32. Summer
Chapter 32
Summer
F or the cool April night air outside, it sure is hot in here. I flip off the covers twisted around my legs, untangling myself from their death grip, and sit up.
“Ugh.” I sigh, reaching for the glass of empty water by my bed. Well, not completely empty. It still has three drops in there and I allow them to trickle down the glass and onto my tongue in a dramatic fashion.
Pushing to stand, I glance at my clock. Just after midnight.
I drag a hand down my face, unable to ignore Kieran’s tantalizing words. They hover there. Like a sick joke, they feed into my desires, churning the thoughts in my head until I’m deliriously entertaining them.
I don’t care what yer first name is as long as O’Donnell is yer last.
They haunt me.
I haven’t seen much of Kieran which makes the hollow pit in my stomach ever more gruesome. If I could just have some normal interaction with him, I’d feel better.
Aoife’s been helping. After she’s out of school for the day, we’ve been taking trips to the nearby parks, building forts, and ruining the cobblestone driveway with goofy body outlines in chalk snickering when one of the guards does a double take at our creations.
She’s been such a breath of fresh air. Her mind works in such a methodical and logical way, but then there are these moments of whimsy when her creativity blossoms and she lets go of reason. What spills out of her is pure and joyful.
She told Allie the other day she wanted a motorcycle. Sat her Goldfish snack to the side while we were coloring mermaid pictures and said she wanted to go fast. While Allie looked like she’d seen a ghost, muttering about all the dangers of bikes, I told Aoife that maybe someday she’d have one and be the fastest bike in the streets of Boston. Why shouldn’t she?
I shake my empty cup before setting it down and grabbing my pink silk robe hanging over the footboard of my bed. I’m not normally a robe person. The sweatpants and oversized T-shirt I usually wear to bed don’t require a robe. But for some reason, while wandering around Target, I impulsively picked up a silky pajama short set—caught up in some delusion of strolling through that store with Kieran by my side, dressed sharply in a suit.
His sleeves were rolled up, exposing his veiny forearms with dark hair that reminded me of the way he used them to touch me in Luxe Atelier . And his proximity to me, soaking in my story about running to Boston, was electric.
My body acted like a live wire under his touch. Sensual jolts making my nerves ablaze with a sensation I hadn’t felt in years.
Pulling the robe over my sage green pajama cami and short set, I spin, picking up the glass yet again to make my way downstairs to the kitchen. Unable to sleep anyway, I might as well commit to staying hydrated.
The hallway is dark, and I make my way to Aoife’s room to peek in on her tiny sleeping form. Smiling, I shut her door and slink down the steps. A yellowish lamp is on in the living room, and I use the light to help guide me to the kitchen where I flick on the island light.
The refrigerator’s steady hum breaks the silence of the house, and I pull it open and scan the shelves for the glass pitcher of filtered water Allie keeps in there. After refilling my glass, I tap the light back off, making my way back through the house and down the hall.
I pass Kieran’s office. The door is closed, and I shuffle onward a couple of steps beyond the threshold. Before I can second-guess my decision, I stop in my tracks and let my hand hover over the handle.
It’s wrong on so many levels. Invading his privacy like this. Plus, I’m getting ahead of myself; it’s probably locked. Twisting, the door groans open.
So much for it being locked. Jeez. Am I really doing this?
I let the door swing open enough for my body to slip in, and I leave the door cracked in case Kieran has some crazy security that traps anyone who tries to break into his office. With the amount of cameras he has plastered all over the perimeter of the house, I wouldn’t put it past him.
Stumbling into the near pitch black, I reach out to steady myself and my hand wraps around a lamp. Feeling my way up to underneath the shade, I pull the old-fashioned chain and the poor shadowy light highlights parts of the office.
It’s fairly small, and it has no windows since it’s an interior room of the house, but it’s cozy. The smell of worn leather and a musty, lived-in scent makes me wiggle my nose. A couch sits on the wall to the right of where you enter, and a simple wood desk sits in the center of the room with a patchy leather chair behind it. To the left, behind the floor lamp whose chain I pulled, sits a huge gaudy-framed oil painting of Kieran’s yacht. My lips part with silent amusement as I take in this painting so disproportionate to the room and furniture it’s comical.
My skin crackles as I drag a finger across the top of Kieran’s desk, noting the subtle ways in which he’s imprinted it. The photo of Aoife eating the cannoli, the one he sent me, sits proudly on his desk, propped in a black frame. Random paper clips scatter across the stacks of papers, which read with a bunch of legal mumbo jumbo.
