Page 38 of Fifth Avenue Fling

Don’t panic.

Do. Not. Panic.

He’s testing me. He wants a reason to fire me. Another reason.

I stare at my phone in horror as the page loads. Pork… chicken… pulse the dough. Time to cook: three hours, thirty minutes, so I’m already late.

And I still have to take his tux to the dry cleaners. And clean the top floor of the house.

I open the fridge. Close the fridge. Open the fridge.

“Are you kidding me!” I shout into the fridge with no pork, chicken, or dough… stuff… whatever the hell dough is made from. The echo is mildly satisfying. God, he’s a gobshite. Or ajerk, I should say, in the States.

This is all because I had an innocent peek at his condom drawer. I’ll need counseling after getting caught in hisoff-limitszone.

When the bodiless Quinn told me off, I was more unnerved than when the police took me in for questioning after my series of unfortunate incidents, as Orla calls it.

My heart has only just slowed to a normal pace.

At least he didn’t see me pick my nose directly before that.

Ordidhe?

“Siri, find me restaurants that do huntsman pies near Central Park.” Thank God for delivery services.

“Sorry,” says Siri. “I’m not sure I understand.”

“I don’t have time for your shit, Siri!” I snap back at her.

Taking a deep breath, I repeat the request in my poshest, slowest Queen’s English accent.

She understands immediately and happily engages in conversation. The cheek.

On the other side of Central Park, Le Grand Cochon serves award-winning pies made from organic meat.

Done. Sold for one hundred dollars. I blow out a deep breath.

“Hey,” a deep voice says from behind me, scaring the shit out of me.

I turn. “Sam!”

He leans against the wall, his eyes twinkling in amusement. “Someone’s jumpy. First-day nerves?”

“Something like that. I got caught off-limits.”

“Huh?”

“Never mind.” I sigh. “Hey, I’m assuming that Stephen, whomightvisit the house today, is Stephen, the drainage guy, and not Stephen, the dentist or Father Steve, the priest. I can’t get ahold of any of them to check.”

His lips twist. “Drainage guy. You’re doing fine, Clodagh. It’ll get easier.”

“Here’s hoping.” I try not to ogle him, but it’s hard when he’s wearing his uniform of black trousers and black shirt with the top buttons undone. It’s a hot look. “If you guys are undercover, shouldn’t you wear something less man-in-black?”

“It’s our job to be conspicuous. Mr. Quinn wants it to be obvious that a security team is present.”

“I’ve only met you, Sam. Where’s the rest of the team?”

“The rest are about watching and waiting.” He grins and saunters closer. “I’m checking on my fellow countrywoman in case she needs anything.”

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