Chapter 10: Fifth Avenue Fling: Chapter 10

What the hell is a huntsman pie? Is that like a chicken potpie but with Australian spiders instead of chicken?

Don’t panic.

Do. Not. Panic.

He’s testing me. He wants a reason to fire me. Another reason.

I stare at my phone in horror as the page loads. Pork… chicken… pulse the dough. Time to cook: three hours, thirty minutes, so I’m already late.

And I still have to take his tux to the dry cleaners. And clean the top floor of the house.

I open the fridge. Close the fridge. Open the fridge.

“Are you kidding me!” I shout into the fridge with no pork, chicken, or dough… stuff… whatever the hell dough is made from. The echo is mildly satisfying. God, he’s a gobshite. Or a jerk, I should say, in the States.

This is all because I had an innocent peek at his condom drawer. I’ll need counseling after getting caught in his off-limits zone.

When the bodiless Quinn told me off, I was more unnerved than when the police took me in for questioning after my series of unfortunate incidents, as Orla calls it.

My heart has only just slowed to a normal pace.

At least he didn’t see me pick my nose directly before that.

Or did he?

“Siri, find me restaurants that do huntsman pies near Central Park.” Thank God for delivery services.

“Sorry,” says Siri. “I’m not sure I understand.”

“I don’t have time for your shit, Siri!” I snap back at her.

Taking a deep breath, I repeat the request in my poshest, slowest Queen’s English accent.

She understands immediately and happily engages in conversation. The cheek.

On the other side of Central Park, Le Grand Cochon serves award-winning pies made from organic meat.

Done. Sold for one hundred dollars. I blow out a deep breath.

“Hey,” a deep voice says from behind me, scaring the shit out of me.

I turn. “Sam!”

He leans against the wall, his eyes twinkling in amusement. “Someone’s jumpy. First-day nerves?”

“Something like that. I got caught off-limits.”

“Huh?”

“Never mind.” I sigh. “Hey, I’m assuming that Stephen, who might visit the house today, is Stephen, the drainage guy, and not Stephen, the dentist or Father Steve, the priest. I can’t get ahold of any of them to check.”

His lips twist. “Drainage guy. You’re doing fine, Clodagh. It’ll get easier.”

“Here’s hoping.” I try not to ogle him, but it’s hard when he’s wearing his uniform of black trousers and black shirt with the top buttons undone. It’s a hot look. “If you guys are undercover, shouldn’t you wear something less man-in-black?”

“It’s our job to be conspicuous. Mr. Quinn wants it to be obvious that a security team is present.”

“I’ve only met you, Sam. Where’s the rest of the team?”

“The rest are about watching and waiting.” He grins and saunters closer. “I’m checking on my fellow countrywoman in case she needs anything.”

“Thanks.” I smile. “But… watching? Talk about making a girl feel paranoid.”

He chuckles as he comes to stand right beside me. “Don’t be. It’s a boring job, waiting around. Mr. Quinn sometimes does spot tests on us with fake snipers, but most of the time, we’re in the house working out to pass the time.”

“Fake snipers? Are you freaking kidding me?” I manage to spit a little on Sam in my shock. This sounds very dramatic. “He won’t put a fake sniper on me, will he?”

“Not unless you warrant it.” He smirks. “Relax. Only the security team needs to know how to handle snipers. You’re safe.”

“Yeah, because living in a house at risk of sniper attacks feels safe.” I suck in a groan. “Oh my God, that’s why I’ve been recruited. They know no one will miss me in America.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “Oh, you’ll be missed.”

I rear back a little, blushing. Sam’s flirting has upped a notch. I’m not complaining.

“I know he’s a bazillionaire, but this seems extreme. Is he really in need of so much security? The house is already like Fort Knox.”

“Yup.”

That’s all I get. There’s a story there that he doesn’t want to tell me. Maybe he is scared Quinn is listening. I’ll get it out of him when we’re away from the house.

I pretend to look serious. “So you big burly protector guys sit around working out in that house, huh?” Sounds like the perfect setup for a reverse harem. “Maybe I need to take a trip over and say hi.”

“Damn, I should have kept my mouth shut. The house wouldn’t be able to handle a beautiful lass like yourself.” His grin widens, accentuating the dimple on his right cheek. “I’ll act as the liaison between you and the rest of the team.”

“Can you be the liaison between Mr. Quinn and me?” I whisper in case Quinn is watching through his cameras.

