Chapter 8: Fifth Avenue Fling: Chapter 8

This is not the city that never sleeps. The only two people awake are Quinn and me. The rest of Manhattan is asleep.

The manual didn’t mention a dress code. I expected a control freak like Quinn to have uniform requirements, like a Victorian maid outfit with an apron.

Perhaps I’m being harsh, but it’s hard not to curse the guy after wrestling a fancy coffee machine with thirty different settings for twenty minutes when it’s still pitch-black outside.

“Motherfucker,” I hiss at the stupid machine. It gurgles loudly back at me in defiance.

I let out a defeated breath. I might cry. I failed at the first task. Making coffee.

“Morning,” a rough drawl comes from behind me. “I hope that wasn’t directed at me.”

“Mr. Quinn!” I squeak, nearly jumping out of my skin. I spin around to face him, feeling the blood rushing to my face. Why am I so damn skittish? I know he lives here, for God’s sake.

It’s just…

His frame fills the doorway, blocking off the oxygen supply in the kitchen.

Gray cotton sweatpants and a white T-shirt hug his hard lines and muscles. His hair is tousled with a fresh-out-of-bed look, and a slight crease marks his face from sleeping.

The sweatpants are way too low-hanging, and I’m not sure he realizes it, or maybe he doesn’t give a fuck.

Sharing 5 a.m. is starting to feel very intimate.

“Good morning,” I chirp, with a businesslike nod. Too forced.

His stern gaze cuts to me. The kitchen felt airy before he blocked the doorway. Now I feel weighed down by his heavy gaze as he examines my vest top and yoga leggings.

I should have covered up the tattoos. He hates them.

“Is there a problem?” he growls. An actual growl. Maybe his vocal cords haven’t woken up.

I swallow thickly. “No. Coffee will be with you shortly. The manual didn’t mention a dress code,” I say, self-consciously. “I thought it would be best to wear comfy clothes to clean easily. You know, bend and get into the hard-to-reach areas.” I laugh nervously. “I can wear a maid’s outfit if you prefer.”

That gets his attention. Something flashes across his otherwise unreadable face. “I don’t need you to dress like a maid. Wear whatever’s comfortable.” His eyes move over me. “But cover your tattoos in front of my daughter. I don’t want her getting any ideas.”

“Sure.” What a grump. “Sit down and make yourself comfortable.”

It’s probably not the best time to admit that one of my tattoos might be a Turkish mafia tattoo sported by certain inmates. The man in the beach booth told me it meant loyalty in Turkish. Turns out, it means loyalty to a specific Turkish criminal organization.

Quinn takes a seat on a barstool at the island. I set the green protein smoothie on the counter with unnecessary force and slide it over to him. I don’t want to get too close in case he can smell fear.

“Slainté!”

I don’t know why I said that. It means cheers in Gaelic. It’s one of the only words I remember from school.

He ignores me and takes the glass. As he swallows, the prominent Adam’s apple in the thick column of his throat bobs up and down. He chugs the smoothie in one go. Impressive, considering I liquidized a bag of spinach and almonds. Smacking his glass down on the counter, he turns his attention to his phone.

“Was it okay?” I ask.

I take his grunt as approval and turn back to the most complicated machine in the world.

Flustered, I read the instructions again, adding another portafilter with coffee beans and water. This is attempt number six, maybe seven, but I don’t want to take out my reading pen in front of Quinn.

This coffee looks okay. Better than the last few attempts. I’d sneak a taste if he wasn’t sitting behind me. Instead, I turn around and place the cup in front of him.

He doesn’t look up. His dark brows knit together as he reads something on his phone that makes him angry.

I watch as he lifts the coffee cup to his lips and takes a sip. Our eyes lock as he sets the cup down with a thud.

I smile. “How is it?”

“The worst coffee I’ve ever had in my life,” he deadpans.

I wait for him to return the smile.

When he doesn’t, my eyes widen in horror, and my smile dies.

He exhales noisily and slides off the barstool. “I don’t care what you wear, but I need you to know how to make decent coffee.”

“Sorry,” I say, mortified, as he towers over me beside the machine. “I’m not used to this model.”

“I noticed.” He stands close enough so that our shoulders rub. It was safer when we had the marble island between us. The man exudes too much masculinity. My breath catches in my throat, and I hope to God he doesn’t notice. “Watch.”

Feeling acutely aware of my own breathing, I watch him as he adds water and fills the portafilter.

“The key is setting the grind consistency.”

