Page 33 of Priestly Sins

“You sure?” I ask and pick up to pretend I’m going to drink it.

“Poppa Sean,” she harrumphs.

I laugh at her face and cut the cupcake in half, knowing I’ll probably be getting the stump again. Clara is serious about her frosting.

“How was your day?” I ask Sirona while Clara’s mouth is full of icing.

“I’ve had better, but I won’t complain. You?”

“Same. How do you choose your flavors?”

Sirona launches into how she chooses cupcake flavors and what days of the week she usually has the specialty flavors. Several things are always in stock; the special flavors weave their way through. She does seasonal specialties with King Cake, Red Hot, and Irish Cream for the beginning of the year holidays and always has some more adult, atypical flavors as well. She’ll do alcoholic cupcakes upon request, her favorite being the liquor-infused frostings.

During all this, Clara stealthily eats the whole cupcake, save for the one bite I had before asking about her bakery.

We both look down and see Clara looking away as if we can’t see her because she can’t see us. Sirona covers her mouth to stifle a laugh. I don’t even try. This kid is smart and savvy and makes me smile.

“Darn. You ate all my cupcake,” I say in mock horror.

Her mouth still full, she has the good sense to look ashamed before my laughter makes her grin and she lights up the room with her smile. Her mouth is still full of cake when she smiles and nods.

“Clara, that’s rude,” Sirona begins.

“It’s okay. This time,” I say and toss a wink at Clara.

“Here. Have a cookie. Toffee shortbread. But it’s not dry shortbread. I hate when you have to work to enjoy a cookie.”

I nod and smile and break off part of the cookie before tossing it in my mouth. Heaven. This place is heaven. Heaven smells like spun sugar and vanilla. I’d bet on it. My little moan tells her what she already knows—her baking is divine.

“Delicious.” I wink at her too, something I know I ought not do, but I’m too curious to see what will happen. She looks away and blushes a bit and that satisfies me in a way it shouldn’t.

“Thank you.”

“Can I taste?”

“Of course, silly,” I reply, using her words and hand her half the cookie.

Sirona’s stern look is an attempt at reprimanding me. I wish it worked. It’s just cute, and I grin. She blushes again. That causes me to laugh.

And our time together goes like that for a few more minutes before I have to reenter the real world.

I leave with a gray and turquoise box of miniature key lime pies, pink lemonade cupcakes, and half a dozen maple-glazed apple pie cookies.

The bells over the door jingle me back into reality. I drive home, replacing the tracker in my car upon my arrival, careful not to jostle it and set off the motion.

Tonight answered one question I desperately needed answered. Sirona Dugas is good to the core. She’s no mobster. She’s no mule. If she’s affiliated with Enzo Calabrese, it’s by coincidence only.

Eighteen

Killian and I have kept in touch since we met a few months ago. He was suspicious at first. Hell, he still may be, but I think he’s figuring out I’m not my father. That may just be something that’s proven out over time. Old wounds cut deep.

I’ve made a point to call him every couple of weeks. He’s reticent, and our calls are brief, but I’m making the effort. I don’t know what happened between them, but my father was an asshole of the highest order.

I sent him the paperwork showing that my father’s plans were nullified, as a sign of good faith. I have no idea whether documents drafted in the States hold up in Irish courts or vice versa, but I want him to know my intentions.

It has done wonders to soften him to me, despite my being Patrick’s son.

Even so, the paperwork came back signed. Bobby has it in his files in Indy.