Chapter 7: Fifth Avenue Fling: Chapter 7

Sam takes me to a secure room to program the security system at the entrance, enabling me access to the mansion. I press my thumb against a scanner and keep still while the device reads my retinal pattern.

I’ve never unlocked a house with my eyes before.

At least there’s no chance of me losing my keys.

“Ready to see your new digs?” Sam grins. My skittishness seems to entertain him.

The foyer lights are on, but there’s no sign of Killian or his daughter on the ground floor, and I’m relieved. Before I see him, I want to read this manual and understand what I’m dealing with.

I follow Sam past the double staircase, down the hall to another stairway to the lower ground floor.

“The dungeon,” I half joke as I descend behind Sam.

He flips on a light and… holy shit.

Quinn hasn’t skimped on the lower ground staff quarters. I follow Sam into a beautiful red-bricked lounge-kitchen area. This should be on ads for New York loft-style living.

He drops my bag on the couch.

“Wow,” I say loudly, spinning around. Renting this apartment would cost thousands of dollars a month. “I get to live here… alone? As in… it’s all mine?”

I turn to Sam, who leans against the fridge with a slight smirk.

“It’s all yours, Clodagh.”

“Fuck me,” I breathe. Orla will lose her shit when she sees this place.

Swallowing hard, I take in every detail of the room. I always thought basement flats would feel dark and dingy. This one has soft furnishings and a fluffy white carpet that makes me want to curl up on the floor and never leave. The area is perfect for hosting my online yoga classes for my gran’s friends back home.

And a nice place to hide from Quinn.

“Is my new boss always so serious?” I ask Sam as I wander around the lounge.

“Yes. He expects things to be done a certain way.”

“His way.”

“You’re a fast learner.” I glance over to see him smirking. “You’re very different from Mrs. Dalton. She’s a lot more,”—he pauses—“mumsy.”

“Uh, Sam? I don’t know if that’s a compliment or an insult, given my new job title.”

“Just an observation.”

“He didn’t choose me,” I say quietly, plopping down on the couch to try it out. “Marcus, the guy who works for him, did.”

“Huh.” Sam frowns, keeping his gaze on the floor.

I wait for an explanation and get nothing. “You’re not filling me with confidence,” I huff. “And I haven’t even started the job yet.”

He shakes his head and grins. “Sorry. I’m sure you’ll find a way to charm him.”

Charm Killian Quinn? I’ve more chance of charming Hannibal Lecter. Guys like him aren’t interested in gals like me who don’t have their shit together yet.

I don’t say that.

“Are you from Dublin?” I ask, changing the subject. I’ve got a thing for the Dublin accent.

“Good guess.” He smiles and crosses the room to come closer to me.

I take the opportunity to subtly inspect Sam. He’s a looker; a stereotypical good-looking Irish man. Skin peppered with cute freckles and tousled brown hair to complement his bright blue eyes. Thirty, at a guess. He must do well with the American girls. Much more charming than his boss.

“Your Northern accent is too soft to be Belfast. I’d say you’re from the country. Fermanagh?” he says.

I’m impressed. “Close enough.” I grin. “Donegal. Any farther north and you’re in the Atlantic.”

He chuckles. “I’ve never gone that far north.”

“Funny enough, we seem to get more American tourists than Dubliners,” I say. “How long have you been in New York?”

“About six years.”

So Sam’s legal. Of course he’s legal if he works for Quinn. “And how long have you worked for Killian Quinn?”

“Five years.”

Oh. “You must know him well.”

He chuckles softly again. “I’m not sure anyone truly knows Mr. Quinn. Except his brother, Connor.”

“But you’ve survived five years with the guy.” I search his expression. “Do you have any tips to help me not get sacked?”

“Just stay on the right side of him.”

I groan, leaning back in my seat. “That’s a tad fluffy. You got anything more tangible?”

