Page 91 of Broken Blood Ties

I huff out a breath, looking down at my bra and underwear then over to where my jeans and sweater lay balled up on top of the dresser. Guess I’m wearing this outfit again.

Before I get dressed, I pad over to the nightstand where my phone rests nearly dead. Tapping it, I note the time. 6:47 a.m. Pretty sure I’ll be able to catch Allie and Aoife before they leave for school. And I plan to go with them.

My phone vibrates in my hand, and I swipe to read a text from Kieran.

Box on kitchen island. Wear it. Finn will bring you to Luxe Atelier tonight at 5 p.m.

My eyes widen at the high-end boutique’s name. I’ll admit that while I could never afford anything from that store, I’d scoped it out once or twice from across the street. Fine clothes, tailor-made dresses—all things that consumed my thoughts when I was younger. It’s the one thing my mother and I had in common. A taste for the finer things in life.

But now, those brand names and delicacies bring nothing but the lodged shame I try to hide to the forefront of my mind, and I rather avoid it all together. Plus, one dress would cost half a year’s worth of my teacher’s salary.

In a rush, I shove my legs through my pants and toss my sweater over my tangled hair. With a quick glide of the new brush Allie left me, I pull my hair back into a ponytail and brush away my morning breath.

I fly out of the room without making my bed and cringe when I think about it, but I don’t want to miss Allie and Aoife going to school. I’m not sure if there’d be someone to take me, and I don’t want to make another guard a chauffeur for the day.

When I reach the bottom of the stairs, chatter still sounds from the kitchen, and I march in there with a smile on my face hearing Aoife talk about her desire to buy her lunch rather than eat what Allie’s made her. For all the time I’ve known Aoife, she’s always brought her lunch to school, and from the exasperated tone Allie has, I’m sure she’s begged more than once to buy.

“Good morning!” I say, entering the kitchen.

Allie is zipping up a mermaid lunch pail while Aoife chews the last bit of her cereal. From the look Allie gives me, eyebrows raised, she’s most likely surprised at my chipper tone considering my circumstances.

However, I’m not sure what Kieran’s told Aoife, and I’d like to keep my interactions with her as upbeat and normal as possible. So, I’m Miss-Smithing it this morning.

“Hi!” Aoife squeals, jumping off the island while her spoon skids across the counter, leaving brushes of milk behind. “Daddy said you were here. I’m so excited!”

Smiling, I bop her on the nose with a single finger, and while she giggles and bounds for her backpack, I wince. Why did I just do that? That’s not something I’d normally do in the classroom.

“Can I get you anything, Miss Summer? Tea, or coffee perhaps?” Allie slides Aoife’s lunch box across the counter closer to where Aoife is with her bag.

“I, uh. I can get it,” I say, feeling out of place. She nods but busies herself with the tea contraption on the stove anyway. “So … what time do you leave for school? I’d like to tag along if that’s all right.”

“Finn usually drives us around seven-fifteen.” Bustling around the kitchen, she pours a mug of tea, then sets it in front of where I stand, useless, at the island. “Creamer or milk is in the fridge.”

“Thank you. And I won’t be long at the school. Just want to check in for a moment.”

She smiles, though it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Aoife, come on. Let’s brush those chompers.”

“Be right back!” Aoife yells, taking off in a lopsided run out into the hallway.

I smile into my mug as I take a sip of what tastes like cinnamon tea while they both ascend the steps up to the bathroom.

Pacing the kitchen, I poke around in a few drawers, delighted when I find a drawer of take-out menus and condiment packets for almost every fast-food delivery known to man. Kieran, in all his annoyingly seductive glory, has a body of lean muscle and for some reason that doesn’t seem to equate to a drawer full of take-out menus. Add to that the irony he owns more than a handful of restaurants in Boston—I’m not sure how this family has the capacity for fast-food.

I continue around, finally coming back to my original spot near the island when a small black box catches my eye. It’s easy to miss, nestled beside an empty black decorative bowl.

Box on kitchen island. Wear it.

Was he talking about this? I pull the box toward me with one finger, sliding it as if it may bite. There are limited options for what may be in a tiny black box, and I stare at it, feeling its impending doom.

Open it,I chide.

Gnawing my cheek and twisting my sweater around my thumb, I continue to stare at it. I don’t want to open this.

Jeez. I snatch the box and pop it open before I can think any more about it.

Oh, double jeez.

In the box is the most gorgeous cushion-cut emerald ring. The green is darker, more mysterious than a brilliant vivid color. It’s set in a yellow gold prong setting, sleek yet warm, polished yet rough in its own textured way. It’s beautiful.

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