Page 109 of Broken Blood Ties

Callum stands guard by the front door, and I nod at him. He startles, putting his phone back into his pocket and then rolls his shoulders.Okay?

The dull lights of the pub are off, so the only light is what’s streaming in through the front doors, and on a gloomy day like today it’s all shadowy and glum.

Turning, I head back to my office to stand over the plant. Cracked soil and wilting leaves make me twist both caps off in a hurry, and I dump both bottles into the pot. Then, I toss the empty bottles into the trash and pace my desk.

There’s something wrong with me today. Sitting and doing any work feels like pulling teeth. I’d know firsthand. The starched lines of my white button-down are crisp and cool as I run my thumb and forefinger underneath them, tugging them into place over my wrist.

I’m distracted.

As I’ve done every day for the last week and a half, I pull up the security camera footage on my phone. I flip through the screens until I find her. She’s sitting at the kitchen island flipping through something, maybe a magazine from the looks of it. Deuce is curled up in the chair next to her looking like a fluffy pillow, his tail flicking with each of her page turns.

When Allie comes in and out of the frame carrying laundry baskets and cleaning supplies, the cat darts off its perch and out of the frame.

Summer stands, holding her hands out for the basket of clothes, but Allie shoos her off. It’s hard to see from this angle, looking down on her, but I swear her face falls.

Deciding I need a better vantage point, I move to my computer and pull up the footage there. I drag my mouse over to where she’s resigned herself back to the island stool and confirm she is, in fact, reading a magazine. Looks like one of those junk mail furniture flyers, and she’s flipping through at a rate of speed anyone would be incapable of truly looking.

I sigh, leaning back in my chair and run a hand over my face. Damn it. I’m not going to get any work done at this rate.

When I kissed her in my office over a week ago, I had every intention of pulling her into my office again the next day to talk about it. That’s what two adults would do, right? Well, apparently, I’m a coward, because the thought of telling Summer I liked kissing her, want her, is intimidating.

We’ve shared in our typical conversations throughout the week. She even made me my tea when Allie was having trouble getting Aoife ready for school one morning. I’d come down to the kitchen and there was Summer. Hair all deliciously tousled from her sleep, still in her sheer pajamas. One of those two-piece silk sets that nearly made me pull her into the pantry right then and there. My greedy fingers grazed hers as she handed me my travel mug, and her tiny inhale had memories of her whimpering mouth shattering my composure. Allie and Aoife walked in at the perfect time.

Screw it.

I pull out my phone and type out a message.

What are you doing?

It’s a dumb question because I can see she isn’t doing much of anything, and the thought tightens an unknown knot in my stomach. She’s bored because I took away her job.

When I’ve watched her this week, she’s spent significant time outside enjoying the warm spring weather, but when she’s pacing or tidying things in the house, I know she’s bored. It’s not until Aoife is home from school does she seem to snap out of her shell and tackle the rest of the day with energy.

The moment the phone next to her on the island lights up, she pauses her flipping to glance at it. When she doesn’t pick it up right away, I scowl at the screen, leaning closer as if to will her to me. She tucks her face into both hands before reaching out to grab the phone.

I’m sure there’s something creepy about me watching her respond to me, but the cameras around the house aren’t exactly hidden.

Summer: Not much. How is work?

Not happening. Come have lunch with me.

I’m fixated on the screen, studying her face as best I can in the less than perfect footage as she reads my message. Her shoulders shake. Is she laughing at me?

Summer: ?

What?

Summer: You forgot the correct punctuation.

I grunt. It’s funny how she thinks it was a question.

No. I didn’t.

When she doesn’t respond, I—yep, look back at the computer monitor. Her head is down so I can’t make out her expression, but I imagine her biting that insanely plump bottom lip, trying to come up with a clever response.

Staring at your phone isn’t going to answer me. You have to type something.

She stills, head slowly rising and scouring the room until she lands on the camera. She throws up her hands and shakes her head. Then, with what I can only imagine being a harrumph, she hops off the stool and storms out of the kitchen.

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