Page 79 of Fifth Avenue Fling

She rolls her eyes. “Fat chance with Sam and co. watching.”

Clodagh laughs. “You know this is just a small Gaelic football team in Queens, right? It’s not NFL. And our version of football isn’t the same as yours.”

“I know. I went to a match with Dad and Uncle Connor once.”

I look at Clodagh. It’s not fair to put this on her.

Her eyes meet mine. “You can also come if you want, Killian,” she says softly.

“Great,” Teagan mutters. “Dad will call me princess in front of everyone.”

I’m about to respond, but then, against my better judgment, I find myself nodding. Despite Teagan’s protests.

Harlow would go.

If watching a yoga session is how I get to spend time with my daughter, then so be it. Even if she’s reluctant to spend it with me. And perhaps it would be nice to have a reason to visit Queens other than visiting Harlow’s grave.

“All right,” Ireply.

Clodagh looks so shocked I worry she’s going to faint.

“Under one condition,” I say. “I’ll drive.”

Clodagh frowns. “But the subway is faster.”

“You’ve never been in a Ferrari, have you?”

“Okay, I have a condition of my own.”

My brows lift. “Go on.”

“It’s Saturday, so everything is off the record, and nothing I do will get me sacked.”

“I’m going to regret this, but you have a deal.”

***

We park just outside the entrance to the park in Queens.

“That was amazing!” Clodagh laughs as I open the car door for her and Teagan. “I suppose a Ferrari is sometimes better than the subway.”

“I’m starting to think you’ve never been in a car before, from how you were screaming,” I grumble.

The three of us head to the park, where a group of older ladies and a girl Clodagh’s age are milling around. They’re all wearing sportswear.

“Morning, ladies,” Clodagh greets them and runs over to hug the girl in her twenties.

What the fuck am I doing here?

The girl whispers something to Clodagh, and they both look my way.

Teagan fidgets next to me nervously; I place my hand on her lower back in reassurance.

“Hello, Mr. Quinn,” Clodagh’s friend says reverently. “I’m Orla, Clodagh’s best friend.”

The sound of her Irish brogue does nothing for me compared to Clodagh’s; thank fuck. If all Irish women had that effect on me, I’d never set foot in an Irish pub again. I’m convinced Clodagh uses hypnotism on me with hers.

“Killian,” I reply.

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