Chapter 1: Fifth Avenue Fling: Chapter 1

New York, home to Broadway, bagels, and billionaires. Lots of billionaires. Everyone’s on their A game here. Who wouldn’t want a slice of that Big Apple pie?

I’m here for mine.

Back in my Irish seaside village, I dreamed of this slice. I knew what to expect.

Yoga in Central Park at dawn.

Breakfast at Magnolia Bakery.

Cocktails at the top of the Rockefeller Center.

Waking up in a penthouse suite at The Plaza hotel with a brooding six-foot-something gazillionaire’s head between my legs who insists I soak in his hot tub, but only after he delivers multiple five-star orgasms.

“Clodagh.”

“What?” I jerk my head up from wiping Guinness-marinated crisps off the hardwood bar top to see my best friend Orla’s smug smile.

She stops sweeping for a moment. “It’s your turn to do the men’s.”

Gah. “Yeah, yeah, I know,” I bark.

Here’s another fact about New York—it’s also home to hundreds of Irish bars. You’re never more than a block away from one. Irish bars with men who operate their dicks like heavy-duty fire hoses after a few pints.

I eyeball the three lads propped on stools along the bar. Their clothes are covered in dust from their construction jobs because the closest thing the pub has to a dress code is no guns.

Liam, Declan, and Aidan—regulars at The Auld Dog, the small Queens-based Irish bar Orla and I have worked in for three months. Nice guys in their late twenties. They smile back shamelessly. They’re on their third pint each, and I know they’ve left a war zone for me to clean. They know it, and I know it.

Every evening, they sit on the same barstools. Never changing stools. Never changing drinks. Never changing Irish bars.

What’s the point of moving to New York to spend every night in the same Irish bar, with the same Irish people, drinking the same Irish drinks?

I don’t get it. I’ve wanted to live in New York for as long as I can remember.

Not on the outskirts, either. Right bang in the heart of the Big Apple, Manhattan, strutting around the streets in Manolo Blahniks and flashing a well-shaved leg to hail down a yellow cab.

In reality, since Orla and I moved to Queens from Ireland a few months ago, I’ve spent 95 percent of my time working at Orla’s Uncle Sean’s pub, arguing with Orla about whose turn it is to change the barrel or fumigate the men’s toilets. I wear sports shoes since Manolos are beyond my budget, and even if I could afford them, I’d be waddling like a penguin.

But that 5 percent, when I see a glimpse of glitzy New York, the life I imagined back in Ireland?

Priceless.

Like the glitzy Manhattanite who has just walked into the bar. The guy looks in his mid-fifties, at a guess, and is wearing an expensive blue suit. People only visit the pub in suits if they’ve been to a funeral. An authentic, no-frills Irish experience is what Sean sells.

He’s the kind of man Mam would lose her shit over. Granny Deirdre, too. Do handlebar mustaches and comb-overs become a turn-on at a certain age? Call me superficial, but those aren’t things I want between my legs.

I see the exact moment the mild stench of stale beer and old-man smell wafts up his nostrils.

Orla stops sweeping, gawks at the newcomer in the doorway, then turns to me with wide eyes.

I roll my eyes as she hurries behind the bar to join me. While the guy screams tips, she couldn’t have been any more obvious if she jumped onto the counter and did a victory dance.

He scans the pub, taking in the Irish football jerseys lining the walls, the flags, and the road signs telling you how many miles you are from Ireland. All part of Uncle Sean’s interior design strategy to fill every inch of the pub with reminders of home.

He approaches the bar, making sure his sleeves don’t brush the countertop.

I don my most professional smile. One wasted on Liam, Declan, and Aidan. “Hi, sir. How can I help?”

“What type of wine do you have?”

“Red,”—I pause—“or white.”

He thinks I’m joking.

“We only have one type of each. The house red or white. It’s not really a wine drinker’s bar,” I elaborate a tad defensively. I side-eye Orla for support. What does the guy expect? “Sorry.”

“We have an extensive range of stouts and the best Guinness in New York,” Orla pipes up with wildly unfounded claims. The small number of beer taps is the giveaway.

Mr. Suit exhales loudly, blowing air out his plump cheeks. “I’ll have a… Guinness, please.”

“Coming right up!”

I lift a pint glass from the shelf and tilt it to the pump as I sneak a glance at Mr. Suit. What’s his deal? He must be having a bad day if he needs a drink so bad that he can’t wait to get over the bridge to Manhattan and its selection of more appealing wines.

Not that bars in Queens don’t stock good wine, but wine connoisseurs aren’t Uncle Sean’s target market. The Auld Dog sells stout to guys watching Gaelic football and Liverpool FC. You only drink The Auld Dog’s wine if you’re drinking to forget.

I talk about Sean like he’s my uncle because Orla and I have been friends since we were in nappies. Or diapers, as I’m used to saying now. After nearly three months in New York, I think I’m good at American lingo.

“Bad day?” I ask, sneaking another glance at him as I pull the tap handle forward.

He grunts in response.

