He bent abruptly and touched his mouth to mine.

His lips were firm at the same time soft and he wore no cologne, but he smelled heavenly.

He lifted his head but he did it also lifting his hand, and finally, he touched me.

He did this cupping my jaw and sweeping his thumb along my cheek.

He said nothing, just touched me sweetly and stared into my eyes.

I said nothing back, just stood close and let him.

Then he said, “Call you, baby.”

“Okay, Mickey,” I repeated.

His lips tipped up in a preoccupied grin that was still amazing before he let me go, turned to the door and disappeared through it.

Chapter Twelve

Everything I’d Ever Need

When I got home from Dove House the next day, I went back out and grabbed my mail.

I took it back in and went through it on the kitchen counter.

No wish list from Cillian.

I turned my head toward the front of my house like I could see through it and feel what was happening at the Donovans.

My phone in my purse rang and I quickly dug it out, hoping it was Mickey.

It wasn’t.

It was Boston Stone.

I let it go to voicemail and made a decision I wasn’t sure was mine to make. I was pretty sure Mickey and I were starting something and because of that, I wasn’t sure what I intended to do was the right thing.

Still, I shoved my now-silent phone into the back pocket of my jeans and went to Mickey’s house.

It seemed quiet and standing at the front door I reconsidered ringing the bell.

Then my hand decided for me, lifted and rang the bell.

God, I hoped I was doing the right thing.

The door was opened by Aisling.

“Hey, blossom,” I greeted.

She tipped her head to the side and greeted back quietly, “Hey, Amy.”

“You doing okay?” I asked.

“I’m good,” she answered too quickly.

Lying.

I let that go and just nodded, asking, “Your dad home?”

She shook her head and replied, “No, he’s working.”

“Your brother home?” I went on.

Her answer to that was to step out of the door.

I took this as my invitation to walk in, so I did.

She shut the door behind me and mumbled, “He’s in the family room.”

“Okay, sweets,” I mumbled back and moved that way.

I found Cillian lounged on the couch, eyes to the TV, the evidence of an unhealthy feeding frenzy littered around him, including a melting tub of ice cream on the coffee table that was not on a magazine or a mat or anything.

The mother inside me screamed but my mouth didn’t.

“Hey, kiddo,” I greeted, going to the side of the sectional and shifting a hip to rest on the back so I could catch his eyes.

He didn’t give them to me.