Page 6 of Fifth Avenue Fling

Well, Marcus, I’m nearly twenty-five and can list a failed business, a criminal record, and zero penetrative sex orgasms on my résumé.

“Uh, there’s not that much to know.” I never was good at interviews, especially ones I didn’t sign up for. “I’m working in the bar until I find my feet in New York. I’m actually a trained carpenter back home. I worked for a furniture store before moving to New York.”

His brows lift in surprise. “Carpenter, huh? I would never have guessed.”

I give him a strained smile. I may not be a doctor or a lawyer or have a job that requires a graduation cap, but I’m proud of my trade. And I have the best builder’s bum. Or plumber’s crack, as the Americans say. “No one’s going to sponsor me to make furniture. You have enough carpenters in the country.”

“But I overheard you talking about an au pair position here.”

“That’s right.” I nod. “American families often get au pairs from Europe, particularly if the family have some European background. It’s a way to get sponsored.”I exhale a weary sigh.“I can’t just pick any job I want here.”

“You must be good with kids if you’re applying to be an au pair?”

“I think so.” I shrug. Not that the agency did much due diligence. “I have three younger brothers, and they were a handful growing up. My mum was always working, and my dad skipped town, so I helped raise them.”

He likes this answer. “Can you cook?”

“I’m okay. I’m no Michelin-star chef, but I can boil an egg.”

He doesn’t like that answer as much.

“Do you take drugs?”

My eyes narrow. “No.”

“How much do you drink a week?”

A huff escapes me. Is this guy fucking with me? “Enough with the questions. What’s the job?”

My new friend Marcus smiles. “My employer needs a domestic assistant with some nannying duties thrown in.”

My brows squish together. “What does that entail?”

“Looking after his daughter when he’s not there. Cooking. Running errands. Cleaning. Doing his laundry. It’s a temporary position for the next few months that we need to fill urgently.”

That’s got fuck all to do with making furniture. “Like a maid?” I ask. “A nanny maid?”

He gives a nonchalant shrug. “In a way.”

I shake my head at him dubiously. “What makes you think I’m a good fit for this? You don’t know anything about my experience.”

His smile widens, undaunted by my resistance. “Because you’ll take the job seriously. I have a feeling about you.”

Translation:I overheard that you’re desperate. You’ll do anything to stay in the country.

I let out a skeptical hum.

“Besides, he has a soft spot for the Irish. He’s Irish-American.” He looks at me thoughtfully for a moment. “In fact, that might be hisonlysoft spot.” Gee, great.

He glances at the lads. “And you seem to be able to keep people in line.”

“Everything okay, Clodagh?” Liam calls gruffly from the bar.

“Yeah, Liam.” I tilt my head around to appease him with a nod.

When I turn back, Marcus is taking out a small notepad from his jacket. He scribbles something on the pad and slides it toward me on the table.

I stare at the paper. Mild panic rises in me, as it always does when I have to read something under pressure. The joys of dyslexia. “What’s this?”

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