Page 4 of Fifth Avenue Fling

I don’t want the American Dream that way.

“If you’re that worried, do what everyone else who wants to be legal does,” Declan says, stuffing pretzels into his mouth while he talks. “Find somebody to marry you. Good-looking girl like you should have no bother.”

Declan’s grin widens into something more sinister as he swivels one-eighty in his stool.

Mr. Suit catches his gaze and lifts a brow.

I stiffen.No, Declan.Don’t play this game.

“Are ye looking for a nice young Irish wife?” Declan calls over to him loudly. “She’s very bendy, so she is—”

“Declan!” I yank on his arm as Liam growls at him to quieten down.

Christ on a bike.

My gaze locks with Mr. Suit, and my cheeks heat. “Ignore him.”

He looks pissed off at the attention. “If I were looking for a wife, this bar is the last place in New York I’d search.” Rude. Texan accent or somewhere down South. Yup, Mam would have kittens.

“It’s okay.” I smile thinly, internally reeling. I wouldn’t marry you either, buddy. “I don’t want a visa that badly.”

Mr. Suit returns a trace of a smile before focusing back on his phone.

“Let’s call marrying a random guy plan C,” Orla says with forced cheeriness. “We’ll find another option.”

Swallowing back the lump in my throat, I try not to let my eyes well up. It’ll only set Orla off. I’m out of options. All my eggs were in the ÉireAuPair4U basket.

Brainstorming with Orla brought up no other viable solutions other than the following.

A) Claim a dead American guy was my father.

B) Take a dead person’s identity.

Or C) get married to an American, obviously. Ideally, not an old guy with a comb-over.

“Drink The Auld Dog’s bad wine for the next seven days to forget I’m leaving,” I say, trying to make light of my sticky situation.

“No!” she wails. “I hate that plan. The guys are right. You can stay here. Loads of people are illegal.”

I give a tired sigh, averting my eyes from Orla. Annoyed from going around in circles with the same conversation. Staying illegally means I’d always be looking over my shoulder. And Nan is pushing eighty, even though she says she’s forty-two. I couldn’t live with myself if I couldn’t go back… if I lost her.

“Another pint of Guinness, please.” The dry voice from the corner catches me off guard.

“Right away, sir.” I pull Mr. Suit’s second Guinness as Orla comes out from behind the bar to move chairs around the tables. When there aren’t many customers, she’s like a bored child.

I take it over to him and set it down.

“Oh my God,” Orla murmurs. “Clodagh!”

She kneels on the next seat over with her nose squashed against the window. “The FBI’s outside!”

“TheFBI?” Coming behind her, I look over her shoulder, my eyes adjusting to the sunlight streaming through the window.

Sure enough, an expensive car with tinted windows is parked outside. Two men wearing suits and earpieces lean against the car.

What does immigration look like? Do they do pub raids? Technically, I’m not supposed to be working on my holiday visa.

“Maybe Mafia!” Orla says excitedly.

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