I’m trying to decrypt Summer. Her expression. She won’t look at me, picking the light on the upper deck to stare at, before falling back down to the blanket she still won’t pick up.
I can see it. The warring in her eyes. The internal argument I can only imagine is raging inside her head at this moment. It should be easy. I’m offering protection. A place to stay. A way to stay in Boston.
“I’m on the board at the Academy. I’ll tell Green ye’re on temporary leave for personal reasons. We’ll get someone to fill yer classroom.”
Water pools in her eyes as if I’ve made the decision harder for her. But at least this way she could come back—can come back.
She shakes her head, and my stomach drops. She’s going to say no.
“Give it two days,” I blurt. “Two days to think about it. Ye can map out yer plan. Get a good night’s rest. And if ye still feel like leavin’ is the best option, I’ll help ya.”
I’m not sure what it is. The same need that drives me to seek the mysterious woman in the fighting ring is pushing me to keep Summer in Boston. There’s no logical explanation. Just panic.
Finally, she speaks, her voice hovering above a whisper, and those five words soothe the intense dread clawing my stomach.
“I’ll give it two days.”