Page 104 of Fifth Avenue Fling

She looks delighted. “Do you know any O’Sullivans from Donegal town? They used to…”

Here we go. The ‘do you know this family’ game.

I smile at her.

My eyes stray to Killian, and as if he can sense it, he moves his attention from his mum to me and raises his eyebrows in question.

My cheeks heat, and Iquicklylookaway.

Five minutes later.

“Do you know any Maloneys?”

“Yup, I think I know that family.”

“Lovely,” she squeals. “Do they still own the bakery in Donegal town?”

“I think so,” I fib as the army of waitstaff arrives with our starters.

My stomach growls in response; I had skipped lunch in anticipation of this moment. I quickly take a photo with my phone to send to Orla.

Half an hour passes, and I’m feeling relaxed. Different conversations at the table sometimes cross over each other. Killian’s mum is fun, and Connor uses every opportunity to wind Killian up.

Even Killian is relaxed and laughing. He may not smile often, but it’s worth the wait when he does.

I’m starving by the time the mains arrive because the starters were the size of a pea.

“Your tartare, ma’am,” the server declares, placing my dinner before me.

I squint in confusion, unsure of what I’m looking at. It looks like the mincemeat my mum buys at the butcher’s.

I take a bite and cough.

It’s slimy. And cold. Why is it cold?

My fork trails through the weird meat. This is fucked up.

“Everything okay?” Killian murmurs, watching me.

“Yeah.” I squirm in my seat because the tummy control pants are chafing. “It’s just not what I was expecting.”

“You know tartare is raw, right?”

“Like rare?”

“No. Raw. Uncooked.”

I stare, transfixed at my plate in horror. I blew my chance at the World’s Onion for this? “I thought it was like a bourguignon,” I mutter, taking a swig of water to get rid of the taste of the raw meat in my mouth. They should fucking highlight that fact on the menu. “Why would I want to eat raw meat? I’m not a dog. Is it even safe?”

“They blend raw egg and raw beef with seasonings. It’s an acquired taste.” The corners of his mouth quirk into a light smile. “In a restaurant like this, it’s safe.”

Raw egg and meat blended together? Sickos.

I tentatively gather a small sample of meat onto my fork and take a bite. This is a disaster. If I don’t think too much about what it is, I might not projectile vomit. “Sounds yummy.”

I eye Killian’s succulent steak with triple-cooked fries and peppercorn sauce.

I might cry.

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