Page 86 of Fifth Avenue Fling

“Excuse me?” I ask. She must have made a mistake.

She looks at me with deadpan eyes.

“You heard her,” Orla hisses in my ear, shoving me softly. “We’re very important people. Will you shut the fuck up already? Do not look a gift horse in the mouth, you fool.”

We’re escorted through the dark hallway by a hostess with such impossibly beautiful dimensions that she looks like a human avatar.

“I don’t understand,” I mutter to Orla.

At the door cloaked in velvet, a second hostess stands waiting to hand us a glass of champagne.

I blink at her, baffled. Is this an Irish thing or something?

She ushers us into a bar where all the beautiful New Yorkers hang out. I’ve never experienced a place like this before. The hostess guides us to a table.

“Clodagh, is that…?” Orla squeaks.

“The Hemsworth brothers?” I finish for her. “I believe so.”

I might faint. The sight of them is more than my clit can handle.

A siren wails from the bar, and suddenly, four waitresses in cocktail dresses march forth with a tray between them, carrying a bottle of champagne with sparklers. I remember seeing something similar on a night out in Ibiza once when an obnoxious dude bought the most expensive bottle on the menu.

The women turn and start walking toward us.

When I turn my head, no one else is behind us. Where is the obnoxious dude?

“Hi, Clodagh,” one of the waitresses purrs. “Tonight, you’re our honored guests.”

I gawk at her.

Killian. This has to be Killian’s doing.

The whole bar watches as a bottle of champagne, with sparks shooting out of it, is placed on the table in front of us.

“Isn’t that the crazy comedian who takes cats on stage?” someone near me whispers, staring my way.

I shoot them a hostile glare in response.

Orla looks at me with a dangerous glint in her eyes. “Tonight, we parrrr-teeee.”

***

I couldn’t keep this wild lifestyle up every night. I’ve concluded that you have to mix high-end clubs with low-key Irish bars to appreciate both.

We chugged the champagne in a record-breaking thirty minutes. Once I had confirmed that we wouldnotbe paying for it, it was game over. The second bottle of champagne was a mistake. In hindsight, we should have summoned some more decorum from somewhere inside us, if such a place exists.

Now I’m on the dance floor talking to a gorgeous guy, but I need to break wind. The champagne bubbles have caused severe gastric distress.

I look over at Orla. She appears to be having her face licked by my guy’s friend.

They both work at hedge funds on Wall Street. Honestly, I don’t know what a hedge fund is. I think of a room filled with people waving tickets and screaming “buy” or “sell,” though I’m sure it doesn’t work like that nowadays.

My guy doesn’t seem bothered by my lack of hedge fund knowledge. He wants a shag, and I’m considering giving it to him.

He’s better than the last guy I talked to, who thought I’d split my sides laughing at him doing a fake Irish accent, shouting “to be sure, to be sure!”

Yup, like I haven’t heard that one before.

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