Chapter 5: Fifth Avenue Fling: Chapter 5

I gaze at the Fifth Avenue brownstone, counting six stories to the top. I have to crane my neck to take it all in. I bet they have a breathtaking view of Central Park from up there.

I left Orla brooding, with promises to return, and got in the car with Mr. Quinn’s driver, Sam—a black SUV with blacked-out windows, reinforced with bulletproof glass, which Sam confirmed to my delight.

Thanks to Uncle Sean’s dead wife, Kathy, I’m dressed in a long, floral skirt and white blouse covering my arm tattoos. I wipe a sweaty palm over my skirt. It’s hideous, God rest poor Kathy’s soul. I’m usually in yoga pants and a T-shirt, not dressed like Nanny McPhee.

It took all of ten minutes to shove my belongings in a backpack. Clothes, tweezers, razors, cold sore cream, hair products to tame my red frizz, and some adult toys I haven’t been able to use knowing Uncle Sean and Aunt Kathy’s ghost are in the house.

I scale the steps until I reach the double door. This must be what Alice felt like when she drank the shrinking potion.

Two stone lion statues with their mouths open stand guard on either side of the door.

My stomach lurches with nerves and excited energy. Am I really moving in here?

I give my armpits a quick sniff. I could fry an egg between my breasts. We Irish like to complain about the weather a lot.

It must be thirty-five degrees Celsius outside or, as the Americans say, a hundred degrees Fahrenheit. Something like that; maths was never my strong suit. Not like the owner of this tank of a mansion. You don’t get to be a billionaire without being good at maths and other subjects.

I suck in a deep breath and press the doorbell.

“State your full name,” a male voice says before I take my finger off the button.

That’s unnerving. Is his butler waiting on the other side?

“Clodagh Kelly,” I say each name slowly, unsure where to direct my voice.

“Look directly at the camera.” There’s a long pause. “Clodagh.”

Wow. Impressive accuracy in pronunciation.

My eyes widen, and I search for the camera. There it is—a shiny round object above the doorbell. It moves until it’s focusing directly on my face.

In the movies, this is when I’d get nuked.

With a tight-lipped smile, I stand rigidly facing the camera, unsure if I’m speaking to a human or an electronic device. For a doorbell, it learned my name quickly. It could even be Killian Quinn himself; I don’t know what he sounds like.

“Retinal scan initiated,” the male monotone informs me.

I hold my forced smile, wondering if I’m being watched. This is worse than JFK passport control.

“Retina scan complete,” the voice announces.

I wait. Now what?

My stomach tightens as footsteps come toward the door from the inside.

The double doors pull open and…

It’s him.

Of course, it’s fucking him.

Our eyes lock as his brows join in a deep frown. I see his brain ticking over… trying to remember… trying to place me.

I wait.

The moment recognition flares in those arctic eyes, my skin prickles like it’s been jagged by a thousand icebergs, slowly freezing me to death.

He folds his arms across his chest as his scowl deepens.

God help me. I thought the Manhattans clouded my vision; that Killian Quinn couldn’t be as unnerving as I remember. Jesus Christ, he’s worse.

He’s massive, excessively masculine, and absolutely fucking terrifying. Has he grown taller since I saw him at the hotel?

His heavy gaze roams over me, making his way over every inch of my body. An inspection I’m flunking with a capital F. By the time he lands on my face, I feel like I’ve been stripped of Kathy’s floral skirt and frilly blouse.

Yup, he remembers me.

I resist the urge to bolt back down the street.

“Mr. Quinn?” I swallow thickly. “I’m Clodagh Kelly.”

“You,” he says at last, his jaw visibly tensing.

“Me. Eh, sorry about that little incident at the hotel. I—”

“I was expecting you to be older,” he cuts in, his voice as cold as his eyes.

“Oh.” I blink, unsure of how to rectify that issue. “I apologize?”

I wipe my sweaty palm against my skirt before extending my hand. Marcus may not be so confident if he could see me now.

Another scan up and down of me, and his jaw tightens further. The man looks as though he’s about to slam the door in my face.

He takes my hand in his.

I hide my nerves behind my brightest smile as his hand envelops mine. My pulse jumps a little from the contact with his skin. “I’ve never been vetted by a doorbell before.”

His frown deepens as if even the sight of me displeases him, and he drops my hand.

I subtly unpick my skirt wedgie from my backside and shift uncomfortably from foot to foot. “Umm…”

Is he going to let me in? If I’m canned because of a few missing soaps, then, for crying out loud, can’t he put me out of my misery already?