My heart churns, picking up its already erratic pace at my peeping, when my bare foot connects with a basket sitting on the floor nestled closely to his desk.
Books.
Children’s books.
I bend down, picking up the basket and setting it on the desk. It’s brimming with vibrant colors and playful illustrations, totally the opposite of the earthy, muted tones of the office. There’s a mix of hardcovers and softcovers, many of which have mermaids on them, and the most worn book being Goodnight Moon , which I know to be one of Aoife’s favorites.
Smiling, I flip through it.
My father’s office never had a basket of books or toys for us. He strictly avoided anything that would encourage children in his presence. In fact, toys were meant to stay in our rooms. My mother had rules surrounding our personal entertainment items, and we learned real quick if we left our prized possessions around the house—they’d disappear within the day. I’m fairly certain she instructed the maids to toss anything they came across.
The basket of books thumps against the floor as I place them back, bristling with guilt. I made him feel like such a checked-out father. I’d pulled the similar notes I found in him that reminded me of my father and passed judgement without knowing the full story, the full Kieran.
My stomach tightens and I’m sick with the thought.
He’s trying. The realization that I want to help him rolls over me in a fluttering wave.
Eyeing his chair, then the clock, I shrug and pad over to it. I trace the rough, worn patches of leather, raised and bumpy under my touch, before I plop down.
I spin a few times, trying to put myself in Kieran’s shoes as he works at his desk from home. I don’t notice him here all that often, and I wonder what keeps him this late at work.
Humiliation burrows in my belly as I think of all the things he could be doing. I hiss out a puff of air, sucking back in to inhale the old leather and … Kieran. The slight smokiness of whiskey mixed with a faint sweetness of rain makes me want to bathe here in him. Jeez … I’ve lost it.
Still, eyes heavy, I allow the ache to ravage my senses, building until my hand skims up my thigh as I picture his touch. The need to assuage the budding heat grows, while the silk of my robe falls open around my pajamas. Dizziness swarms around me, and I forget where I am.
“What are ye doing?” Kieran’s stern voice has me ripping my hand away and using both to slam my robe closed.
“Kieran.” His name comes out breathless, and when he steps farther into his office, I swallow at his towering form.
His hair is damp and tousled, the longer strands over his forehead curling in that tantalizing way that makes me want to twirl them around my finger. He’s dressed in a simple gray T-shirt and dark wash jeans that screams casual. And while Kieran looks attractive in anything, I think this look is my favorite.
“I, uh …” Well, jeez. How do I explain this?
His gaze flicks around the room like he’s searching for the reason for my intrusion. As he steps forward, the lamp’s light shimmers off a dark wetness above his eye, and as it comes into focus, the red blood dripping over his face has me pushing to stand.
“What happened? Are you all right?” I rush toward him, taking in the defeat in his eyes and the blooming bruise across his other cheek. Was he attacked? Where were his guards? My father would have the heads of his men if they allowed this to happen to him.
The hardness of his jaw, coupled with the blood smeared over his brow, makes him look fierce. He sets his shoulders and raises his chin as he ignores my questions in favor of repeating his own. “What. Are. Ye. Doing. Summer?”
“I-I couldn’t sleep.” I worry with the corner of my lip.
“So naturally ye felt the need to barge into me office in the middle of the night.”
Heat soars into my cheeks as he lazily skims my undoubtedly shameful face.
I fist my robe together, swallowing. “I’m sorry.”
He marinates on my words before moving past me toward the drawers of his desk. He opens one, pulling out a first aid kit and taking it with him to the couch. Groaning, he flops on it in a totally ungraceful way, and I’m not sure why that makes my mouth twitch with a hint of a smile.
As he fumbles around, I move to sit next to him.
“Are you going to tell me what happened?” I ask, studying the lines creasing between his brows that make me want to soothe them.
When he halts the dig through the kit, I pluck it from his hands as his stare bores into the side of my head.
“Do ye really want to know? Thought ye didn’t want this life.”
I wince but quip back to lighten the mood. “I mean, I’m pretend engaged to you so I guess that means I should want to know.”
When he doesn’t respond right away, I let out an airy laugh, then chide myself as I peel open some gauze. Jeez, Summer.
“And if it weren’t pretend?”
I freeze, meeting his intense stare, and he runs a finger under the collar of his V-neck, eyes softening a bit.
“If it weren’t pretend then I’d need to know.”