“Nah, don’t worry.” He shakes his head dismissively. “You’re safe. He doesn’t go after staff. Or normal girls, for that matter.”

“I didn’t mean that… wait, what do you mean, normal girls?”

“He goes for a certain type of woman.” Sam doesn’t appear to be trying to offend me, which makes the jab even worse.

“Uh-huh.” With my nose out of joint, I change the subject. “Listen, can you show me how to use the A/C properly? It goes from desert heat to arctic conditions when I turn it on.”

My nipples are confused.

Just as he is about to respond, his phone buzzes. It’s the fastest I’ve ever seen someone check a phone. They must be on high alert all the time.

“Damn,” he mutters. His face relaxes, so I know there’s not an emergency. “I’ll be back in a while to show you, okay?”

I nod, smiling. Anyway, I have a pie collection to take care of.

He turns, but not before giving me a cheeky wink. “Oh, and for the record, Clodagh, I’m glad you’re working here.”

***

Dinner sorted, I finish cleaning the last level of the house, Teagan’s floor. Up here, she has her own chill-out room with a massive TV and gaming equipment.

I walk down the hall to her bedroom. It’s gigantic. Teddy bears and Disney cushions are juxtaposed with boxes and shelves of eyeliner, lipstick, hair products, and perfume. A girl becoming a young woman.

I survey the chaos strewn all over the room. It looks like it’s been ransacked.

I move a million lipsticks off the dresser to clean it. Above it is a collage of photos of a baby and a female, with a few featuring Killian.

“Her mum,” I murmur to myself.

She’s beautiful. The blond curls are surprising; I thought she’d be a redhead like Teagan. She looks young. Maybe younger than me.

I gcuimhne grámhar Harlow Murphy, I read below one of the pictures.

In loving memory of Harlow Murphy.

American first name. Irish surname.

It’s heartbreaking that she doesn’t get to see Teagan grow up. Marcus said she died when Teagan was two. I have so many questions. Morbid ones like how did she die? But also, what was she like? What were they like together?

It’s a pretty unique name.

I take out my phone and google Harlow Murphy. After a few clicks, I see Teagan’s blue-eyed, smiling mother.

Man, 35, charged with murder of mother Harlow Murphy in Woodside, Queens.

She was murdered. God, I feel sick.

Miss Murphy was the partner of growing hotel entrepreneur Killian Quinn.

The article is vague. It happened at her home, but no motive is given. Did Killian and Harlow live in Queens for a while? I pictured Killian always living in Manhattan.

It feels wrong checking this out in Teagan’s room. I clean quickly, feeling like there’s a ghost here.

I need to keep my nose out; the Quinn family’s personal life is none of my business.

***

“So? How was your first day?” Orla shouts down the line.

From the background noise, I can tell she’s in The Auld Dog. Pangs of jealousy hit me as I stand in the kitchen of the lavish multimillion-dollar mansion.

Ridiculous.

“It’s not over yet,” I mutter, gripping my phone between my ear and shoulder as I strategically place vegetables around the freshly delivered huntsman pie. I’m relieved that I only cook dinner three nights a week, and his seven-star hotel delivers on the other nights. “And Tuesday’s part of the manual is thick… if I make it to then.”

“I can hardly hear ya,” she shouts. “Speak up.”

“I can’t,” I hiss in a loud whisper. “He might be listening.”

“He’s there now?”

“No.” I pause and speak even lower. “But he might be watching me through the cameras. He was watching me early on. It was a bit of a disaster, actually.”

“I really hope I misheard that last bit, Clodagh. The guys here say hello.” There’s a pause. “Especially Liam. He wants to talk to you.”

Blah. Ever since I moved to Manhattan, he’s upped the intensity. I need to nip that in the bud.

“Don’t fucking put him on the phone, Orla. He’s freaking me out. He must have sent ten messages today. If he doesn’t calm down, I’ll ghost him.”

I hear her footsteps over the phone. “Okay, I’ve moved away from him. Come on, you know it’s impossible to ghost an Irish guy in Queens. It’s worse here than in Donegal. Besides, you’ll see him this weekend when you come back.”

Exhaling a groan, I flatten the pie with my knuckles to make it look less professional. She’s right. “He’s not listening. I tried to be as blunt as possible. I want to be his one-night stand. I don’t want him to court me as he keeps threatening to do. Tell him I’m close to calling immigration.”