“Come in,” he says in a clipped voice. He sounds like he doesn’t want me on the island of Manhattan, let alone in his house. He opens the door wider, and I force my feet into motion, skittering past him to step inside the foyer.

Holy fucking potatoes. Everything’s huge. And white. I feel like an ant.

I want to spin and take in all the intricate details—the chandelier, the grand staircase with gleaming white stairs, the moldings, the door frames, and the marble floor that looks clean enough to lick.

Even the freaking door handles are like something out of the Museum of Modern Art. I know; I walked past it on my way here. The room looks like it’s been plucked straight out of a New York-based movie.

Killian or Mr. Quinn, because he never told me what to call him, stalks toward a door to the left of the staircase. I assume I’m to follow.

Double doors open magically as he walks. So this is how billionaires live? No need to spend time on mundane tasks such as door opening.

“Your place is beautiful,” I say breathlessly, wishing I could muster up something more eloquent.

“Thank you,” he replies gruffly. “It’s a Bosworth design.”

I pretend I understand what he said and let out an “ooh” as he escorts me into a stunningly lavish lounge area with enormous white couches and a fireplace much taller than me.

I’m the scruffiest thing in the room.

He motions to one of the couches. “Take a seat.”

I lower myself onto the couch, but my feet can’t reach the floor. Trying to appear composed, I slide forward until I’m perched on the edge of the seat.

Quinn settles on the couch opposite me. He rests his forearms on either edge of the sofa and spreads his thick thighs wide while he scans me again critically.

Gone is the suit. Now he’s in dark blue jeans, a black T-shirt, and trainers. I mean, sneakers.

I squirm in my skirt, which sticks to my skin thanks to the nylon fabric.

Marcus made this job seem like it was in the bag, but with how my potential boss looks at me, I’m not so sure anymore. My heart races in my chest, so palpable I think he can hear it.

“How old are you?”

“I thought you weren’t allowed to ask that in an interview,” I joke meekly.

He doesn’t smile. “I have all your information, including your blood type, on file. It would be preferable for both of us if you save me time retrieving it and just answer the question.”

I clear my throat and respond more seriously. “Nearly twenty-five.”

“You look younger,” he replies dryly.

“Oh, okay… um… thanks?” What does he have against younger people?

Another beat passes, and his scowl darkens. He rises abruptly, and I nearly follow suit until he waves me back down. “I need to make a call. Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be back in ten minutes.”

I watch him stride through the glass doors to another room and slam them shut. Unease settles in my stomach.

This is the difference between a plane ticket back home and a life in New York. It’s obvious that I’m not what Quinn expected. I rub idle circles over the roses on Kathy’s skirt. Maybe this is karma for borrowing a dead woman’s skirt and calling it hideous.

Is this grumpy attitude because I stole soap and a glass from his hotel? Or did he find something in my pee test? Is it my accent? Most Americans love it. I’ve had a few drunken marriage proposals.

As he talks to someone on the phone, still scowling, I discreetly check him out.

He’s too imposing, too intense, too severe. Taking up too much space.

He’s too damn… big.

I bite a fingernail. When that one’s chewed up, I move to the next. What’s he doing in there? Is he calling fucking immigration or something?

He turns abruptly, looking sharply at me as if feeling the weight of my gaze. His lips move, but his focus remains solely on me.

I wish I could lipread, but the tic in his jaw is better than sign language.

I’ve fucked it.

Defeated, I sink into the leather couch, wishing it would magically swallow me up.

Goodbye, New York. Hello, Belfast.

The doors swing open, and he reenters the room, sinking into the sofa in front of me with an irritated grunt. “The domestic assistant you’re substituting has decades of experience. I expected the same from you. You’re barely older than my daughter.” He looks at me like I’m a two-headed beast that needs to be put down.

Bloody cheek of this guy.

I stare into his handsome face, wishing I could tell him to shove his job up his sexy ass. “With all due respect, sir, your daughter is barely a teenager. I’m a grown woman,” I say bluntly. “My age doesn’t make me incompetent.”

Anger flares in his blue eyes. Quinn doesn’t like being challenged. “I’m moving this person into my house, under the same roof as my daughter. It doesn’t matter if they’re doing chores. I need them to be a positive role model. Do you think I take that lightly?”

“No,” I say succinctly. You don’t take anything lightly, buddy.

“So why do you think you’re qualified, Miss Kelly?”

We stare at each other, the tension flowing between us like a live wire.

I promised myself I wouldn’t let another guy make me feel worthless.