My breathing runs away with itself as his face hovers near mine. Is he closer? Too close? No , my mind screams. Not close enough.
I wrap a piece of gauze around two fingers and lift it between us. “Let me,” I say. I’m surprised my voice is so calm when my insides feel like they’re shaking violently.
Gently, I prod the gash above his eyebrow, trying to obsess over anything other than his proximity. “So, what happened?”
“I won me fight.” The words come out with a grimace, and he squints, staring off at the obnoxious boat painting.
“Fight?”
“I’m guessing ye don’t know much about the Irish, do ya?”
I shake my head.
“We’re probably different than what ye’re used to in the Cosa Nostra. The O’Donnell’s have been the head family for generations, passing down the restaurants and business to push dirty money through.”
I blink, most definitely not accustomed to this world anymore. But I want to know. I need to know. I pull another piece of gauze out and dab it over the same cut to distract myself.
“Somewhere along the line we spearheaded the underground boxing ring attracting anyone from those on the streets needing extra cash, to the powerful elite of other organizations. It um … the ring is under O’Brien’s.”
That has my head snapping back.
“And you fight? Personally?” I may not be in the Mafia circles much anymore, but if there’s one surety, most leaders, my father included, they don’t like to get their hands dirty. They’ll farm out anything. There’s something about him getting down in the trenches with everyone that makes my heart leap.
“Aye. Takes the edge off. Plus, I generally enjoy trainin’ and gettin’ in the ring.”
I nod, opening a butterfly closure from the kit, and scoot closer to him. His thigh brushes mine, the warmth of his muscle pressing into my bare leg, and it takes the will of a saint not to crawl into his lap.
“So, you won! That’s great!” It comes out all high pitched and disingenuous because of my thumping heart and pulsing body, but I’m not sure he notices.
Kieran steeples his hands, elbows resting on his thighs. “I shouldn’t have won. I’m not bad, but I’m not the best. Definitely couldn’t have beat Oscar. I think he threw the fight.”
I don’t know anything about boxing, or betting, but I still don’t see the issues.
As if he can see the confusion etched on my face, he continues. “I think someone paid him to throw the fight. It screws up the odds, angers other fighters, and in this delicate balance of being the place where dirty money gets washed, ruins our credibility.”
“Who would do that?” I pull his arm up so he’s looking at me before placing the butterfly closure over the top section of his cut and adding another to the bottom.
“Riku,” he rumbles. It’s throaty and angry, and I don’t know this Riku, but it makes me want to punch him in the nose. “He’s the new leader of the Yakuza. Killed his father for the position. In front of me.”
“Jeez. Why would he do that?”
He shakes his head, hands rubbing over his jeans. “They’re growing their numbers. I don’t know why. I don’t know his game plan. He’s threatening me family. Me legacy.” Kieran bolts up, choosing to pace the few strides between the front and back of the room. He’s panicked.
“I don’t even know if I have a legacy to pass on, but I don’t want it ripped away from me!” He’s yelling now and I flinch.
“You have Aoife,” I say, trying to calm him.
He seethes. “What if she doesn’t want this life? What if I can’t raise her to feel connected to her blood ties, to her duty like …” His words trail off, but the meaning behind them punctuates the air.
Like me. He means like me.
As much as it shouldn’t, his words sting. Not because I regret running. I’d do it over again in a heartbeat, but part of me does regret hiding. For feeling so powerless that I felt I had to cut ties with everyone just to protect myself.
“Kieran, listen to me.” I stand. “Aoife is not me, and you are most definitely not my father. You’re a good dad, and Aoife wouldn’t run away because she knows you love her. If anyone can raise a woman to do a man’s job in the made world, it’s you. The fact you want her to have a choice is more than most of us born into it have.
“And if she chooses to live her life differently, outside the Mob, then you’ll support her because that’s who you are. There is no legacy worth forcing if that mean severing your own blood ties.”
His shoulders visibly relax with an audible sigh. “Ye have too much confidence in me.”
“Maybe.” I wink. “And who knows, maybe someday you’ll have a son to solve all your problems.”
I mean it in jest, sarcastically, but his jaw flexes and I wipe the grin off my face, working the uncomfortable lump down my throat. Fiddling with my robe ties, I glance up to find Kieran staring at me.
“Ye volunteering?”
The rawness in his voice comes deep from in his chest but almost sounds strained underneath the gritty husky tone. It rattles me, so I step back. Maybe I’m even subconsciously seeking the door.
