Page 152 of Fifth Avenue Fling

My gaze dips to the image on my phone. Teagan would be shocked if she knew how much time I spend scrolling on social media; no doubt I’d be accused of double standards.

Except I’m not here for likes, connections, or any other way others get their dopamine hit. All I feel is pain. Every post is a stab in the heart, a reminder of what I’ve lost.

Because I spend my time staring at pictures of a red-haired Irish vixen with gorgeous green eyes. My fear intensifies with each swipe that the next will show she’s moved on, that I’m nothing to her now.

I’ve gone through a lot of things in my lifetime; Harlow’s death being the worst. Years of having a deadbeat father, threats on my life, a stalker, and almost having my business go under in the beginning years.

Not having Clodagh in my life is right up there, too.

But at least I know she’s safe, far across the Atlantic Ocean, away from me.

It’s been weeks since she last posted anything on social media. I mainly look at pictures of her in New York, taken when she was living with me, trying to convince myself she’s still close. It’s torture.

I lie awake in the middle of the night as waves of unease hit me like a storm surge. She’s so fucking far away from me now.

But the distance between us keeps her safe.

The bridge behind us, we finally arrive at the casino site after a half-hour drive.

Connor and I have always been hands-on, which is why I’m about to don a hard hat and talk to the foreman and workers of the construction company. Phase 1—the demolition of the old motel—should be complete next week. I want to meet the team to look into the whites of their eyes and know they’re telling me the truth.

My driver pulls to a stop, and I get out and am immediately hit with a cacophony of construction sounds.

The cranes, diggers, and half a demolished hotel make the building site an eyesore. But in six months, the Brooklyn skyline will contain a new addition: a sleek hotel and casino that blends aesthetically with its surroundings. I haven’t been out here in a few months now.

I wonder if this is where Clodagh wanted to live in Brooklyn. I wonder if it’s near the restaurant she went to for her birthday. I’m always fucking wondering.

I look around. Clodagh would like the area. It’s an eclectic mix of office blocks, Brooklyn brownstones, cafes, and restaurants.

Something, call it insanity because I’m on a path of self-destruction, has me wandering over to the cafe next to the site. The sign tells me it’s been serving traditional Polish cuisine for over fifty years. I barely noticed it on my previous trips here.

My gaze drifts to the window.

Inside, only two tables are occupied. A young couple laughs at one table as the girl feeds the guy. Her long red hair falls into the soup, and she grimaces.

On the tables, old green glass bottles are being used to hold candles, their sides glistening with melting wax. I wonder if the green of the glass is the same shade as Clodagh’s eyes.

My chest tightens. Everywhere, there are reminders of her, or maybe I’m actively seeking them out. Clodagh believes all that hokey-pokey shit like astrology. She would probably say this is a sign.

“Do you want to come in, Killian?” comes a voice behind me.

I turn to see pale-blue eyes decorated with wrinkles staring at me.

“I tried calling, but your receptionist wouldn’t let me through,” Marek Sr. says sadly. “I wanted to say sorry.”

“It’s ironic that you’re apologizing to me,” I reply.

“It’s necessary. I’m doing it on behalf of my son. I want you to know he wouldn’t have done anything serious.” He pauses, looking broken, and I feel sorry for the man because I’m a parent too. “He’s a decent kid at heart; he just has a short temper. Hopefully, the police caution will make him wise up a bit.”

“It’s fine,” I say curtly, because the man isn’t responsible for his son’s actions. Just like I wasn’t responsible for my father’s.

“I’d like to say that I raised him better than that,” he says with a heaviness in his voice. “I tried to show him the right way. If you don’t set a good example for your kids, what else matters?” He looks at the restaurant. “None of this stuff.”

I follow his gaze, seeing my reflection in the glass window. Am I setting a good example for my daughter?

The redhead waves through the window to Marek. He nods in acknowledgment. “She’s been coming here since she was a baby with her mom. I’m glad she’s with a decent guy.”

They look like they’re in love. The guy clearly worships her.

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