Page 84 of Fifth Avenue Fling

Clodagh

We inspect our outfits in the mirror.

We are out the other side of the what-the-fuck-do-I-wear panic. These days it’s more like a case of how-the hell-am-I-gonna-choose rather than shit-everything-I-own-is-falling-apart, thanks to Big Daddy’s credit card.

We are having pre-drinks in my studio before we hit a new club in the Meatpacking district.

Orla is wearing tight blue jeans and a lace top. I’ve opted for a tight green leather dress paired with Doc Martens to give it a more edgy look.

I look great, but I can’t breathe.

“I’m going to have a panic attack,” I tell Orla, trying but failing to take a deep breath. All my organs are squashed by the tummy control shapewear that comes to just below my chest.

I tug the tight leather dress up past my hips, feeling claustrophobic. “No! Get them off. Get them off!”

“Calm down.” She chuckles and snaps the elastic of the torturous underwear as she tries to roll them down me.

I’m overcome with a ridiculous bout of giggles.

“Quit squirming. You’re working against me here. You’re in such a bubbly mood today.”

I grin through my giggles even though the underwear is still suffocating me. “It’s been a good day.”

“Uh-huh.” She smirks at me. “Obviously, nothing to do with your hot, moody boss joining us for yoga this morning.”

“Did you see the yoga group chat? They’re going nuts about him.”

“Yeah, I had to turn off notifications on my phone. Also, your granny Deirdre keeps sending me articles about murders in Manhattan. It’s kind of a buzzkill.”

I sigh and adjust my fishtail braid. “I know, sorry. She’s adding them to the Kelly family group chat. I think she has an alert on her phone for murders in New York. She’ll have a heart attack if you join the police force.”

It takes two of us to push the oppressive shapewear down to my knees. I step out of it, sighing in relief as I feel the fresh, cool rush of air between my legs. “I’ll wear a thong. My fat needs somewhere to go, and it might as well be evenly spread all over.”

“Alright.” I chug my last glass of vino. “Let’s go. I need to get my phone from upstairs. Behave yourself in front of Killian and Teagan,” I warn her.

“I don’t know what you take me for,” she mutters behind me.

We head upstairs to the lounge area, where Teagan is sprawled out in a onesie on a fluffed beanbag in the middle of the floor, and Killian and another guy—clearly his brother, Connor—are on the couch.

Holy fucking potatoes. God was generous when he handed out genes to the Quinn family.

The younger Quinn is just as showstoppingly handsome as his brother. Surprisingly, it’s still the older, grumpier one that does it for me.

My gaze meets Killian’s, and he pauses in his conversation with Connor.

God, those icy blue eyes.

My stomach somersaults as his gaze cruises my figure from head to toe, observing me warily. Like I might be contagious. “This is Connor,” he says.

No compliments. No pleasantries. Not a hint of a smile, just that severe deadpan.

“Hi, Connor.” I flash him a smile in greeting as I collect my phone from the table. “This is my friend, Orla.”

“Heyyy,” Orla says breathlessly, gawking at the sausage fest on the couch. She’s practicallysalivating. I shoot her a warning with my eyes.Nodoubt,thosetwohave enough admirers to give them an ego the size of the Empire State Building, without us adding to the pile.

Icheckmy phonequickly.Sixteen new messages from the yoga group. One new message from Granny Deirdre telling me to only buy drinks from a can and use rubbers with gentlemen.

“It’s great to finally meet you,” Connor says with a grin. “Come and have a drink with us.”

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