Craving 13 - Johnny Kavanagh

JOHNNY

What in the name of all that was holy had possessed my girlfriend to leave me in charge of her baby brother? I hadn't a clue. But I was enjoying it.

Sean wasn't in much trouble. The three-year-old, with his messy mop of sandy-blond curls and those big, brown, pup-like eyes, was the most adorable thing I'd ever seen. Sweet as anything, full of love and hugs, but stubborn and mischievous in that way all his siblings were. It was in his blood, I supposed—causing chaos with an innocent face.

Like he was doing now.

"Cake," he said, his little voice full of determination.

I sighed, adjusting my hold on him. "You can't."

We were standing in one of Tara's favourite bakeries—her second-favourite, actually, but close enough. The smell of fresh bread, warm sugar, and rich chocolate filled the air, making my own stomach rumble. Cakes, buns, croissants, éclairs—every type of pastry ya could think of sat in the glass displays, tempting even me.

"Cake," Sean repeated, his big brown eyes wide with hope.

Ah, for fuck's sake.

"Your sister'll have my head if I get you cake, lad," I muttered, shifting him higher against my chest. "How about some fruit, yeah?"

His face scrunched up in deep thought, like he was trying to solve the world's greatest mystery. He let out a small, contemplative hum, then, after a long moment, gave a tiny shake of his head. His wee bottom lip jutted out in protest.

"Cake."

"Just buy the fucking cake," came a sharp voice from behind me.

I turned, my stomach dropping at the sight of the queue behind us. A proper crowd had built up—half a dozen people at least. Some looked amused, others impatient, but most just seemed plain pissed off.

The fella who'd spoken was a suited-up gobshite, expensive phone in one hand, a briefcase in the other, and a face like he'd been sucking on a lemon. His jaw was tight with irritation, his nostrils flaring like he was about to combust.

"Mind your own business, will ya?"

"I've been waiting fifteen fucking minutes," he bit out, tone dripping with impatience. "We all have—waiting on the brat to make up his mind."

Something cold and sharp curled in my chest.

I tightened my hold on Sean, feeling the way his little body tensed. His arms clung to me, fingers digging into the fabric of my hoodie as he let out a barely audible whimper, his breath shuddering against my neck.

"Don't call him a brat," I said, my voice low, steady.

My hand moved to his back, rubbing slow, soothing circles. "S'alright, Sean," I murmured softly, pressing my lips against the top of his curls. "Onny's got ya."

The gobshite scoffed. "Jesus, it's a fucking cake—"

I turned my back to him, ignoring the boiling anger in my blood. Instead, I focused on the woman behind the till, who was watching me with quiet sympathy.

"Can I get a brownie and a strawberry-banana smoothie to go, please?" I asked.

She nodded quickly and went to prepare the order. I shifted Sean onto the counter for a moment so I could pull my wallet from my back pocket.

"That'll be six euro and forty-five cents," she said, offering me a small smile.

I passed her a fiver, a one-euro note, and dug out the remaining change from my pocket. She handed me the receipt and passed me the small paper bag.