Page 30 of Fifth Avenue Fling

I turn back to the dishwasher, clenching my butt cheeks.

I wish he would leave so I could breathe properly. This weird tension is stifling.

Behind me, the laptop snaps shut, and he clears his throat. “I’m going to work now, so I won’t be here to introduce you to Teagan.” He pauses as I turn to face him.

“She’s expecting you,” he adds in a softer tone, suggesting that he’s aware he’s an asshole for not staying for the introductions. “I go to work early so I can get home to have dinner with her. Make sure she finishes all her homework. And keep her off her damn phone.”

He doesn’t wait for my response. I watch him stride off, tie hanging undone around his neck, leaving me alone in the kitchen. A stranger moves in, and he can’t rearrange his schedule for one morning to introduce his daughter?

***

My pulse quickens when I hear footsteps in the kitchen. I’m nervous about meeting his daughter. Turning thirteen is that weird age when crushes, puberty, and hating the world all collide to create an emotional roller coaster of angst.

The girl entering the kitchen inherited her father’s genes. Unlike him, she has fiery-red hair, similar to mine. Did her mother have red hair?

She’s wearing a red checkered skirt past her knees with a tie and knee-length socks. I would have raised hell on earth if I was made to wear that at her age.

The only hint of rebellion is the black eyeliner.

“Hi, Teagan.” I beam at her. “I’m Clodagh. I’m really excited to meet you.”

She eyes me guardedly. Another trait shared with her dad. “Hi.”

Does she know who I am? “I’m the new nanny maid. I mean domestic assistant,” I announce for clarity.

She rolls her eyes so far back in her head her pupils are in danger of disappearing around the back of her sockets. “I got that.”

I put breakfast down in front of her. “I hope it’s how you like it. Just tell me if not.”

“Thanks.”

Just as I’m about to talk, Teagan takes out her phone and scrolls through it with one hand as the other pushes her food around her plate.

I lean uneasily against the sink, wishing Mrs. Dalton had added instructions about engaging with a moody father-and-daughter duet. I’m supposed to keep her off her phone, but I don’t think it would be wise to start our time together by scolding her.

“So you go to the Upper East Side Ladies’ Academy?” Sounds posh.

Her gaze flickers up for a moment. “Yeah.”

“Do you like it?”

“It’s alright.” She gives me a strained smile before turning her attention back to her phone.

This is messed up. How does she not want to have a conversation with a stranger who’s moved into her home?

I persevere. Sooner or later, I’ll hit common ground. “The manual says you do ballet. I’ve always wanted to try it. It sounds fun.”

“I guess if the manual says it’s fun, it must be,” she sneers.

“It wasn’t an option when I was in school,” I add cheerfully, ignoring her snark. “Maybe you can show me some moves.”

She gives me a strange look. “Sure.”

“I teach yoga classes in my spare time,” I continue. “It’s supposed to be great for ballet dancers.”

My new housemate doesn’t respond.

I’m talking to myself. The Quinn family is as enthralled by their new lodger as they are by a spider on the wall.

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