“Now we’ll go into the bridge pose,” she says, the picture of tranquility. The opposite of me.
As Clodagh demonstrates the pose by lying on her back and thrusting her groin in the air, I realize that the bridge pose isn’t the best for hiding my massive erection.
Dammit. At least with down dog or whatever it’s called, I could hide it.
“This is a great Kegel exercise,” the woman beside me helpfully explains with a wink.
I mutter expletives under my breath. I’m conditioned to think of sex in these scenarios.
I glance at the men, but the women are in the way. I can’t be the only pervert here.
Clodagh lowers herself to the ground and then leaps up.
“Keep going,” she calls out as she circles the group.
She stops to adjust one of the footballer’s feet. He grins back, delighted with the attention.
I attempt to hide my rock-solid erection.
Why is she on the move?
“I’m going to sit this one out.” I glare at her as she approaches me. It’s her fault for getting me all worked up.
“Are you sure?” She arches an eyebrow at me. “You look pretty tense, Mr. Quinn. This stretch is perfect for stiff men.”
My jaw clenches. “I’m sure.”
“Relax, sir,” she whispers in my ear before returning to her position at the front.
“All right, now it’s time for the cat-cow stretch,” she explains as she slips down into a four-legged position on the floor.
Oh, fuck me.
***
At the end of the session, I watch from a distance from the bench. Trying to pry Clodagh out from her harem of athletes and seniors will be challenging. She has them all eating out of the palm of her hand. I swear I saw one of them sniff her hair when she whipped it from the ponytail.
I can just about hear their conversations. Clodagh has her arm around Teagan, and both of them are being bombarded with incessant questions by the women.
Clodagh’s laughter carries across the park, loud and contagious. Three women have tried to marry her off to their sons or grandsons so far. Mischief and happiness shine in her eyes.
It makes me feel like a moody old bastard.
The sight of Teagan so happy is almost bittersweet.
Queens has a real community feel away from the Manhattan skyscraper jungle, especially among the Irish. Teagan deserves this life, but I failed to provide it for her. Would she have been better off if I had been a tradesman living in Queens?
Community.
This is what Marek talked about. This is what Harlow wanted for Teagan. What I’ve failed to give her.
When Clodagh spots me waiting at the bench, she excuses herself and comes over.
I stand. “You ready to go?”
The wind ruffles her red hair, and she swipes it from her face. “I’m probably staying in Queens today.”
“I was going to suggest I take us out to lunch, and Orla could come along too.”
“Sorry, Killian. That’s really sweet, but…” She glances back at the crowd.
My hand flexes around the car keys. “No worries. Got your phone on you?”
“Yup, and I have a football team watching out for me.” She grins. “I’ll be fine.”
That’s what I’m worried about.
I grunt in agreement, but I really want to sweep her up, put her over my shoulder, and take her back to my Ferrari. “Call me if you need anything. Do you have the credit card with you?”
She rolls her eyes, just like my teenage daughter. “Yes, Daddy.”
Now I’m well and truly fucked.
I drive back to Manhattan with Teagan, wondering why I feel so unsettled.
Clodagh
We inspect our outfits in the mirror.
We are out the other side of the what-the-fuck-do-I-wear panic. These days it’s more like a case of how-the hell-am-I-gonna-choose rather than shit-everything-I-own-is-falling-apart, thanks to Big Daddy’s credit card.
We are having pre-drinks in my studio before we hit a new club in the Meatpacking district.
Orla is wearing tight blue jeans and a lace top. I’ve opted for a tight green leather dress paired with Doc Martens to give it a more edgy look.
I look great, but I can’t breathe.
“I’m going to have a panic attack,” I tell Orla, trying but failing to take a deep breath. All my organs are squashed by the tummy control shapewear that comes to just below my chest.
I tug the tight leather dress up past my hips, feeling claustrophobic. “No! Get them off. Get them off!”
“Calm down.” She chuckles and snaps the elastic of the torturous underwear as she tries to roll them down me.
I’m overcome with a ridiculous bout of giggles.
“Quit squirming. You’re working against me here. You’re in such a bubbly mood today.”
I grin through my giggles even though the underwear is still suffocating me. “It’s been a good day.”
“Uh-huh.” She smirks at me. “Obviously, nothing to do with your hot, moody boss joining us for yoga this morning.”
“Did you see the yoga group chat? They’re going nuts about him.”
“Yeah, I had to turn off notifications on my phone. Also, your granny Deirdre keeps sending me articles about murders in Manhattan. It’s kind of a buzzkill.”
I sigh and adjust my fishtail braid. “I know, sorry. She’s adding them to the Kelly family group chat. I think she has an alert on her phone for murders in New York. She’ll have a heart attack if you join the police force.”
It takes two of us to push the oppressive shapewear down to my knees. I step out of it, sighing in relief as I feel the fresh, cool rush of air between my legs. “I’ll wear a thong. My fat needs somewhere to go, and it might as well be evenly spread all over.”
“Alright.” I chug my last glass of vino. “Let’s go. I need to get my phone from upstairs. Behave yourself in front of Killian and Teagan,” I warn her.
“I don’t know what you take me for,” she mutters behind me.
We head upstairs to the lounge area, where Teagan is sprawled out in a onesie on a fluffed beanbag in the middle of the floor, and Killian and another guy-clearly his brother, Connor-are on the couch.
Holy fucking potatoes. God was generous when he handed out genes to the Quinn family.