His warm forearm brushes against mine again, sending a jolt of tension through my body. Did he mean to do that? He has the forearms for cutting wood. Or aggressive fingering. Both are equally sexy.

I nod, trying not to feel the heat radiating from his body. I think I know where I’m messing up, but it’s hard to concentrate when he makes the art of coffee-making sexual. Talking about grinding in that low husky voice while accidentally brushing his arm against mine.

I try to absorb his words. It’s a coffee machine, for Christ’s sake. I can handle this.

But his eyes, as blue and stormy as the Atlantic Ocean, distract me. So now I’m a poet.

“The grind determines the intensity. When you grind for too long, the beans become too finely ground, and the coffee becomes bitter.”

This close, I see he has a scar running through one of his thick eyebrows.

“Are you listening?” He glares at me like I have the attention span of a fly.

Can he read my mind?

“Yes,” I say hastily, nodding. “Get the grinding right. Got it.”

His brow rises, unimpressed, as he turns to face me. I watch as he brings the coffee to his lips and takes a sip. Then he holds it under my nose. “Smell it.”

I lean forward, taking a deep sniff. Mmm, the scent of a real man. He hasn’t had a shower yet. My period is due. The last time I let my period hormones control the decisions, Liam happened.

“Now taste it.”

He doesn’t hand me the cup. Instead, he holds it to my lips.

As I take a sip, his eyes drift to my lips, triggering my pulse to race. It’s stronger than I usually drink. “Notes… of… nutty,” I waffle as I wipe drops from my chin.

“That’s what I need you to do every morning. Think you can handle it?”

“Got it, sir,” I reply with an edge to my voice before I catch myself.

He glances at his watch, then chugs the coffee. With one swift motion, he pulls off his shirt and throws it onto the barstool, leaving him standing in just his low-hanging sweatpants.

I cough to stifle the choking noise in my throat and try to avert my gaze.

The guy has a massive cock. I just know. That distinctive V can’t be pointing at a tiny penis. What would be the point?

Except I can’t avert my gaze because I’m a warm-blooded woman and wild Irish horses couldn’t force my eyes away right now.

Stiff Killian Quinn has a chest tattoo. A gray, sexy Celtic chest tattoo.

My ovaries come alive like beacons sending out an SOS. My blood is very fucking hot.

I can’t… I just can’t leave it alone. “You have a tattoo. I thought…”

He releases a long breath. “If my daughter sees an attractive young woman with tattoos, I’ll be nagged for the next two years about why she can’t get any.”

Attractive young woman. My throat goes dry. “Oh.”

“I’m going for a run now. See you in forty-five.”

I nod robotically. Great idea. Get out, man, get out!

“Did you forget something?” He looks straight at me as he stretches his muscular arm above his head, providing me with a full view of his armpit hair. He alternates his arms, flexing each in turn. Now, that’s what a real man’s armpit looks like.

Yup, Aunt Flo is in control.

I blink, confused at the question being fired at me and the show in front of me. Are they related? “Umm….”

His hands come down onto his hips. “You need to check with me every morning if there are additional tasks to carry out.”

“Oh!” Shit. Mrs. Dalton had put that in bold. “Sorry, of course. Are there any today?”

He frowns. “I need my tux dry-cleaned before the gala. Talk to my PA about getting two extra tickets.” He pauses. “Oh, and check with security to see if Stephen’s coming today. Make sure you’re available if he needs you.”

My eyes widen. Gala? When? Stephen, who are you, and what do you need from me?

I open my mouth, then close it when I realize his instructions aren’t open for clarification. Thank God for Mrs. Dalton’s attention to detail. “Sure.”

Fixing his earbuds in his ears, Quinn stalks out of the kitchen, and I let out a strangled moan of relief. It’s barely past five o’clock, and my nerves are shot.

I just realized the guy didn’t smile. Not once.

This is bloody exhausting. How did Jane Eyre do it?

***

True to the manual, Quinn returns from his run at five forty-five, and by some miracle, I have his high-protein breakfast of poached eggs, broccoli, and whole wheat toast ready. The man eats broccoli before six o’clock while the rest of us struggle to get our five a day.

I’m greeted by a freshly showered, suited Quinn wearing dark blue trousers and a white shirt, holding a laptop in one hand and a tie in the other. His hair is wet and tousled.

Damn.

“Hey.” He takes a seat beside the island, discarding the tie on the counter.

“Hey,” I echo softly. “Good run?”