I smile. I understand the bartender’s code. Don’t fucking talk to me.

No one speaks again as we wait for the Guinness to settle.

I lift the glass under the spout to fill the head to the rim, then place the pint in front of him. “There you are, sir. Served like in Dublin.” It’s not. I’m a mediocre bartender.

“Thanks.” I’m rewarded with a dry smile as he passes over a platinum credit card etched with his name.

With his Guinness in his hand, Mr. Suit takes one look at the guys on the stools and walks to an empty table beside the window.

Orla pouts, disappointed. Anyone sitting at the bar is fair game, but if you interrupt someone trying to have a quiet pint alone, you’re an ass.

“What do you think he’s doing here?” she murmurs.

My gaze flickers back to Mr. Suit. One leg is crossed over the other, ankle over knee. His dark brows pull together as he scowls down at his phone resting on his thigh.

“Visiting relatives in Queens?” I whisper.

Orla hums, unconvinced. “Maybe he has a mistress in Queens.”

I smirk. “Maybe he’s looking for a mistress in Queens.”

Liam clears his throat. “Another one, Clodagh. When you’re ready.” He uses an unnecessarily husky tone. His gaze catches mine, and he stares back unblinking.

This weird tension is all because I saw Liam’s penis a few weeks after I moved to New York. About to ovulate, I was feeling horny, and it seemed like a good idea at the time. Now whenever I look at Liam, I see that wild glint in his eye that tells me he wants to wife me and make ten babies. And even though he vaguely resembles the new Superman when I squint, I know it’ll mean a lifetime of missionary position.

Just no.

“Coming right up,” I say, breaking Liam’s heady gaze. I grab a glass and pull the pale ale pump, enjoying the quiet. In an hour, the pub will be packed.

“Glad to see you’re staying,” he says gruffly. Liam’s from Belfast, so his accent is more guttural than mine. It made for the best sex grunts.

Panic rises in my chest as my heart does a little jig.

Am I staying?

Yesterday, my world came crashing down. ÉireAuPair4U told me know that the Kennedys, a second-generation Irish family, won’t need me after all. I was going to nanny their ten-year-old daughter to help bring her closer to her Irish heritage.

It turns out the Polish au pair agency was cheaper, and that’s more important than their roots. The Kennedys were my ticket to staying in the States.

Luck of the Irish, my fat arse.

“I have a flight booked back to Belfast next week,” I say mournfully.

Liam shifts in his barstool, making an abrasive screech with the legs. He looks as devastated as I feel.

Because in seven days, my American dream ends. I’ll have overstayed my welcome.

Orla and I entered the States a few months back, intending to stay. I’m on a tourist visa, which bought me ninety days, and my egg timer has run out. We cheekily took cash-in-hand jobs in the pub to keep us afloat.

The au pair position was my only possibility of getting a visa to stay legally in New York.

He scowls at me. “Ack, sure, we’re all in the same boat here. Ain’t none of us legal. You’ll be alright. You don’t need to leave.”

I don’t want to be like you, Liam.

“Fuck’s sake, Sean will give you a wee job here for as long as you need it,” Aidan, also from Belfast, chimes in, looking at me like I’m being unreasonable. “And you have that wee stretching class you teach on Saturdays. Sure, what else do ye need?”

Belfast-ers use wee to refer to anything and everything, regardless of size. “He’s bought a wee boat” could be anything from a dinghy to a superyacht.

I don’t want my only option to be cleaning the men’s toilets of The Auld Dog. And yes, I enjoy teaching my wee yoga class in the park on Saturdays, but that’s just a hobby with a few tips thrown in.

Yoga with Clodagh. Very clever, if I say so myself since it rhymes. Most people outside of Ireland try to pronounce the silent gh, though, so it’s a marketing bust.

If I’m illegal, that’s what I’ll be restricted to.

But… I can’t leave.

I won’t.

I stare at the pretzel crumbs Aidan has all over his T-shirt and take a deep breath. Then I plaster a smile on my face. Smiling tricks your brain into feeling positive. “It’s fine. I read an article that Ireland will be the best place to live in 2030 because of global warming.”

“Stop that shitty chat. You’re back on the waiting list for the au pair agency,” Orla pipes up. “They’ll sort you out with a job.”

Orla is burying her head in the sand. If I’m honest, I am too. Immigration will have to take me to the airport in a straitjacket because I refuse to leave American soil.

Orla has gold-dust genes. Even though she grew up beside me in Ireland, she was made by American sperm, allowing her to stay in the States. Never in my life have I hated my deadbeat, absentee, Irish-born father so much.

“Unlikely.” I sigh, refilling the lads’ pretzel bowl. “They won’t find another family in time. I’ve told them I’d nanny Satan’s spawn for minimum wage if it means getting a job in the next seven days.”

I am fucked, for want of a better word. I’m calling the agency so much that they’ll get a restraining order against me. But it’s my only chance of getting sponsored to stay.

“You’ll be grand, Clodagh,” Declan slurs, grinning at me. “You’ll be grand. No need to worry.”

