Page 17 of Fifth Avenue Fling

My stomach lurches with nerves and excited energy. Am I really moving in here?

I give my armpits a quick sniff. I could fry an egg between my breasts. We Irish like to complain about the weather alot.

It must be thirty-five degrees Celsius outside or, as the Americans say, a hundred degrees Fahrenheit. Something like that; maths was never my strong suit. Not like the owner of this tank of a mansion. You don’t get to be a billionaire without being good at maths and other subjects.

I suck in a deep breath and press the doorbell.

“State your full name,” a male voice says before I take my finger off the button.

That’s unnerving. Is his butler waiting on the other side?

“Clodagh Kelly,” I say each name slowly, unsure where to direct my voice.

“Look directly at the camera.” There’s a long pause. “Clodagh.”

Wow. Impressive accuracy in pronunciation.

My eyes widen, and I search for the camera. There it is—a shiny round object above the doorbell. It moves until it’s focusing directly on my face.

In the movies, this is when I’d get nuked.

With a tight-lipped smile, I stand rigidly facing the camera, unsure if I’m speaking to a human or an electronic device. For a doorbell, it learned my name quickly. It could even be Killian Quinn himself; I don’t know what he sounds like.

“Retinal scan initiated,” the male monotone informs me.

I hold my forced smile, wondering if I’m being watched. This is worse than JFK passport control.

“Retina scan complete,” the voice announces.

I wait. Now what?

My stomach tightens as footsteps come toward the door from the inside.

The double doors pull open and…

It’s him.

Of course, it’s fucking him.

Our eyes lock as his brows join in a deep frown. I see his brain ticking over… trying to remember… trying to place me.

I wait.

The moment recognition flares in those arctic eyes, my skin prickles like it’s been jagged by a thousand icebergs, slowly freezing me to death.

He folds his arms across his chest as his scowl deepens.

God help me. I thought the Manhattans clouded my vision; that Killian Quinn couldn’t be as unnerving as I remember. Jesus Christ, he’s worse.

He’s massive, excessively masculine, and absolutely fucking terrifying. Has he grown taller since I saw him at the hotel?

His heavy gaze roams over me, making his way over every inch of my body. An inspection I’m flunking with a capital F. By the time he lands on my face, I feel like I’ve been stripped of Kathy’s floral skirt and frilly blouse.

Yup, he remembers me.

I resist the urge to bolt back down the street.

“Mr. Quinn?” I swallow thickly. “I’m Clodagh Kelly.”

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