He grins, giving me a quick glance. “Sorry, Clodagh. I guess if it were easy he wouldn’t fire so many people.”

So not what I needed to hear.

It’s time to try out the bed. The lounge door opens into the bedroom.

“Do you live here in the house, too?” I ask curiously, turning to Sam, who has strolled into the bedroom behind me.

He shakes his head. “I live a few doors down. Mr. Quinn owns several houses on the street. Most of the security staff live nearby.” Our eyes lock. “I’m close enough when you need me.”

This does not fill me with comfort. There’s safety in numbers. “Then why do I live here and not with the other staff members? Why am I the only one?” I sink onto the bed, testing the mattress. I’m going to sleep like the dead.

He watches me bounce, then averts his eyes sheepishly. “You’re cleaning and cooking for him and Teagan. If Teagan wants something,”—he pauses—“anything, then you have to be close enough to jump.”

I freeze mid-bounce. Teagan sounds spoiled. “She’s a bit old for a nanny.” When I think of what I was getting up to when I was twelve… yikes.

“Billionaires think differently.” He nods toward the manual I had dropped on the bed, smirking. “I’m sure Mrs. Dalton has covered everything in that handbook. I better head off. Get a good night’s sleep, Clodagh.” A smile plays on his lips as he steps away from the wall. “You’ll need it.”

“No kidding.” My fingers tighten around the manual. “Why does he get up so early?”

He shrugs. “You don’t become a billionaire by sleeping in.”

“I thought that was the whole point of becoming a billionaire,” I mutter.

Sam leaves me to get settled in. By settling in, I mean spending five minutes emptying my small bag of clothes into a wardrobe.

Then I nose-dive onto the bed, thrashing my hands and legs about, and let out a deep throaty Yee-haw.

This can’t be real. Living on Fifth Avenue isn’t affordable without a million zeros in your bank account. It’s a pipe dream.

Rolling onto my back, I let out a long, dreamy sigh as I stare at the ceiling. I can starfish in this bed and my feet and arms don’t reach the sides. The mattress feels like I’m floating in a warm bath. Maybe this is why Quinn can get up so early.

Sure, I’m the hired help for three months, and then I’ll be back in the same shitty visa-less scenario…

But I’m here now.

I could fall asleep fully clothed above the covers… except the light above me bounces off the laminated booklet.

First things first, business before pleasure. Propping myself up on the lush pillows, I turn the first page, and my stomach lurches.

The damn thing is the size of the Bible. This will take me all night. At least with digital text, I can use text-to-speech or my software, but with printed text, I can’t process things as easily. I have to read something like three times before I’m comfortable understanding it.

The inter-word spacing is crowded. I hate the font. There is underlining and italics everywhere. That’s why I hate reading printed copies. Most of them aren’t dyslexia-friendly.

My reading pen is better with small amounts of text, not full-length novels like this beast. It’ll read it out line by line, but it takes forever.

Flipping through, I see reams and reams of text interspaced with images. Did Quinn really make his housekeeper, Mrs. Dalton, create this ridiculously detailed manual for cleaning his house?

Maybe it’s all lies. I’ll walk past a graveyard near Central Park and spot a grave marked Mrs. Dalton who died two days before my arrival.

The manual is split into sections—workweek schedule, detailed house layout, dietary requirements, health and safety, security, and emergency contacts.

I flip back to the first section with the heading ‘The Quinn family’s weekly schedule’.

Monday. Quinn gets up at 5 a.m. expecting his protein smoothie and coffee waiting for him before he goes for a run. His high-protein breakfast needs to be prepared by 6 a.m. At 6:30, he leaves for work.

5 a.m. Fucking yuck.

I run the pen over it a few times, hoping it’s faulty.

I only get up at 5 a.m. if I’m setting off on an early walk of shame or need to catch a flight. Mondays are hard enough without adding unnecessary torture. Billionaire brains must be wired differently than a normal working-class person’s.