“Ack, come on. Maybe you should give him a chance. Liam’s a good-looking fella.”

“Absolutely not.” I shudder, hitting the pie with an exasperated grunt. “Every time my phone pings and his name flashes up, I want to hyperventilate into a brown bag.”

“Fair enough. So… hurry up… tell me… what’s Quinn like? Is he a psycho?”

I open the oven and place the plates on a warming tray. That’s all I need to do for fifteen minutes, so I wander into the lounge. “I signed an NDA, so even if he is, I couldn’t tell you.” Stopping to look at some of the family photos on the walls, I stare into the icy-blue eyes of a younger Quinn. Are those psycho eyes?

“We tell each other everything,” she huffs. “Do you think you could meet for drinks on Thursday night? We could go to that club in the Meatpacking District we talked about.”

“Not this Thursday.” I stare at a photo of Killian and Teagan on the wall. Teagan looks about six. Killian looks stony-faced even though he’s smiling. “I have to get up too early on Friday. My afternoons tend to be free, so at least I can squeeze in some yoga and a walk. I’m free after I make their dinner, but the way I feel right now, I just want to collapse in bed by eight. We’ll have to wait until the weekend.”

There’s an audible tut over the line. “It doesn’t sound fun.”

“No, not fun yet,” I say dryly.

My hand trails over a picture of Killian and Teagan with an older woman, probably his mother. There’s another photo of Quinn with a guy who looks like him, the same dark hair, the same handsome masculine features, and striking blue eyes. It has to be his brother. A few more of a much younger Killian with Harlow and Teagan. Harlow has the brightest smile of them all.

“Truth is,” I whisper, “the guy is scary as fuck. There seems to be a stick lodged permanently up his ass. I honestly don’t know how long I’ll last.”

“I give you another two days,” a female voice sneers behind me.

I pivot in horror to find Teagan, the demon child, observing me with an expression of either indifference or disgust. Maybe both.

“Sorry, Orla,” I stammer, ending the call.

“Teagan,” I say shakily, plastering on a smile. What is it with this family spying on me? “Would you believe me if I said the stick thing is a term of endearment in Ireland?”

She rolls her eyes. She’s less put together than this morning, but her thick black eyeliner looks fresh.

“You’re supposed to be at music lessons,” I say breathlessly, watching her toss her schoolbag on the table. I’m so screwed. When Teagan snitches, her dad will definitely fire me. Could I say she misheard me? Blaming the accent could work.

“I’m sick,” she says, then has the audacity to add a blatantly sarcastic fake cough.

“What can I do to help? Are you nauseous?”

Ignoring me, she stomps into the kitchen through the double doors.

I follow her in. If I don’t keep Daddy’s dearest happy, I’ll be off the runway tarmac faster than I can say slan leat. Irish for goodbye.

“Can I make you a drink or something?” I ask.

“It’s fine.” She opens cupboards and slams them shut as if looking for something. She doesn’t seem that sick. Maybe she’s bunking off music lessons.

I persevere. “How was school?”

She cuts me a glare. “You don’t need to pretend you’re interested. We don’t need to talk.”

Jeez. Mission failed. “Didn’t you and Mrs. Dalton chat?”

“You’re not Maggie,” she snaps. “She’ll be back in a few months.”

I try to remember what it was like to be a new teenager. Everything and everyone is the worst. “I get it. It’s a pain having a stranger living in your house.”

She shrugs defensively. “I’m used to the staff being around. I have security at school.”

The staff.

My eyes widen. “Wow.”

“I’ve had them since kindergarten.” Teagan studies me strangely. “What I can’t figure out is why he picked you. You’re nothing like Maggie or the other two.”

“The other two?”

“The nannies who got fired before you.”

Great.

I turn off the oven, totally unnerved. “Your dad didn’t pick me,” I tell her, deflated. “And I don’t think he would have either. Marcus, a guy who works for your father, did.”

“Maybe it’s because you’re Irish.” Her eyes narrow. “I bet you’re only here to come on to my dad.”

My eyes bulge out of my head. Where did that come from? “Excuse me?”

“Oh, please. He can’t even go to the supermarket without women hitting on him. It’s probably the only reason you applied.”

“Firstly,” I snap, putting my hand on my hips. “I doubt very much your dad goes to the supermarket, and secondly, I can barely talk to him.” I snort indignantly. I’m not having a teenybopper make out that I’m a gold digger. “Coming on to your dad is the last thing on earth I’d do. I want to keep this job. That’s very judgmental, considering you’ve just met me.”

