Page 66 of Broken Blood Ties

But perhaps she doesn’t think so. Has my age even been on her mind?

When Aoife mentioned Summer was mumbling my name while she was asleep—the thrill that shot through my veins almost had me itching like an addict. I hope it wasn’t truly a nightmare, and by the red that crept over her cheeks, I think it was something more.

While she’s too young, I can picture it. Us. Here onouryacht.

I grab a blanket as I walk toward the bow, passing Michael as Cara continues to clear the dishes and pack up the table.

“Can we get you anything else tonight, sir?”

“Only privacy,” I answer, and he nods quickly before hustling away.

“What can I do?” Summer’s voice pulls at me from where she’s now standing in front of Cara.

She’s trying to help clean up. Cute.I immediately shake the word cute from my vocabulary. Summer Smith is gorgeous. Even with what she’s going through, she always tries to help as if it’s the first thing on her mind.

I rub at my chest when I think about her trying to get out of dodge.

“Ye can put this on.” I nearly grunt the words, but I’m not sure she notices. Nor do I think she realizes I suck in a painful breath as I wrap the blanket around her shoulders. Or how the walls I’ve spent years building seem to crumble when she checks in to make sure Aoife got to sleep all right, her voice laced with genuine care. It’s in these two small moments that my defenses falter.

It’s a mistake when I ask if she’s leaving. I already know the answer and yet my mouth opens anyway. I regret it immediately because her whole expression tightens, and unmistakable sadness floods her face.

I’m not sure what I say next. All I know is that I have a desire to keep Summer Smith in Boston. I’m also not sure when I get so close to her, or when I lean down to brush my lips against hers.

This woman.

I swore I’d never fall again, but she’s challenging my resolve. It’s different than with Aoife’s mother, and I’m struggling to put my finger on why. I want to coax things from Summer. More than just whispers and pleas. Laughter—or her witty attitude, which makes me want to kiss her senseless.

The biggest reason I’m falling is that I don’t impress Summer Smith at all. Unlike most women who pursue me she doesn’t fawn over me, she fights me. And what can I say? I’m not normally one to step out of the ring.

Just as I’m about to deepen our featherlight kiss, my phone dings. It hauls me out of my delirium, and I stare at Summer. She licks her puffy pink lips, and I have to distract myself with the message on my phone.

It’s a reply from my guy on the ground. But instead of written words, I receive photos. Pictures of Summer Smith’s apartment trashed. Her mattress has been flipped, and the couch slashed open with what must have been a sharp blade, judging by the clean, jagged cuts. Even the likes of her closet have been flung to the floor.

Is this what she’s running from? Who thehelldo these people think they are threatening her?

My jaw cracks in my ears as I clench my teeth, and rage simmers below my calm exterior. “Who broke into yer apartment?”

Her pupils darken, and shock douses the almost-kissed look off her face.

“H-how do you know that?”

“Answer me question.”

“Answer mine.”

I scowl at her, and she scowls back. Seconds pass, chipping away at the resolve hardened on Summer’s face. Finally, she cracks.

“I don’t know who they are.” Her amber eyes, reflecting the last of the setting sun dart back and forth.Is she lying?

I bite my cheek to keep from growling at her pathetic answer. That’s not enough information. Not nearly enough.

“How do you have pictures of my apartment?” she follows up almost immediately.

“I sent someone to check on yer place.”

Her mouth parts, then she closes it again before repeating the motion. “Why?”

“Because ye’re runnin’. I told ye I could help ya.”

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