Page 3 of My Irish Mafia King

“I haven’t got a date. It’s more of a dream trip, really.”

He leans casually against the counter. “What have you got planned for this dream trip?”

“Caves, museums, hikes... I want to breathe in the culture. Why are you looking at me like that?” I toy with the pendant around my neck, then stop myself. Is it still okay wearing this ring after so many years?

“Like what?” he counters.

“LikeI’man exhibit in a museum.”

“It’s just, when I visit, I prefer horseback riding on private beaches and Michelin-star restaurants.”

“Excuuuuse me, Mr. La De Da.”

I love making him laugh. “Guilty as charged,” he says.

“You weren’t on a private beach when you saved me, though. You were hiking in a storm in the middle of nowhere.”

His smile falters. For the first time I can remember, he gets a bleak look in his eyes. I wonder if I’ve hit a sore point. “I wanted to clear my head,” he says after a pause. “But maybe somebody sent me out there to save you, Lucy. Maybe somebody or something knew you needed a handsome, not to mention modest, funny, and intelligent savior.”

“Modest?” I laugh.

I reach across the counter and playfully punch him in the arm. It’s the first time we’ve touched except for our hands grazing when I pass him his coffee. We can play that off like it’s an accident. But not this.

I quickly pull my hand back. I’m about to apologize when he quickly cuts me off. It’s like he knows I’m going to say sorry—going to acknowledge what just happened—and doesn’t want me to. “Let me know if you need any help with the Gaelic,” he says. “Or any recommendations for restaurants in the motherland?”

I take the hint, rolling my eyes, going back to easy banter mode. “If I go, I doubt I’ll be going to Michelin-star restaurants, Mr. Fancy Pants.”

“Why not? You’re doing a great job with The Celtic Crust. I’ve seen how much busier it’s been getting every day. Some mornings, I don’t even have you to myself.”

He stares deeply into my eyes. I try not to bite my lip, but it’s difficult. I’m back to clenching my fists behind the counter. Anything to relieve some of the tension. Does he want me all to himself? What for?

But I don’t dare ask those questions.

He says something in Gaelic again before leaving. I’m not entirely sure, but I think it means,See you tomorrow, beautiful.

As usual, the next few hours sparkle with the interaction. The exchange always gives me a jolt of energy stronger than any coffee ever could. Plus, weflirted. What else can I call it? He called me beautiful. I playfully punched him... The exchange simmers in my mind as I serve customers and then, when my cashier arrives for the afternoon rush, busy myself in the kitchen and at the coffee machine.

“Uh, Lucy,” Toby says, coming into the kitchen withthatlook on his face.

“Is it Shane?” I ask, my mood instantly souring.

Toby nods.

“That’s fine, Toby, thank you. Send him back here.”

Toby knows better than to ask questions about Shane. I think he knows what’s going on, but he’s never outright quizzed me about it. It doesn’t take a genius to figure it out, though.

When my mother passed, the bakery wasn’t the only thing she left me. She also left an enormous debt owed to the local mob. I know little about the specifics, except that a few days before she passed, Mom told me in a croaky, depressed voice,“I’m so sorry, angel, but a man is going to be visiting you… you have to pay him. If you don’t, bad things will happen.”

That was all she said, and then, like clockwork, Shane showed up to collect a portion of the week’s earnings. So far, I’ve kept quiet and handed him the cash, but it’s getting ridiculous. How am I supposed to make this a successful business, not to mention live my life without constantly looking over my shoulder, when I have to deal with this nonsense?

Shane is a big man, ducking to get through the door into the kitchen, as wide as he is tall. He wears a dirty leather jacket and has a clover tattoo on his neck. He picks up an iced bun and stuffs it into his mouth, then wipes his hands on an apron hanging on the wall.

“You got something for me, girl?” he snaps.

I take a breath, remembering what I rehearsed last night, the promise I made to myself. “Shane, I’d like to discuss the nature of the deal you made with my mother.”

He snorts, then leans against the wall, looking at me like I’m an insect. “Oh, really? This ought to be good.”

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