Page 52 of Broken Blood Ties

“Thank you. Sorry,” I say, grimacing.

Lifting the cannoli back to my mouth I take a bite, and my eyelids nearly flutter closed. Kieran turns away to look out the window.

“I used to get one of these after every tennis match,” I say.

That seems to pique his interest. “Ye play tennis?”

“I did. Not anymore.”

He takes a bite, chewing while he studies me. “Why don’t ye anymore?”

“I moved and lost interest.” It’s strange how the lie slips past my lips so easily. “Have you ever played?”

“Only when Finn makes me.”

I grin. I’m enjoying this, the subtle conversation. Wanting more of it, I fight the urge to ask him all the questions: How did you get into the restaurant business? What do you and Aoife do for fun? Are you seeing someone?

Actually … scratch that last one. I’m not sure I want to know.

I trace the reddish-brown tussles that float along his forehead, finding a scar above his right eyebrow that disappears into his hair.

A vibrating sound comes from his coat pocket, and when he answers it, he goes quiet.

“Aye,” he says, hanging up after a few seconds.

I nibble at my lip.

“Unfortunately, I’ve been called in for a meeting.”

I half shake, half nod my head like a crazy person. “Oh, uh, yeah. No, totally get it.”

He stands to return his plate to the counter, then comes back to the table to pick up his boxed cannoli.

“Thank you for the cannolis,” I say. “They’re my favorite.”

“Aoife’s, too,” he says. “She’ll go mad over this tonight.”

I laugh until Kieran places a hand on my shoulder, offering a light squeeze. “Have a good night, Summer.”

Then leaves. And I’m burning. I lean forward and drag my hand over my face.Smooth, Summer. Smooth.

I gather my things, determined not to wait too late to get home or miss the earlier train when my phone dings. I take it out, seeing a new message from an unknown number.

You can’t hide anymore.

I freeze, staring at my phone, then blinking I quickly scan around looking for someone. There’s an older woman in the corner working on her laptop and sipping coffee, seemingly unfazed by me. A man reads the newspaper in the corner.

Someone is watching me, someone?—

Another ding.

I wipe my clammy hands over my linen jumper and turn the phone over to look.

We know who you are.

Pure terror overwhelms me along with the immediate desire to flee,run.

I delete the messages, unable to stand them taunting me, and jam my phone back into my bag. Rushing to leave the shop, I force the door open, inhaling a deep breath of cold air.

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