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 gramhar 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.