Page 16 of Fifth Avenue Fling

“If you want them to sign quietly, put someone charming in front of them.”

I stare at him, deadpan.

He chuckles as Marcus, our chief of staff, joins us, reeking of cigarette smoke. I might force him to quit.

Marcus’ brows shoot up as he takes in Connor. “You shaved your head.”

Connor chuckles. “Killian didn’t even notice.”

“Of course, I fucking noticed,” I snap. “I’ve got better things to do than massage Connor’s ego by telling him how much I love his new military hairstyle.”

Connor lets out a laugh and pushes himself off the wall. “Christ, he’s even grouchier than usual today. Good luck.” He slaps Marcus on the back before walking away.

“I do have some actual good news for you,” Marcus says. “I found Mrs. Dalton’s perfect replacement.”

My brow lifts. “Oh, yeah?”

“Thought a different strategy might work this time. I’m hoping someone so desperate won’t run away.”

“Let’s hope so,” I grunt. “Your current strategy is fucking abysmal.”

He crosses his arms over his chest. “My job isn’t just to find a nanny for you, boss. The last one you made cry, and Teagan made the one before that burst into tears.”

I shoot him a dark stare. He’s lucky he’s worked for me for ten years.

“You can meet the new one on Sunday. You’ll like her; she’s Irish. She’ll be a great influence on Teagan. We’ve run the background checks. No drugs, illnesses, STDs. Scabies. No record of terrorism.” His grin widens. “Cleaner than an Irish nun.”

This sounds promising.

“Should I be concerned about your priority order?” I ask dryly. “Sounds like you’ve found me the IrishMary Poppins.”

“I couldn’t have described her better myself. It’s like you’ve already met her.”

“Send me her résumé and vetting results.” I’m not comfortable with someone moving in so quickly, but I’ve got very few options. Mrs. Dalton’s absence was last minute. And my security team is prepared for any scenario—scabies, terrorism, or otherwise.

He pauses, swirling his coffee. “She’s younger than Mrs. Dalton.”

I give him a questioning look. “And?”

He shrugs. “And nothing. That’s it. I’m just giving you all the facts.”

I study him suspiciously.

FIVE

Clodagh

I gaze at the Fifth Avenue brownstone, counting six stories to the top. I have to crane my neck to take it all in. I bet they have a breathtaking view of Central Park from up there.

I left Orla brooding, with promises to return, and got in the car with Mr. Quinn’s driver, Sam—a black SUV with blacked-out windows, reinforced with bulletproof glass, which Sam confirmed to my delight.

Thanks to Uncle Sean’s dead wife, Kathy, I’m dressed in a long, floral skirt and white blouse covering my arm tattoos. I wipe a sweaty palm over my skirt. It’s hideous, God rest poor Kathy’s soul. I’m usually in yoga pants and a T-shirt, not dressed likeNanny McPhee.

It took all of ten minutes to shove my belongings in a backpack. Clothes, tweezers, razors, cold sore cream, hair products to tame my red frizz, and some adult toys I haven’t been able to use knowing Uncle Sean and Aunt Kathy’s ghost are in the house.

I scale the steps until I reach the double door. This must be what Alice felt like when she drank the shrinking potion.

Two stone lion statues with their mouths open stand guard on either side of the door.

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