“So why do you think you’re qualified, Miss Kelly?”
We stare at each other, the tension flowing between us like a live wire.
I promised myself I wouldn’t let another guy make me feel worthless.
“It’s Clodagh,” I correct him defiantly. “I may not be a billionaire, Mr. Quinn, or have a degree in childcare, but that doesn’t mean I’m not a trustworthy hire.”
“I’ll be the one to decide that.”
There’s no point trying to bullshit the guy, so I’ll stick with what I know. “Fine. Okay, as an au pair, I’ll admit that I don’t have much experience, but I did help raise three rowdy younger brothers.” Much experience meaning no experience in this instance.
He grunts in response, making it clear my spiel isn’t making an impact.
“I’m actually a trained carpenter.” I stop briefly to check his reaction and work out how the hell I’m going to make this relevant. “It might not seem like a huge feat, but as a woman in a trade job, I think I’m a good role model.” I pause to breathe. “And Marcus said you need someone, like, yesterday, and I can start today.”
I remain still and hold my breath, not wanting to be the first to look away. I’m not going down without a fight.
“A carpenter?” he repeats in a clipped tone as if he hadn’t heard me properly.
I stand my ground and look him straight in the eye. I’ve been here before with chauvinist dudes who think carpentry isn’t for women. “Yeah, that’s right.”
Neither of us looks away. Neither of us blinks.
Bring it on, Quinn. I fucking dare you.
“Admirable.”
He sounds, dare I say it… respectful? I’m floored.
“How did you become a carpenter?” he asks, looking genuinely curious.
“I left school when I was sixteen.” I absentmindedly pull at a stray thread on my skirt, feeling anxious. “I wasn’t very book smart, but I liked making things. It suited my brain better. After school, I got an admin job at a furniture store, and I watched the carpenters work. Then I started mucking around, making some basic furniture. I couldn’t believe it when I got accepted to Belfast Met’s carpentry course.” I smile, remembering the day I got the email.
“Let’s see your portfolio.”
“My portfolio?” I ask slowly.
“Yes, some of the pieces you’ve created,” he says less patiently, beckoning with his hands like I’m going to magic a portfolio out of thin air.
I wasn’t prepared for this, but I pull out my phone to show him photos. I watch uneasily as he swipes through each picture, his expression indecipherable. I’ve no nails left to chew. Soon, I’ll have to start on his.
“I want to set something more professional up soon, like an Etsy store,” I say, feeling increasingly deflated as he shows no reaction.
He glances up from the screen. “Why haven’t you tried starting your own business?”
“I did.” I squirm in my seat. “It didn’t work out.”
Please drop it already. I’m applying to clean and look after your kid, not build you a new kitchen.
“Why not?”
For fuck’s sake. “My business partner and I didn’t see eye to eye.”
My ex talked me into starting a business last year-a business I never thought I’d have the nerve to start. I’d worked at a furniture store for a few years making bespoke cabinets, and he came to me with a plan. We’d be the dream team. I was the creative hands; he was the business brain. He’d take care of the money.
And boy, did he take care of my money.
I naively handed him over two thousand. He made up some rambling excuse about investing in marketing, then dumped me a few months later.
On behalf of female carpenters, I was a failure.
Now I’m so bloody jaded. It’s part of what spurred me to leave for the States. At home, everyone knows about my failed business.
“I’m not your target audience, but they’re good.” He hands me back the phone, and I breathe a little easier. “Is there anything else I should know about you, Miss Kelly? Any unusual hobbies? Because things will go smoother if you’re the one to tell me.”
“No,” I say, my pulse spiking at the thought of my ridiculous criminal record. “That’s me. I’m a simple gal.”
He scrutinizes me for a long, uncomfortable beat. “You’re a trained carpenter, yet you’ve abandoned your trade to apply for a domestic assistant position,” he says, matter-of-fact, one brow raised.
“I haven’t abandoned it,” I counter, annoyed. “My long-term plan is to make a life in New York doing what I love. I just need to figure out the steps from a to z.”
“The job is demanding. You’ll be a live-in assistant, on-call all the time. If you think you’ll have time to do woodwork, then walk out the door. I’m paying you to be at my beck and call.”
“I can be at your beck and call, Mr. Quinn,” I reply without missing a beat.
Our eyes lock. Has anyone ever managed to pull a smile from that mouth? Quinn needs to learn to chill. Do yoga. Face yoga.
“Marcus obviously sees something in you…”
My pulse goes wild as I try to cover my nervous energy with a cough. I’m as much in the dark as Quinn on that one.
“And I trust his judgment.” Quinn sits and relaxes back into his seat, folding one leg over the other to rest on his knee. “You work five days a week, but you need to be flexible. I need my staff to be proactive, meticulous, and use their initiative. That includes my domestic staff. If I say you need to be somewhere at a certain time, you’ll be there ten minutes before. If I ask you to do something, I ask once.”
If he’s telling me this, does it mean I’m still in the running?
“Yes, sir!” I smooth my palms down on my skirt. I feel like I’m being recruited for the army.
“You’ll have your own living quarters, all-inclusive,” he drawls. “Food and expenses are paid for on top of your wages.”
I try not to react. Or pass out on his floor. That salary plus no bills… I’m going to be the richest nanny maid in the United States.
Quinn excels at unreadable expressions. With that poker face, it’s no wonder he owns casinos. His home security system showed me more emotion.
Me? I’m the opposite. I have a face that lets out all my secrets.
“You’re on probation.”