Page 40 of Illicit Temptation

“Just decaf black pekoe.”

“That will work.”Ugh.

“Here you go.” She glances at Shea again. “No charge.”

I freeze, wondering if people in this town know Shea comes from a connected mob family. And are afraid of her.

I drop a twenty on the counter. “My friend is having difficulty breathing. I’m running home for the car to pick her up. Is it okay if she stays here where it’s warm?”

“Of course.” The woman nods with a tight jaw.

I push the twenty at her. “In case she needs more tea or wants something else while I’m gone.”

“Oh... Okay.”

Spotting a pen, I snag it. On a menu, I jot down my mobile. “If she gets worse, please call 911, than me.”

“Sure.”

“Thank you.” I bring the tea to Shea. “Drink this slowly. Take shallow breaths through your nose.”

“How do you know what to do?”

“Some guys I bunked with in the ID had asthma. And weren’t allowed to take their inhalers with them. They had to tough it out.”

“God...how awful. Are you...calling a cab for us?”

I scoff. “I’ll be at the house by the time a cab lulls his way here to come get us.” I’ve noticed people don’t move too quickly in this town. “I’ll be back at the house in ten minutes. I left money at the counter. If you want anything else, I got it covered.”

Not thinking, I press my lips on her forehead, her scent crippling me.

Outside, I take off like I’m back in basic training trying to obliterate someone’s record.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Shea

God, this damn asthma. I struggled to breathe throughout my childhood. Nothing is worse when you’re a kid than not being able to play sports. Da didn’t trust doctors. His breathing problem solution:Suck it up. You’ll grow out of it.

Which I eventually did. But when I was in college, and had a bad attack, the student nurse sent me to the hospital. Tests showed years of untreated attacks left scars on my lungs. They set me up with a regiment of preventive sprays, pills, and a rescue inhaler.

It took two years, but the disease was managed. Only, it’s been suggested all the steroids caused the fibroids in my uterus. Maybe Da knew that and wanted to keep me fertile. I shake that away and put my head down. He wouldn’t do something to hurt me, would he?

“Want a scone, Miss?” A voice above lifts my head.

I reach into my pockets for money, but she places the plate on the table.

“Your friend took care of it. And the tea.”

“Thank you. I’m...catching my breath.” I take in her stare, and find it odd she doesn’t address the fact I can barely breathe. “Um, thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

I notice a cozy room in the back with folded tables and stacked chairs. It’s dark, but I can see it’s a nice-sized space with wainscotting, a parquet floor, and deep blue paint above the chair rail.

A party room? In a bakery?

“Do you rent out that room?” I point, thinking I could always use a fresh place to throw showers and luncheons.

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