Page 129 of Fifth Avenue Fling

My entire body goes tense.

He grins helpfully, and I feel a sudden urge to wipe it off his face.

Fuck that. I can’t sit here all night on edge.

Finishing the beer in one gulp, I stand. “Teagan, do you mind looking after your uncle Connor while I pop out?”

“She’s way too cool for you, Dad,” she drawls. “She’s not interested.”

Alarmed, I look at Connor. Teagan knows something’s going on between Clodagh and me? Could my daughter be perceptive enough to tell?

He raises a brow at me in silence.

I swallow hard, my heart thumping in my chest as I look at my daughter. This is exactly the disaster I didn’t want to arise.

“Clodagh and I are just… buddies,” I tell her cautiously, feeling shit for lying to my own child. “I want to make sure she has a nice birthday.”

My little girl lets out an eye-rolling smirk. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. She’s still too cool for you.”

My chest tightens as I stand there, gripping the back of the chair tightly. I shoot Connor a fleeting look of panic.

The last thing I want is for Teagan to know something’s going on between Clodagh and me, the young woman who lives in our home and is supposed to be caring for my daughter. It feels like an act of betrayal to her. Maybe I want her to think of me as a dad only, not as a man or a letdown.

I study her face, feeling more flustered than I have in a long time. Should I deny it?

“You need to get her something,” Teagan says.

“What?”

“Jeez, Dad, you’re clueless.” She rolls her eyes again with exaggerated exasperation. “It’s her birthday.”

Christ. She doesn’t seem particularly bothered by it at all.

Connor smirks at me. “Tiffany’s is open late tonight.”

My face contorts into an awkward smile as I meet his eyes. He gives me an encouraging look in return.

“Okay.” I give a curt nod, focusing on Teagan. “I’ll see you later.”

“Good luck!” she calls after me as I leave. “You’ll need it.”

***

Ninety minutes later, I’m walking into an Irish pub in Queens for the first time in years and am instantly deafened.

The Auld Dog – it brings back unsettling memories of O’Shea’s, the pub where I had a fight before Harlow died. The first pub I ever owned. The pub that started my business. It’s like opening a time capsule—all the sights, smells, and sounds bring me back to that horrible night.

The smell of stale beer hangs thick in the air. Drunken laughter drowns out the Irish band in the corner. An old man stumbles forward, trying to clumsily imitate a jig while his pals cheer him on. He teeters and then tumbles into a nearby table, knocking over a tray of beers that shatters on impact. No one seems to care.

“Fuck ye…” another old guy shouts beside me. “Are you young Joe Byrne?” Christ. Literally Christ. He’s wearing a priest’s collar.

“No, Father,” I reply curtly.

I shake my head in disbelief. It’s been a while since I’ve been in a pub like this.

“It’s Clodagh’s boss from Manhattan.”

I glance behind me to see one of the ladies from yoga brassily touching my back. I give her a reserved smile before scanning the room.

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