Page 87 of Broken Blood Ties

“We’re engaged, for all intents and purposes. I need ye to corroborate this if anyone asks.”

Her eyebrows raise, but she says nothing. It might be a hallucination, but I swear a sly smile spreads over her mouth as she darts from the room.

Kieran stands, all six-four of him towering over me as he slips past and opens one cabinet after another, searching for what I assume to be a mug. His tea is almost done after all.

“Second top cabinet to the right of the stove,” I whisper.

His hand stills above him as he reaches for the wrong cabinet, and a seed of humiliation burrows itself into the depths of my belly. My memory is decent, and after having familiarized myself with this kitchen while trying to navigate it for the chicken soup ingredients—well, I remember the white mug with a pixilated photo of Kieran pictured on the side.

The font mimics a child’s handwriting,World’s Best Dad.Unfortunately, I remember the warm fuzzy hug that skirted over me when I saw that, melting my insides to goo. My brain tries to jam together World’s Best Dad with Irish Mob boss, but I struggle to fit the pieces, and much like when I’m frustrated with a thousand-piece puzzle, I chuck it aside.

He regards me for another moment, and I shrug. Then, he moves to the cabinet I referenced and pulls out, much to my dismay, two plain-as-day, white coffee mugs.

As he pours the tea from the stove into the mugs, I realize I never answered Allie when she asked if I’d like some as well. With a morbid curiosity, I watch him, wondering if he’ll ask me.

I’m answered when a mug is lifted in front of my face.

“Here.”

My front teeth capture my bottom lip, and I hiss out a “thank you” as I grip the hot mug. He eyes my lips, then swipes a thumb across his own bottom one, and suddenly I’m jealous it’shislip he touched and not mine.

Flustered, I take a gulp of my scalding tea and wince as it burns its way down my esophagus. It’s so hot, I can barely make out the hint of chamomile mixed with peppermint on my tastebuds.

Kieran’s throat bobs as he watches mine work the tea, and my skin crackles under his scrutiny. Lifting his cup to his mouth, he says, “Tomorrow after work we’ll go get ye a new wardrobe.”

I shake my head. I don’t need clothes from him, I have my bag back on the?—

“Deuce!” I yell. So loudly, in fact, that Kieran jumps, hot tea splashing down the front of his suit. I don’t miss the way his hand flinches toward the inside of his suit pocket. For a weapon perhaps?

“Oh, jeez. I totally forgot my bag and Deuce are still on the boat. Oh gosh, he’s probably scared and wondering where I am.”

“The crew is watching over him. In a few days I’ll send someone to get him. Yer bag, however, won’t be needed.” He sets his shoulders. “Besides, it’s a yacht.”

I roll my eyes. Whatever. I can’t believe I left Deuce. Distracted by Kieran, my exposed life now knocking on my doorstep, and this mess of an engagement, I completely forgot the one loyal companion I’ve had in the past seven years, and I rest a sweaty palm on the countertop, guilt gnawing at my stomach.

“I don’t need new clothes.” The tone in my voice startles even me. In my experience, snapping at a mob boss isn’t a recipe for getting what you want, but I can’t help it. I grind my molars together.

“If ye’re going to be me wife, it will be expected for ye to dress that way.”

Part of me wonders if he’s joking. He doesn’t dress formally most days. In fact, the amount of times I’ve seen him in an Armani suit or something similar can be counted on one hand. I scowl at that knowledge. How can he expect to have different rules for me?

He sighs, moving to sit and steepling his hands together. “Summer …” He breathes out my name, and it feels like cashmere caressing my skin. “I’m not doing this to goad ya. Dress the part, play the part, and we’ll figure out the rest.”

“Well … guess I can’t argue with that.” I squint at him, hoping to convey the sarcasm.

He pins me with an incredulous stare.

About the time I’m ready to come out of my skin from his laser focus carving into the side of my face, Allie shows up. Her bun has practically fallen from her head, and she huffs out a puff of air.

“Okay. New sheets are on your bed, and I added some products to the guest bathroom for you.”

I glance toward Kieran, studying his thick lashes that seem a juxtaposition to his sculpted, hardline face. He doesn’t look at me.

“Shall I take you up?” Allie asks, fighting a yawn.

I nod, then skirt around the island to dump my mug in the sink before following where Allie flows through the hallway past a door on the left and the living room. We move up the stairs, and with everythump, thumpof the steps, I try to console myself. To fully come to terms with this new arrangement and silently pray this works to get my father off my back long enough for me to work out a new plan. Although, I slightly worry I’ll have to fly to Timbuktu to escape his wrath once he finds out Kieran and I lied to him.

What kind of position does this put Kieran in? Will the Irish be slated for war against the Cosa Nostra? People would die. And Aoife … I can’t be responsible for hurting more people.

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