Page 26 of Fifth Avenue Fling

Cabinets in his office. His bedside cabinet. The attic.

She shouldn’t have included this section. That’s all I can think about now.

What’s Quinn hiding in the attic? What a perfect horror movie. Nanny maid creates a manual with cryptic help messages. The new maid finds her dead body in the attic.

I blow out a long breath.

This is not conducive.

The wall clock chimes eleven o’clock, making me jump. My alarm goes off in five hours. I’m giving myself extra time tomorrow morning before Quinn wakes up. I’ve only plowed through a small part of the manual so far. People don’t get that sometimes my brain has to work twice as hard and it’s draining.

Staring at the clock, I get pangs of insecurity.

I’m living in a central New York townhouse with the most devastatingly handsome man I’ve ever clapped eyes on with all my food and bills paid for. Living in Manhattan, legally, is my dream.

But in Queens, I’m in my comfort zone. Working at the bar, living with Orla, teaching yoga in the park, bagels with the amazing crisp crust and lashings of cream cheese from Tony’s. There’s always “craic” there.

Quinn puts me on high alert, ready to pee my pants at any moment. Or cream them.

It’s weird to think he’s a few floors above me. His daughter must be in bed too.

I stare up at the ceiling, willing myself to go to sleep. I wonder if Quinn is in bed doing the same thing.

His bed looks massive on the floor plan. Not surprising, considering the size of the body it needs to house. As uncomfortable as I was meeting him, I couldn’t help but notice how his T-shirt strained over his upper body.

He’s probably sprawled out on his bed right now, naked. Does sleep come easy to a man like him? Maybe he rubs one out to knock himself out.

Maybe he’s rubbing one out right now.

Why am I goingthere? Thoughts like that aren’t conducive, either.

Except it’s hard not to.

When I close my eyes, I can’t unsee the image of Killian Quinn’s disapproving gaze sweeping over me, the rough gravel in his distinctive voice, the icy steel in his eyes…

Miss Kelly.

My hands drift down under the lace rim of my underwear.

Does he ever thaw? I bet his orgasm face looks angry.

Nope, thinking about my scowling boss’ face as he lies on top of me isnotconducive.

EIGHT

Clodagh

This isnotthe city that never sleeps. The only two people awake are Quinn and me. The rest of Manhattan is asleep.

The manual didn’t mention a dress code. I expected a control freak like Quinn to have uniform requirements, like a Victorian maid outfit with an apron.

Perhaps I’m being harsh, but it’s hard not to curse the guy after wrestling a fancy coffee machine with thirty different settings for twenty minutes when it’s still pitch-black outside.

“Motherfucker,” I hiss at the stupid machine. It gurgles loudly back at me in defiance.

I let out a defeated breath. I might cry. I failed at the first task. Making coffee.

“Morning,” a rough drawl comes from behind me. “I hope that wasn’t directed at me.”

---