He glances up briefly before opening his laptop. “Yeah.” That’s the end of that.

I hold my breath as he swallows the first few bites of breakfast, waiting for him to chastise me.

After a moment, he gruffly nods in my direction. “It’s different from Mrs. Dalton’s.”

That’s the closest I’ll get to a compliment. I release my breath. Thank fuck. I knew I made good eggs.

He tucks into breakfast as he types. He pops earbuds into his ears, informing me our conversation has finished. Maybe he’s doing critical billionaire things. Or maybe he’s just an asshole.

I turn to load the dishwasher.

“Oliver,” he growls loudly behind me, making me jump. “Where are we with the tender docs for the Vegas site?”

Six o’clock on a Monday morning, and the guy is talking shop already.

He barks demands behind me to Oliver as I fill the dishwasher as quietly as possible.

When I turn to collect his dirty plate, his gaze fixates on my lower half with a deep frown.

He is definitely checking out my butt.

I have a large ass for my size. I’d be adored if I were a female baboon. I’ve been told it’s decent. It’s not supermodel bootylicious, but it’s round and full, and I’ve had no complaints.

When his eyes lift to mine, he glares at me like I’m the one in the wrong.

I turn back to the dishwasher, clenching my butt cheeks.

I wish he would leave so I could breathe properly. This weird tension is stifling.

Behind me, the laptop snaps shut, and he clears his throat. “I’m going to work now, so I won’t be here to introduce you to Teagan.” He pauses as I turn to face him.

“She’s expecting you,” he adds in a softer tone, suggesting that he’s aware he’s an asshole for not staying for the introductions. “I go to work early so I can get home to have dinner with her. Make sure she finishes all her homework. And keep her off her damn phone.”

He doesn’t wait for my response. I watch him stride off, tie hanging undone around his neck, leaving me alone in the kitchen. A stranger moves in, and he can’t rearrange his schedule for one morning to introduce his daughter?

***

My pulse quickens when I hear footsteps in the kitchen. I’m nervous about meeting his daughter. Turning thirteen is that weird age when crushes, puberty, and hating the world all collide to create an emotional roller coaster of angst.

The girl entering the kitchen inherited her father’s genes. Unlike him, she has fiery-red hair, similar to mine. Did her mother have red hair?

She’s wearing a red checkered skirt past her knees with a tie and knee-length socks. I would have raised hell on earth if I was made to wear that at her age.

The only hint of rebellion is the black eyeliner.

“Hi, Teagan.” I beam at her. “I’m Clodagh. I’m really excited to meet you.”

She eyes me guardedly. Another trait shared with her dad. “Hi.”

Does she know who I am? “I’m the new nanny maid. I mean domestic assistant,” I announce for clarity.

She rolls her eyes so far back in her head her pupils are in danger of disappearing around the back of her sockets. “I got that.”

I put breakfast down in front of her. “I hope it’s how you like it. Just tell me if not.”

“Thanks.”

Just as I’m about to talk, Teagan takes out her phone and scrolls through it with one hand as the other pushes her food around her plate.

I lean uneasily against the sink, wishing Mrs. Dalton had added instructions about engaging with a moody father-and-daughter duet. I’m supposed to keep her off her phone, but I don’t think it would be wise to start our time together by scolding her.

“So you go to the Upper East Side Ladies’ Academy?” Sounds posh.

Her gaze flickers up for a moment. “Yeah.”

“Do you like it?”

“It’s alright.” She gives me a strained smile before turning her attention back to her phone.

This is messed up. How does she not want to have a conversation with a stranger who’s moved into her home?

I persevere. Sooner or later, I’ll hit common ground. “The manual says you do ballet. I’ve always wanted to try it. It sounds fun.”

“I guess if the manual says it’s fun, it must be,” she sneers.

“It wasn’t an option when I was in school,” I add cheerfully, ignoring her snark. “Maybe you can show me some moves.”

She gives me a strange look. “Sure.”

“I teach yoga classes in my spare time,” I continue. “It’s supposed to be great for ballet dancers.”

My new housemate doesn’t respond.

I’m talking to myself. The Quinn family is as enthralled by their new lodger as they are by a spider on the wall.

While Teagan eats her breakfast glued to her phone, I go over my daily tasks.

In twenty minutes, she’ll be taken to school by a driver and security guard. That sounds awful. When I was her age, gossiping with Orla on the school bus was the best part of my day.

This one is going to be a hard nut to crack.