She eyes me skeptically for a long beat. “Whatever.”

“Look,” I say more calmly. “I want you to give me the chance I deserve. Let’s get to know each other. When school breaks in a few weeks, we’ll be spending more time together.”

“Why are you bothering? You won’t have to talk to me in a few months.”

I frown. “How do you make friends with that attitude?”

She glares back at me. “I have enough friends.”

“At twelve?” I put my hands on my hips. Now it’s my turn to do a dramatic eye roll. “Listen, when you’re my age, you won’t be friends with half the people you are today. If you’re lucky, you’ll collect new people along the way.”

Her upbringing seems so alien to mine. I’m starting to think growing up in a multimillion-dollar townhouse isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Most of the rooms I cleaned today were guest bedrooms. Teagan’s bedroom is on a separate floor from her father’s. I get the impression I’m not the only one living like a stranger in the house.

“What if we end up getting on really well and staying in contact?” I ask, softening my tone.

“Doubtful.” She comes up beside me and grabs a bottled water from the fridge.

She’s not giving me an inch.

I let out a defeated sigh. “Is there any way I can convince you not to tell your dad what you heard me say? Or that I cursed?”

“I’m not ten. And Dad curses all the time.” She smiles with an evil glint in her eye, accentuated by the eyeliner. “It’ll be more fun to see what finally gets you fired.”

“I haven’t even been in this job a day, so I’m not sure where your lack of confidence comes from,” I huff. “But you’re right; I’m more than capable of getting the sack all by myself, so if you could not hurry it along, that would be great.”

“Sorry, not sorry,” she sneers.

“There’s no need to be so snarky,” I snap. “Jesus. Give me a break.”

To my surprise, she looks mildly contrite. I groan, scanning the kitchen ceiling. “Your dad’s probably listening right now.”

“Probably.”

At least I’ve got Teagan talking. It’s a start.

“Truth, why are you really bunking off music?”

She snorts. “Why? Do you think you’ll get points with my dad if you snitch?”

“I won’t snitch if you don’t.” I grin. “Believe me, I’m in more trouble with your dad than you are.”

She rolls her eyes, but the corners of her mouth twitch. “I play the cello. It’s fucking wack.”

Wack is a bad thing, I assume.

“Fair enough. I don’t blame you. Oh, and language. Watch your language,” I say halfheartedly. It feels hypocritical to tell her off when I cursed at her age. “I bet your dad wouldn’t let you talk like that.”

Another shrug. “He’s so freaking salty all the time. It doesn’t matter what I say.”

Christ, I need a teenager translation guide at this rate.

“Did that hurt?” she asks, taking a step toward me. I frown for a second, not understanding what she’s talking about.

My hand flies to the nose ring right through my septum. Damn, I thought I had taken it out. I covered the tattoos but forgot about the ring.

“Yes.” I smile. “Massively. They use a needle rather than a gun. As soon as the needle went in, I screamed my head off.”

“My dad would hit the roof if I got that done. What age did you get it?”

“Seventeen.”

Her jaw drops slightly, then she quickly hides her surprise. I remember it’s not cool to show a reaction other than indifference at her age. “Is your hair color real?”

“Yeah,” I say with a smile. “Like yours.”

Her face falls. “It’s nothing like mine. Yours is smooth.”

“Oh, I’ve been there.” Finally, an in with Teagan. “I just learned to tame it after years of trying. I used to get teased relentlessly for having frizzy hair. I can help you with yours if you want? I have good hair products that will take the frizz out.”

“Perhaps.” She sniffs. “I hate mine. And Dad won’t let me do anything about it.”

“When I was younger, my mam didn’t want me to dye my hair either, but I was so desperate to change it that I used food coloring. She went ballistic. But it worked! For about three days, my head was neon red. Not good.” I laugh, remembering. “But different.”

A trace of amusement crosses her face. “That’s so stupid.”

“What can I say? You live and learn.”

I’m distracted by my phone buzzing in my bag. I take it out, and there’s a message from an unknown number.

How are you settling in? Is Killian the ogre you thought he would be? Marcus.

Worse, actually, I refrain from texting back. I’d prefer to lodge with the Addams family.

Now I get why he needed someone desperate. It’s not even the end of day one, and my nerves are shot.