But as I retreat, Kieran follows me. His nostrils flare as he matches me step for step, his tall frame moving with a fluidity that exudes confidence.
I grind my molars.
He tilts his head and quirks his brow. “Ye runnin’ again?”
“Maybe,” I whisper.
My back presses against the solid wall, preventing me from moving any farther back, and Kieran slowly leans in close to me, hand caging me in. There’s a quiet intensity in his expression as he searches my face. “Thank you,” he says.
“F-For what?”
“For taking care of me cut, and for listening. I don’t usually have the privilege of talking through things with others.”
A pain drills deep in my chest. He’s on his own. Navigating Aoife alone. I hate that I ever made him feel like he wasn’t doing enough.
“You don’t have to thank me. I want what’s best for Aoife, and I happen to have a firsthand experience on how not to handle Mafia daughters. Maybe I should start charging a fee, go into the consultation?—”
Kieran lowers his mouth to hover above mine. My heart kicks into a wild thump while my body sparks at the scent of sweat mingled with mint as he blows a puff of air across my cheek. Anticipation crackles in the stagnant air of the office as his fingertips graze my arm.
“Summer?”
“Mmhmm?” I respond, pressing my palms behind me on the wall like I could teleport through it.
“I’m going to kiss ye now.”
My eyes widen as they meet his, finding the pupils blown out. Between the subdued lighting and his nearness, shadows fall over his face as his mouth descends downward.
“But I annoy you.” It’s another whisper, barely audible, but he stops, mouth millimeters from mine.
“Aye. Never change.”
His lips collide with mine, and I’m swept away, the impact nearly wrecking me. His mouth is warm and tentative at first, but he slides up closer, pressing into me, both gentle and possessive. All I can do is hang on as his tongue delves and tangles deliciously with mine. The roughness of his stubble anchors me, and I relish the unrefined feel of it against my skin.
I gasp as he breathes in a groan, hungry and needing, and he takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss. One hand on my back, he ushers me into him, compelling me to seek more of his raw touch. His other hand clings to my cheek, fingers trailing down along my jaw while his thumb brushes over the subtle contours of my temple. It’s almost as if he’s sculpting, kneading the gentle slopes and arches of my face so that they fit seamlessly into the palm of his hand.
He feels good. Jeez, he feels so good.
My legs shake and I’m afraid they might literally turn into jelly, so I reach up to fist his shirt. Everything about his kiss is electrifying, each stroke of his tongue measured.
The rough pads of his fingertips create tingles along my jawline as he feathers his touch there before possessively cupping my face to angle me for better access.
Breathless, I tear my mouth from his to suck in a breath. He drops his hands, but presses his forehead to mine, my name shuddering on his lips.
I get a good look at his heavy-laden expression that drags down my now-open robe, and he curls a finger underneath the hem of my silk camisole. Licking my lips, I drop my head back against the wall as he teases the fabric between his fingers. Every other stroke skimming my stomach creates goose bumps in their wake.
I tremble with need, moving to seek his mouth again and barely register the creak of an opening door.
“Daddy?”
Aoife’s voice douses the throbbing, and I shove Kieran back so hard he lets out a grunt. His expression widens as he turns to see Aoife’s head peeking around the door seeking him out. Quickly, I tug my robe closed.
“Daddy, I had a bad dream.” She scurries into the room, diving for him as he kneels down to her height to wrap her in a hug.
“There now, little love,” he says. “What was yer dream about?”
She pulls back, eyes darting to me and then back to her father.
I smile, and wanting to give them both space, say, “I’m going to head back to bed. Good night, Aoife. Kieran.”
Aoife grins at me sleepily while Kieran bites his lower lip shaking his head.
After giving Aoife’s shoulder a gentle squeeze, I slip out of the office, booking it upstairs faster than my legs can carry me and almost face-plant on the top step. Once back in my room, I fly into the bathroom, turning on the sink and letting the water pool in my palms before splashing my face.
Goodness. What am I doing? What are you doing, Summer?
His mouth on mine, his hands … I’m not sure what would’ve happened had Aoife not wandered down. I didn’t want him to stop.
Shame prickles behind my eyelids. I like him more than I want to admit, and I’m attracted to him more than I can describe. Could this actually turn into something? Having run away from New York and nearly from Boston, he likely sees me as flighty.
I sigh, turning out the bathroom light and climbing back into bed. The overheating from earlier is nothing compared to the inferno my body is now. As I toss and turn, I tell myself that was not the normal interaction I’d been hoping for.