Page 159 of Fifth Avenue Fling

I turn away.

“This isn’t goodbye, Clodagh. This isn’t the end of us. I’ll wait.”

***

I gaze at the flight information in a daze. The screen changes, and a gate number for my flight appears.

“British Airways flight BA4703 to London is now taking off at gate 16.”

“Are you okay, love?” the woman beside me asks, watching me in concern.

“Yeah.” I manage a nod and make my way to the departure gate.

THIRTY-FIVE

Clodagh

Two weeks later

I tilt my head back toward the sun and close my eyes as the ladies chitchat and set up their mats. It’s a gorgeous Saturday morning, and I’m exactly where I should be—teaching yoga for free in the park in Queens.

I can’t help but smile.

A new start.

Tomorrow, Orla and I move into our very own apartment in Brooklyn—the dodgy end. Sure, we have no lounge area because it’s been converted into a second bedroom. That’s the only way we can afford it, but it’s still all ours.

A throat clears, a deep voice cutting my daydream.

I snap my eyes to see Killian standing in front of me. My heart practically stops as I take in his handsomeness. A shiver of excitement runs up my spine as our eyes lock. I haven’t seen him since that day in Ireland.

“Is there room for one more?”

“How did you know I was back?” I mumble.

He smiles. “I knew the second you landed. I told you I would give you your space. I’m playing the long game. It’s the only way I’ll win your trust.”

I stayed in London for five days before spending a shit ton of money on a last-minute flight to New York. As I stood atop the Shard, the tallest building in Europe, I had a realization. An epiphany.

Sure, you can exchange one exciting city for another; you can surround yourself with cool tourist attractions, never-ending nightlife, appealing job prospects, quirky restaurants...

But you can’t take your heart with you. While looking out at the Tower of London, I realized my heart was still in New York. No pretty view could make up for not being near that brownstone, its grumpy owner, or his daughter. Or Orla, of course. I bawled loudly on the viewing deck, and my cousin was very embarrassed.

“Are we starting, Clodagh?” Dominic, one of the footballers, grumbles from his mat.

My cheeks flush as I look around at the guys on their mats, waiting patiently. The women are watching me like a hawk, winking and grinning. One of them has the audacity to wolf-whistle.

I grit my teeth at her in warning.

“Well?” His brow rises expectantly. “Can I join in?”

My pulse soars. “Sure.”

His eyes flicker with emotion. “Good. I’d like to buy a block of ten classes. I’ll be back every week.”

***

Three weeks later

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