Teagan wakes up at 7 a.m., and I need to have breakfast ready at 7:20 so she can leave by 7:45. I prepare a healthy snack box for her to take to school.

So father and daughter don’t even get to see each other in the mornings.

I slowly scan pages and pages of granular details with everything planned out for the Quinn family.

Everything is planned to a T. Every breakfast, dinner, evening, activity.

Teagan does so many after-school activities that I hardly have to nanny her. I have to make sure she does her homework before dinner and check it when she’s done. Blah. I wasn’t great in school the first time around.

What about the days when Quinn’s had too much to drink and his head’s hanging out his asshole? Or when it’s pouring rain outside, and he’s not willing to brave a run?

Those days don’t exist. Not on paper, anyway.

Teagan stays at her grandmother’s some Tuesday nights when Mr. Quinn may have female guests stay over. Sounds transactional.

Discretion is expected when Mr. Quinn’s guests are visiting.

“Jesus,” I say aloud, blinking. Everything is laid out for Quinn, even sex. Is he ever spontaneous?

I wonder what his Tuesday lady friends are like. They’re probably high-flying executives who only have time for sex once a week. Like the beautiful one he was with in the hotel.

The company credit card will be used for all purchases. Domestic staff have a personal allowance of $1500 per week for food, clothes, and entertainment. Any increase must be approved by Mr. Quinn.

I read it again.

And again.

Then flop about on the mattress, thrashing my legs about the bed like I’m doing a backstroke.

The sound that erupts from me is pure, raw hysteria.

The next section really has my eyes hanging out of my head.

Off-limits areas.

The following areas are off-limits unless you have specific permission from Mr. Quinn. Off-limits areas are marked in red on the floor plan.

Sure enough, she has included a floor plan breakdown with red circles. I feel like I’m studying for a master’s program in maidhood.

Cabinets in his office. His bedside cabinet. The attic.

She shouldn’t have included this section. That’s all I can think about now.

What’s Quinn hiding in the attic? What a perfect horror movie. Nanny maid creates a manual with cryptic help messages. The new maid finds her dead body in the attic.

I blow out a long breath.

This is not conducive.

The wall clock chimes eleven o’clock, making me jump. My alarm goes off in five hours. I’m giving myself extra time tomorrow morning before Quinn wakes up. I’ve only plowed through a small part of the manual so far. People don’t get that sometimes my brain has to work twice as hard and it’s draining.

Staring at the clock, I get pangs of insecurity.

I’m living in a central New York townhouse with the most devastatingly handsome man I’ve ever clapped eyes on with all my food and bills paid for. Living in Manhattan, legally, is my dream.

But in Queens, I’m in my comfort zone. Working at the bar, living with Orla, teaching yoga in the park, bagels with the amazing crisp crust and lashings of cream cheese from Tony’s. There’s always “craic” there.

Quinn puts me on high alert, ready to pee my pants at any moment. Or cream them.

It’s weird to think he’s a few floors above me. His daughter must be in bed too.

I stare up at the ceiling, willing myself to go to sleep. I wonder if Quinn is in bed doing the same thing.

His bed looks massive on the floor plan. Not surprising, considering the size of the body it needs to house. As uncomfortable as I was meeting him, I couldn’t help but notice how his T-shirt strained over his upper body.

He’s probably sprawled out on his bed right now, naked. Does sleep come easy to a man like him? Maybe he rubs one out to knock himself out.

Maybe he’s rubbing one out right now.

Why am I going there? Thoughts like that aren’t conducive, either.

Except it’s hard not to.

When I close my eyes, I can’t unsee the image of Killian Quinn’s disapproving gaze sweeping over me, the rough gravel in his distinctive voice, the icy steel in his eyes…

Miss Kelly.

My hands drift down under the lace rim of my underwear.

Does he ever thaw? I bet his orgasm face looks angry.

Nope, thinking about my scowling boss’ face as he lies on top of me is not conducive.