“It’s Clodagh,” I correct him defiantly. “I may not be a billionaire, Mr. Quinn, or have a degree in childcare, but that doesn’t mean I’m not a trustworthy hire.”

“I’ll be the one to decide that.”

There’s no point trying to bullshit the guy, so I’ll stick with what I know. “Fine. Okay, as an au pair, I’ll admit that I don’t have much experience, but I did help raise three rowdy younger brothers.” Much experience meaning no experience in this instance.

He grunts in response, making it clear my spiel isn’t making an impact.

“I’m actually a trained carpenter.” I stop briefly to check his reaction and work out how the hell I’m going to make this relevant. “It might not seem like a huge feat, but as a woman in a trade job, I think I’m a good role model.” I pause to breathe. “And Marcus said you need someone, like, yesterday, and I can start today.”

I remain still and hold my breath, not wanting to be the first to look away. I’m not going down without a fight.

“A carpenter?” he repeats in a clipped tone as if he hadn’t heard me properly.

I stand my ground and look him straight in the eye. I’ve been here before with chauvinist dudes who think carpentry isn’t for women. “Yeah, that’s right.”

Neither of us looks away. Neither of us blinks.

Bring it on, Quinn. I fucking dare you.

“Admirable.”

He sounds, dare I say it… respectful? I’m floored.

“How did you become a carpenter?” he asks, looking genuinely curious.

“I left school when I was sixteen.” I absentmindedly pull at a stray thread on my skirt, feeling anxious. “I wasn’t very book smart, but I liked making things. It suited my brain better. After school, I got an admin job at a furniture store, and I watched the carpenters work. Then I started mucking around, making some basic furniture. I couldn’t believe it when I got accepted to Belfast Met’s carpentry course.” I smile, remembering the day I got the email.

“Let’s see your portfolio.”

“My portfolio?” I ask slowly.

“Yes, some of the pieces you’ve created,” he says less patiently, beckoning with his hands like I’m going to magic a portfolio out of thin air.

I wasn’t prepared for this, but I pull out my phone to show him photos. I watch uneasily as he swipes through each picture, his expression indecipherable. I’ve no nails left to chew. Soon, I’ll have to start on his.

“I want to set something more professional up soon, like an Etsy store,” I say, feeling increasingly deflated as he shows no reaction.

He glances up from the screen. “Why haven’t you tried starting your own business?”

“I did.” I squirm in my seat. “It didn’t work out.”

Please drop it already. I’m applying to clean and look after your kid, not build you a new kitchen.

“Why not?”

For fuck’s sake. “My business partner and I didn’t see eye to eye.”

My ex talked me into starting a business last year—a business I never thought I’d have the nerve to start. I’d worked at a furniture store for a few years making bespoke cabinets, and he came to me with a plan. We’d be the dream team. I was the creative hands; he was the business brain. He’d take care of the money.

And boy, did he take care of my money.

I naively handed him over two thousand. He made up some rambling excuse about investing in marketing, then dumped me a few months later.

On behalf of female carpenters, I was a failure.

Now I’m so bloody jaded. It’s part of what spurred me to leave for the States. At home, everyone knows about my failed business.

“I’m not your target audience, but they’re good.” He hands me back the phone, and I breathe a little easier. “Is there anything else I should know about you, Miss Kelly? Any unusual hobbies? Because things will go smoother if you’re the one to tell me.”

“No,” I say, my pulse spiking at the thought of my ridiculous criminal record. “That’s me. I’m a simple gal.”

He scrutinizes me for a long, uncomfortable beat. “You’re a trained carpenter, yet you’ve abandoned your trade to apply for a domestic assistant position,” he says, matter-of-fact, one brow raised.

“I haven’t abandoned it,” I counter, annoyed. “My long-term plan is to make a life in New York doing what I love. I just need to figure out the steps from a to z.”

“The job is demanding. You’ll be a live-in assistant, on-call all the time. If you think you’ll have time to do woodwork, then walk out the door. I’m paying you to be at my beck and call.”

“I can be at your beck and call, Mr. Quinn,” I reply without missing a beat.

Our eyes lock. Has anyone ever managed to pull a smile from that mouth? Quinn needs to learn to chill. Do yoga. Face yoga.

“Marcus obviously sees something in you…”

My pulse goes wild as I try to cover my nervous energy with a cough. I’m as much in the dark as Quinn on that one.

