Page 2 of Fifth Avenue Fling

He approaches the bar, making sure his sleeves don't brush the countertop.

I don my most professional smile. One wasted on Liam, Declan, and Aidan. “Hi, sir. How can I help?”

“What type of wine do you have?”

“Red,”—I pause—“or white.”

He thinks I’m joking.

“We only have one type of each. The house red or white. It’s not really a wine drinker’s bar,” I elaborate a tad defensively. I side-eye Orla for support. What does the guy expect? “Sorry.”

“We have an extensive range of stouts and the best Guinness in New York,” Orla pipes up with wildly unfounded claims. The small number of beer taps is the giveaway.

Mr. Suit exhales loudly, blowing air out his plump cheeks. “I’ll have a… Guinness, please.”

“Coming right up!”

I lift a pint glass from the shelf and tilt it to the pump as I sneak a glance at Mr. Suit. What’s his deal? He must be having a bad day if he needs a drink so bad that he can’t wait to get over the bridge to Manhattan and its selection of more appealing wines.

Not that bars in Queens don’t stock good wine, but wine connoisseurs aren’t Uncle Sean’s target market. The Auld Dog sells stout to guys watching Gaelic football and Liverpool FC. You only drink The Auld Dog’s wine if you’re drinking to forget.

I talk about Sean like he’s my uncle because Orla and I have been friends since we were in nappies. Ordiapers,as I’m used to saying now. After nearly three months in New York, I think I’m good at American lingo.

“Bad day?” I ask, sneaking another glance at him as I pull the tap handle forward.

He grunts in response.

I smile. I understand the bartender’s code.Don’t fucking talk to me.

No one speaks again as we wait for the Guinness to settle.

I lift the glass under the spout to fill the head to the rim, then place the pint in front of him. “There you are, sir. Served like in Dublin.” It’s not. I’m a mediocre bartender.

“Thanks.” I’m rewarded with a dry smile as he passes over a platinum credit cardetchedwith his name.

With his Guinness in his hand, Mr. Suit takes one look at the guys on the stools and walks to an empty table beside the window.

Orla pouts, disappointed. Anyone sitting at the bar is fair game, but if you interrupt someone trying to have a quiet pint alone, you’re an ass.

“What do you think he’s doing here?” she murmurs.

My gaze flickers back to Mr. Suit. One leg is crossed over the other, ankle over knee. His dark brows pull together as he scowls down at his phone resting on his thigh.

“Visiting relatives in Queens?” I whisper.

Orla hums, unconvinced. “Maybe he has a mistress in Queens.”

I smirk. “Maybe he’slookingfor a mistress in Queens.”

Liam clears his throat. “Another one, Clodagh. When you’re ready.” He uses an unnecessarily husky tone. His gaze catches mine, and he stares back unblinking.

This weird tension is all because I saw Liam’s penis a few weeks after I moved to New York. About to ovulate, I was feeling horny, and it seemed like a good idea at the time. Now whenever I look at Liam, I see that wild glint in his eye that tells me he wants to wife me and make ten babies. And even though he vaguely resembles the new Superman when I squint, I know it’ll mean a lifetime of missionary position.

Just no.

“Coming right up,” I say, breaking Liam’s heady gaze. I grab a glass and pull the pale ale pump, enjoying the quiet. In an hour, the pub will be packed.

“Glad to see you’re staying,” he says gruffly. Liam’s from Belfast, so his accent is more guttural than mine. It made for the best sex grunts.

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