My gaze locks with Mr. Suit, and my cheeks heat. “Ignore him.”
He looks pissed off at the attention. “If I were looking for a wife, this bar is the last place in New York I’d search.” Rude. Texan accent or somewhere down South. Yup, Mam would have kittens.
“It’s okay.” I smile thinly, internally reeling. I wouldn’t marry you either, buddy. “I don’t want a visa that badly.”
Mr. Suit returns a trace of a smile before focusing back on his phone.
“Let’s call marrying a random guy plan C,” Orla says with forced cheeriness. “We’ll find another option.”
Swallowing back the lump in my throat, I try not to let my eyes well up. It’ll only set Orla off. I’m out of options. All my eggs were in the EireAuPair4U basket.
Brainstorming with Orla brought up no other viable solutions other than the following.
A) Claim a dead American guy was my father.
B) Take a dead person’s identity.
Or C) get married to an American, obviously. Ideally, not an old guy with a comb-over.
“Drink The Auld Dog’s bad wine for the next seven days to forget I’m leaving,” I say, trying to make light of my sticky situation.
“No!” she wails. “I hate that plan. The guys are right. You can stay here. Loads of people are illegal.”
I give a tired sigh, averting my eyes from Orla. Annoyed from going around in circles with the same conversation. Staying illegally means I’d always be looking over my shoulder. And Nan is pushing eighty, even though she says she’s forty-two. I couldn’t live with myself if I couldn’t go back… if I lost her.
“Another pint of Guinness, please.” The dry voice from the corner catches me off guard.
“Right away, sir.” I pull Mr. Suit’s second Guinness as Orla comes out from behind the bar to move chairs around the tables. When there aren’t many customers, she’s like a bored child.
I take it over to him and set it down.
“Oh my God,” Orla murmurs. “Clodagh!”
She kneels on the next seat over with her nose squashed against the window. “The FBI’s outside!”
“The FBI?” Coming behind her, I look over her shoulder, my eyes adjusting to the sunlight streaming through the window.
Sure enough, an expensive car with tinted windows is parked outside. Two men wearing suits and earpieces lean against the car.
What does immigration look like? Do they do pub raids? Technically, I’m not supposed to be working on my holiday visa.
“Maybe Mafia!” Orla says excitedly.
“They’re drivers,” a low voice deadpans. “My drivers.”
My gaze shoots back to the other table. Mr. Suit’s lips curl in a hint of amusement.
“Oh.” Why does someone need two drivers? In case one gets shot? “Uh, what is it that you do?”
“I work for Killian and Connor Quinn.”
I stare back, confused.
One brow rises in amusement at my ignorance. “The Quinn brothers. They own the largest hotel chain in the States. The Quinn & Wolfe Hotel Group.”
Oh. I nod, catching Orla’s gaze. There’s more chance of us vacationing on Mars than in one of those hotels. I used the hotel bathroom once in Times Square. The public bathrooms were so decadent I felt like I was in a spa.
“Perhaps you’ve been to one of their casinos,” he adds.
“Gambling’s not really my thing.”
His brow arches again, but this time with something akin to interest. “Where are you from?”
“Ireland,” Orla and I say simultaneously.
“Donegal,” I elaborate. “The rainy bit on the northwest coast.”
“And how long have you been in New York?” he asks.
“Nearly three months.”
“Me too!” Orla adds beside me.
Now he’s scanning me from top to bottom. “I gather you’re working illegally on a tourist visa.”
“N-No,” I stutter, folding my arms across my chest. “That was a joke.”
“Relax. I don’t care.”
I release a breathy laugh. The guy heard us talking, so there’s no point denying it.
“Do you have a boyfriend?”
Stiffening, I narrow my eyes at him. “I’m not looking for an American husband just to get a visa.”
Or am I?
His lips flatten into a thin line. “I’m not interested in you, sweetheart.” He pauses, giving me another once-over. “I might have a job offer for you. Chloe, is it?” He gestures to the chair in front of him. “I’m Marcus. Take a seat.”
Clodagh
“Nice to meet you, Marcus.” I take his extended hand, eyeing him guardedly, and plop my bum down on the seat opposite him. “Cloh-dah. Like Yoda with a cl.” If only I had a dollar for every time I said it. “A job? What type of job?”
He reclines in his chair, smoothing out his tie before aiming a leisurely smile in my direction. “Good to meet you, Clodagh. Tell me a little about yourself.”
My jaw hardens. I want him to cut to the chase. I sure as hell don’t want to give out personal information, but if there’s a sliver of a chance that he might have a job offer… I need to know more.
I glance over at the guys and Orla, who is now back behind the bar, pretending not to listen. Liam glares at me, face like thunder.
I turn my attention back to Mr. Suit. Marcus.
Well, Marcus, I’m nearly twenty-five and can list a failed business, a criminal record, and zero penetrative sex orgasms on my resume.
“Uh, there’s not that much to know.” I never was good at interviews, especially ones I didn’t sign up for. “I’m working in the bar until I find my feet in New York. I’m actually a trained carpenter back home. I worked for a furniture store before moving to New York.”
His brows lift in surprise. “Carpenter, huh? I would never have guessed.”