Page 48 of Broken Blood Ties

I turn to the door, wondering if I should knock. I try it first and it opens. A narrow set of steps greets me. It’s dimly lit, but I climb the stairs to another door at the top anyway.

Should I have called first? What am I doing here? Indecision wars inside me.

Drop the food as an apology for my behavior and as a gesture of kindness, then leave. That’s what I tell myself. Unfortunately, I don’t buy it. Me? Kind?

After I reach the top of the steps, I pause. What the?—

Five deadbolt locks sit above the doorhandle. They vary in size, the largest near the top and the smallest at the bottom. Either Summer Smith doesn’t want people getting into her apartment or her landlord is paranoid about keeping their tenants safe.

Mind second-guessing each action, I finally raise my fist to knock with three loud thuds to the door. On the third one, a nasally gasp comes from behind the door, followed by a throaty, “Just a second.”

There’s a crash, and the sound of something metal hitting the floor. Then the clicking starts. Each lock sliding one at a time.

My heart races. Whether it’s from my patience wearing thin from the need to see her, or the tiny red flags being raised in the back of my mind, I’m not sure.

At the click of what sounds like the last lock, the door slides open, only for a chain to catch it and prevent it from widening farther. My gaze falters—Summer.

Her short hair is pulled back into a messy ponytail, and her heavy-lidded eyes—redder than freshly picked cherries—widen in surprise as she takes in who’s knocking at her door.

“Oh! Jeez.” She wheezes before it turns into a cough. Her hands are wrapped around a metal baseball bat, tucked into the sleeves of an oversized Harvard sweatshirt that makes me want to investigate whose it is.

“Ye plannin’ on bludgeoning the germs with that?”

She sniffles, batting the unruly pieces of her hair out of her face. “Whatareyoudoing here?”

I glance at her red nose, then up to the heavy bags above her cheeks that contrast with her normally dewy tan complexion. They look like deep craters gouged into her skin, and I wonder if she’s only sick, or if she’s not sleeping.

“Mr. O’Donnell,” Summer hacks.

I notice she hasn’t deposited the bat yet and I raise my eyebrows at her, allowing her to follow my gaze to the myriad of deadbolts, though she says nothing. Instead, she moves the metal object to stand near the door beside her. The movement beckons my attention to her bare legs, in what looks like fuzzy pajama shorts.

I internally berate myself.

I’ve seen plenty of female’s legs. But hers …

“I brought ye some Irish stew.” I hold up the bag. “I-I’m sorry for me behavior while ye were trying to help Allie and Aoife. I really appreciate it.”

Summer raises her eyebrows, but then she looks at the bag I’m holding out in front of her. “I’ll take the stew, but don’t expect some I-forgive-you speech. I barely have a voice left.”

“Fair enough. I’ll accept yer forgiveness in the form of ye not sneezing on me.”

She scoffs, then wrinkles her nose.

The corner of my mouth threatens a smile. Why does she rile me up? Make me want to play, to banter. She’s young and witty, and it almost makes me forget who I am. That I’m on the verge of being too old for anyone to love. She makes me want, and that’s dangerous.

Summer closes the door and I listen as she removes the chain. Part of me wants to tell her it doesn’t do anything. That a man half my size could kick in this door, but it’s clear she’s afraid of something. Maybe living alone in this area of town frightens her?

When the door opens again, she sticks her hand out for the bag. My plan to leave tumbles down the stairs as quickly as my resolve, and I hold on to the bag, striding into her apartment. Or maybe it’s a room?

“Hey!” She stumbles after me, letting the door slam shut. “What are you doing?”

She asks me a second time and I couldn’t answer if I tried because I have no idea.

She has no kitchen, not really. A countertop the size of a cutting board is next to a stove, which is next to a fridge that sits against a wall. Across from that is a little sitting area, and behind that is an unmade bed with balls of tissues scattered all over it.

Summer darts in front of me, diving toward her bed and gathering the used tissues in her arms.

“Don’t be cleanin’ up on me account.” I smirk as she growls at me.

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