Page 101 of Fifth Avenue Fling

This outfit reflects those thoughts perfectly.

It’s a slim black bodycon dress with a lace finish. I picture the woman he was with in the hotel wearing the same dress, the woman who strode out of the hotel with him like she owned it.

I’ll need to don my body-control underwear to keep all my bumps in the right place.

Orla: Nice. Is it a bit sexy to be meeting his mam in?

Maybe. But what does it matter? I’m not meeting his mum as a girlfriend. I’m being offered a seat because Teagan wants me there.

Killian’s expression this morning made that clear. He had a face like a constipated grump. Seriously,whatwasupwithhim? He was even weirder than he had been these past few days.

Me: I’ll wear a cardigan—

Ahhhh!

I collide full force into a solid body, eliciting a grunt from the person I’ve walked into. I look up in horror to see I’ve walked into a guy holding a fast-food drink. He’s tall and broad-shouldered, wearing a white T-shirt that molds nicely over muscle, now soaked in fizzy liquid.

My hands fly to my mouth. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry.”

“Forget it.” He sounds way more forgiving than I deserve.

His grin catches me off-guard more than the fact that I’ve doused him in his own drink.

Flustered, Ifumbleinmy bag foranapkin.“I didn’t look where I was going.” I groan, feeling my cheeks heat. “Can I pay for your dry cleaning or something?”

“Relax,” he drawls, his hand coming up to stop me. “Seriously, it’s fine.”

I sigh harshly. I’m sure karma will bite me later for this.

“What’s your name?”

“Clodagh.”

“Lovely name. I’ve never heard of it.” His eyes gaze leisurely over me. “It suits you.”

I smile at the hot stranger, feeling a bit off-kilter.Is he flirting with me?“It’s Irish. And yours is?”

“Alfred.” He holds out his hand to me. “Tell you what, Clodagh, I’ll forgive you if you give me your number and let me take you out for a drink.”

Oh.

An unattractive snort escapes me as I take his hand. I’m about to respectfully reject him when I stop and think.

Why wouldn’t I accept?

“Sure, Alfred. I’d love to.”

***

Bucket list number four: the exquisiteL’Oignon du Monderestaurant. Translation: The world’s onion. Everything sounds more glamorous in French.

It’s like I’ve stepped inside a French palace.

Reservations here are like gold dust. There’s a one-year waiting list, so I don’t know how they slipped me in for Teagan’s birthday. Maybe Killian has his own list. The billionaires’ waiting list involves no waiting, while the ordinary people’s waiting list involves a year of waiting.

Killian motions for me to sit between him and Connor. That’s great; I’minthe middle ofa Quinn sausage sandwich.

Teagan sits opposite me, flanked by her grandma and her friend Becky, who she talks about constantly. I can’t believe I fucked her dad. I’m a trollop nanny. I can’t look her in the eye without feeling severe Catholic guilt.

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