Saying I’m grand is as useless as the gh in Clodagh. An overused filler word in Ireland. If I’m not on that flight on Monday, I’ll be at risk of deportation and a life of hiding from immigration.

That’s not grand in any way.

These guys don’t get it. They’ve been illegal for years and have never been caught. But they’re also in their own New York prison. It’s one life or the other. Ireland or the States. If they ever board a flight home, it’s game over.

Which makes sense why all they do is talk about what’s happening in Ireland.

I don’t want the American Dream that way.

“If you’re that worried, do what everyone else who wants to be legal does,” Declan says, stuffing pretzels into his mouth while he talks. “Find somebody to marry you. Good-looking girl like you should have no bother.”

Declan’s grin widens into something more sinister as he swivels one-eighty in his stool.

Mr. Suit catches his gaze and lifts a brow.

I stiffen. No, Declan. Don’t play this game.

“Are ye looking for a nice young Irish wife?” Declan calls over to him loudly. “She’s very bendy, so she is—”

“Declan!” I yank on his arm as Liam growls at him to quieten down.

Christ on a bike.

My gaze locks with Mr. Suit, and my cheeks heat. “Ignore him.”

He looks pissed off at the attention. “If I were looking for a wife, this bar is the last place in New York I’d search.” Rude. Texan accent or somewhere down South. Yup, Mam would have kittens.

“It’s okay.” I smile thinly, internally reeling. I wouldn’t marry you either, buddy. “I don’t want a visa that badly.”

Mr. Suit returns a trace of a smile before focusing back on his phone.

“Let’s call marrying a random guy plan C,” Orla says with forced cheeriness. “We’ll find another option.”

Swallowing back the lump in my throat, I try not to let my eyes well up. It’ll only set Orla off. I’m out of options. All my eggs were in the ÉireAuPair4U basket.

Brainstorming with Orla brought up no other viable solutions other than the following.

A) Claim a dead American guy was my father.

B) Take a dead person’s identity.

Or C) get married to an American, obviously. Ideally, not an old guy with a comb-over.

“Drink The Auld Dog’s bad wine for the next seven days to forget I’m leaving,” I say, trying to make light of my sticky situation.

“No!” she wails. “I hate that plan. The guys are right. You can stay here. Loads of people are illegal.”

I give a tired sigh, averting my eyes from Orla. Annoyed from going around in circles with the same conversation. Staying illegally means I’d always be looking over my shoulder. And Nan is pushing eighty, even though she says she’s forty-two. I couldn’t live with myself if I couldn’t go back… if I lost her.

“Another pint of Guinness, please.” The dry voice from the corner catches me off guard.

“Right away, sir.” I pull Mr. Suit’s second Guinness as Orla comes out from behind the bar to move chairs around the tables. When there aren’t many customers, she’s like a bored child.

I take it over to him and set it down.

“Oh my God,” Orla murmurs. “Clodagh!”

She kneels on the next seat over with her nose squashed against the window. “The FBI’s outside!”

“The FBI?” Coming behind her, I look over her shoulder, my eyes adjusting to the sunlight streaming through the window.

Sure enough, an expensive car with tinted windows is parked outside. Two men wearing suits and earpieces lean against the car.

What does immigration look like? Do they do pub raids? Technically, I’m not supposed to be working on my holiday visa.

“Maybe Mafia!” Orla says excitedly.

“They’re drivers,” a low voice deadpans. “My drivers.”

My gaze shoots back to the other table. Mr. Suit’s lips curl in a hint of amusement.

“Oh.” Why does someone need two drivers? In case one gets shot? “Uh, what is it that you do?”

“I work for Killian and Connor Quinn.”

I stare back, confused.

One brow rises in amusement at my ignorance. “The Quinn brothers. They own the largest hotel chain in the States. The Quinn & Wolfe Hotel Group.”

Oh. I nod, catching Orla’s gaze. There’s more chance of us vacationing on Mars than in one of those hotels. I used the hotel bathroom once in Times Square. The public bathrooms were so decadent I felt like I was in a spa.

“Perhaps you’ve been to one of their casinos,” he adds.

“Gambling’s not really my thing.”

His brow arches again, but this time with something akin to interest. “Where are you from?”

“Ireland,” Orla and I say simultaneously.

“Donegal,” I elaborate. “The rainy bit on the northwest coast.”

“And how long have you been in New York?” he asks.

“Nearly three months.”

“Me too!” Orla adds beside me.

Now he’s scanning me from top to bottom. “I gather you’re working illegally on a tourist visa.”

“N-No,” I stutter, folding my arms across my chest. “That was a joke.”

“Relax. I don’t care.”

I release a breathy laugh. The guy heard us talking, so there’s no point denying it.

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

Stiffening, I narrow my eyes at him. “I’m not looking for an American husband just to get a visa.”

Or am I?

His lips flatten into a thin line. “I’m not interested in you, sweetheart.” He pauses, giving me another once-over. “I might have a job offer for you. Chloe, is it?” He gestures to the chair in front of him. “I’m Marcus. Take a seat.”