The younger Quinn is just as showstoppingly handsome as his brother. Surprisingly, it’s still the older, grumpier one that does it for me.
My gaze meets Killian’s, and he pauses in his conversation with Connor.
God, those icy blue eyes.
My stomach somersaults as his gaze cruises my figure from head to toe, observing me warily. Like I might be contagious. “This is Connor,” he says.
No compliments. No pleasantries. Not a hint of a smile, just that severe deadpan.
“Hi, Connor.” I flash him a smile in greeting as I collect my phone from the table. “This is my friend, Orla.”
“Heyyy,” Orla says breathlessly, gawking at the sausage fest on the couch. She’s practically salivating. I shoot her a warning with my eyes. No doubt, those two have enough admirers to give them an ego the size of the Empire State Building, without us adding to the pile.
I check my phone quickly. Sixteen new messages from the yoga group. One new message from Granny Deirdre telling me to only buy drinks from a can and use rubbers with gentlemen.
“It’s great to finally meet you,” Connor says with a grin. “Come and have a drink with us.”
“You look hot, Clodagh,” Teagan calls, vaguely interested. “Like a mermaid with green scales and a braid.”
“Do you always look like a hot mermaid?” Connor jokes. “Or is it a special occasion?”
“This is us all the time,” I joke back. “I like to look my best when cleaning. Killian makes a lot of mess in the bathro-”
Oh crap. I was going to make a mermaid joke. My face burns thinking about the mess I saw Killian make in the bathroom.
Killian’s jaw grinds, and his nostrils flare so much he might capture wind speed.
“Well, you look lovely,” Connor adds.
Still nothing from Killian. I guess mermaids aren’t his go-to fantasy. It annoys me that I’m annoyed.
His eyebrows join in a deep frown. What the hell is his issue? This morning at yoga, he was relaxed, and dare I say, fun. Now, he’s put the stick back in his ass.
“Well done getting my stiff big brother to do yoga in a park.” Connor grins, thoroughly enjoying himself as he looks back and forth between Killian and me conspiratorially. “Next, he’ll be meditating in Central Park.”
“Dad was awful,” Teagan pipes up. “He couldn’t do half the moves.”
“Bottom of the class,” I tease as Killian rolls his eyes. “Not like you, Teagan. You should keep it up.”
“Are you sure you can’t join us, ladies?” Connor asks. “I need to hear more.”
Killian’s eyes lock with mine. “We’re just about to order pizza and a movie, but obviously, you have other plans,” he says flatly.
“Yeah, we’re heading to the new club in the Meatpacking District,” I tell him, even though he didn’t ask. “Vapor. Sorry, Connor. It’ll have to wait.”
Connor’s smile widens as he exchanges a glance with Killian. “Vapor, hey? Great choice. They’ll treat you well there. You deserve a good night out after putting up with my brother. So what’s it like living with him? He’s a pain in the ass, right?” Connor seems to be in no hurry to let us leave.
“The worst.” I smile. “If I didn’t have Teagan to live with, I’d run away.”
Connor chuckles in approval.
Killian doesn’t seem to find our banter funny. I’m met with a dark gaze. “Security will escort you.” He reaches for his phone.
“It’s okay,” I try to say, but he cuts me off.
“It’s not open for debate.”
Jeez. Nothing ever is with Killian Quinn.
***
I’ve been told there’s an art to getting into a New York club. Be chill, be cool, but be in their face.
“IDs,” the doorman the size of a truck growls at me. Is it a rule for bouncers to never smile? We get it-you’re in charge, and you’re scary.
I hand over my ID warily. I’ve never been in such an attractive queue before. He might decide we aren’t good-looking enough to get in. And since it’s an Irish passport, some insist on seeing an American ID.
The doorman reads it, nods to a woman with a clipboard over his shoulder, and passes her my ID.
What the hell?
Are they confiscating it?
“Hey!” I protest.
The girl scans my ID, then clicks her fingers. “VIPs go this way.”
“Excuse me?” I ask. She must have made a mistake.
She looks at me with deadpan eyes.
“You heard her,” Orla hisses in my ear, shoving me softly. “We’re very important people. Will you shut the fuck up already? Do not look a gift horse in the mouth, you fool.”
We’re escorted through the dark hallway by a hostess with such impossibly beautiful dimensions that she looks like a human avatar.
“I don’t understand,” I mutter to Orla.
At the door cloaked in velvet, a second hostess stands waiting to hand us a glass of champagne.
I blink at her, baffled. Is this an Irish thing or something?
She ushers us into a bar where all the beautiful New Yorkers hang out. I’ve never experienced a place like this before. The hostess guides us to a table.
“Clodagh, is that…?” Orla squeaks.
“The Hemsworth brothers?” I finish for her. “I believe so.”
I might faint. The sight of them is more than my clit can handle.
A siren wails from the bar, and suddenly, four waitresses in cocktail dresses march forth with a tray between them, carrying a bottle of champagne with sparklers. I remember seeing something similar on a night out in Ibiza once when an obnoxious dude bought the most expensive bottle on the menu.
The women turn and start walking toward us.
When I turn my head, no one else is behind us. Where is the obnoxious dude?
“Hi, Clodagh,” one of the waitresses purrs. “Tonight, you’re our honored guests.”
I gawk at her.
Killian. This has to be Killian’s doing.
The whole bar watches as a bottle of champagne, with sparks shooting out of it, is placed on the table in front of us.
“Isn’t that the crazy comedian who takes cats on stage?” someone near me whispers, staring my way.
I shoot them a hostile glare in response.
Orla looks at me with a dangerous glint in her eyes. “Tonight, we parrrr-teeee.”
***
I couldn’t keep this wild lifestyle up every night. I’ve concluded that you have to mix high-end clubs with low-key Irish bars to appreciate both.