“And I trust his judgment.” Quinn sits and relaxes back into his seat, folding one leg over the other to rest on his knee. “You work five days a week, but you need to be flexible. I need my staff to be proactive, meticulous, and use their initiative. That includes my domestic staff. If I say you need to be somewhere at a certain time, you’ll be there ten minutes before. If I ask you to do something, I ask once.”

If he’s telling me this, does it mean I’m still in the running?

“Yes, sir!” I smooth my palms down on my skirt. I feel like I’m being recruited for the army.

“You’ll have your own living quarters, all-inclusive,” he drawls. “Food and expenses are paid for on top of your wages.”

I try not to react. Or pass out on his floor. That salary plus no bills… I’m going to be the richest nanny maid in the United States.

Quinn excels at unreadable expressions. With that poker face, it’s no wonder he owns casinos. His home security system showed me more emotion.

Me? I’m the opposite. I have a face that lets out all my secrets.

“You’re on probation.”

“Of course.” I nod breathlessly. I’ve done it. I’ve bloody got the job. “For how long?”

“For as long as I deem necessary.” He stands from the couch and moves to the large glass table near the window. After grabbing a large bound booklet and phone, he returns and hands them to me. “This is your instruction manual put together by my long-term help, Mrs. Dalton. You’ll find all your tasks listed here.”

I take the worryingly thick manual in my hands as he looms over me, hands in his pockets, watching my every move.

This is the second time I’m eye level with his dick.

“She’s very detailed,” I murmur, leafing through the pages without reading them. I hate when people ask me to read something in front of them.

“A quality I expect from my team. Bear that in mind.”

“Yes, of course. Absolutely.” My lips curve into a tight smile. “I’ll digest this.”

“Tonight, please, since you start tomorrow morning.” His brow lifts. “Do you have a boyfriend? Girlfriend?”

I shake my head, blushing.

With his hands in his pockets, he strolls back to stand, staring out the window. “Anyone you date will be vetted. When you date, it will be outside this house. I don’t let men stay, even in the staff quarters. That’s a hard rule for my daughter’s sake.”

“Sure.” I can deal with celibacy if it means living in an Upper East Side townhouse. Living under the same roof as Killian Quinn is terrifying enough.

He turns to face me again. “I put a lot of trust in my staff, but if you violate that trust, my security staff will be here in minutes. Cameras are all over the property.”

“Everywhere?” I’m not taking a dump with Quinn’s security team watching. “Even the bathrooms?”

“No, not the bathrooms. Your living quarters are exempt, too.”

I glance anxiously around the room. “But I’ll be watched all the time?”

“No.” His lips quirk as he leans against the window ledge. It’s the closest thing I’ve seen to a smile. “That’s by exception. The security is as much for your benefit, Miss Kelly, as it is mine and Teagan’s. Every room in the house has a panic button. My team will show you how to invoke an emergency. You’ll also install an app on your phone to alert my team immediately if you’re in danger.”

“Panic buttons?” I echo, bewildered.

“I’m in the public eye. It comes with the territory,” he says dryly. “I want you to feel safe here.”

It’s the first bout of compassion I’ve felt from him.

“I’m not planning to do anything to violate your trust, Mr. Quinn.”

“Glad we understand each other.” He nods to the phone beside me. “That’s yours. I expect you to always have it on you.”

There’s a knock behind me. I turn to see the double doors opening, and Sam, the nice Irish guy who drove me from Queens, enters. “Boss.”

Quinn nods at him before turning back to me. “Sam will take you to your studio.”

He pushes himself off the ledge, and I take it as my cue to stand.

“Teagan is at her grandmother’s, so you can’t meet her right now. Sam will show you your living quarters and set you up with access to the property. The rest of the evening is yours to settle in, Miss Kelly.”

As much as I like the sound of my second name in his deep raspy voice…

“Please call me Clodagh. No one calls me Miss Kelly.”

“Clodagh.”

My neck hairs stand on end.

He runs a hand over his strong jawline. “Call me Mr. Quinn.”

I start to laugh, then realize he’s not amused. “Oh. Sorry, I thought you were joking.”

“Do I look like a comedian?”

Does he want an answer to that? My nerves are shot.

“No. Mr. Quinn,” I say hoarsely. “I look forward to working for you. Boss.”

The corner of his mouth twitches slightly. “I’ll see you at five o’clock tomorrow morning.”

Wait, what?

For the umpteenth time during our exchange, I try not to react.

Who needs domestic assistance at five in the morning? I guess the answers are in the manual.

With a curt nod, Killian strides off.

“Ready?” Sam smiles at me sympathetically.

Too sympathetically.