I didn’t sleep at all last night. Zero minutes. I spent all night wondering how I was going to face Killian. I bet he’s already over it. He’s probably forgotten we had sex last night.
Orla bounces toward me, dodging dog walkers and joggers. Everyone in Central Park looks so happy. I hate them for it.
I already messaged her this morning to inform her of my major blunder.
“So?” she asks excitedly, handing me a water bottle with electrolytes. “Spill. Have you seen him this morning?”
I swallow a big mouthful of the drink as we stroll by the bronze Alice in Wonderland sculpture. “Thanks. You’re a lifesaver. No, I snuck out of the house. I’m too haggard after the champagne and lack of sleep to face him today. I still need to work out my communication strategy for dealing with him.”
She smirks, shaking her head in disbelief. “Can’t believe you slept with him.”
“Ugh.” I groan in exasperation. “I can’t believe it either. This is the worst Catholic guilt I’ve ever felt.”
The guilt has nothing to do with being religious. I only go to Mass when Gran nags me at Christmas. But every Irish Catholic is born with the guilt gene, and it only gets worse if you go to a Catholic school. I get it bad when I slack off on a sick day when I’m not really ill. Or if I don’t do yoga three times a week. Or if I have dirty thoughts in inappropriate places like the hospital, as I found out when Gran slipped and fell.
Or a new one-sleeping with my cold-hearted, billionaire boss.
We’re silent for a moment as we sidestep a group of roller skaters.
“We all make drunken mistakes,” Orla says eventually. “You’re not the first person to have accidentally shagged their boss, and you won’t be the last.”
“This is my second drunken mistake in New York, and both times, I dropped my pants. I need to get my shit together.” I chug down the bottle of water. “I can’t even blame the alcohol. On a drunk scale, I was buzzed but not wasted.”
“Come on, you’re being too hard on yourself. From how Killian looked at you at yoga, there’s something there. He’s not a complete robot.”
“No, seriously, Orla, if you’d seen his face after… one minute, he’s banging me like we were the last hope for mankind’s survival, and the next minute, he’s gone, and I’m standing in the middle of the room, bawling like a child.” I turn to her. “How am I going to even look him in the face again?”
“It’ll be fine.” She squeezes my arm gently. “You’ll be grand.”
Grand. Bah. Like hell, I will.
“The worst part is he sent flowers to another woman only this week.” God, I feel sick just saying it out loud. In my lust haze, I’d forgotten that he might have a girlfriend. How will I feel when he brings Maria back on Tuesdays, as the manual says?
“I don’t even know how serious they are. Sam said they’ve been out a few times. Maybe they’re exclusive.” I sigh for the millionth time today and bring up the source of my torture on my phone. “This woman.”
Orla stops in her tracks to examine the photo on my phone. She physically blanches, and not because Maria is painful to look at.
No, Maria is an absolute stunner. I’m ashamed to admit that I spent an excessive amount of time researching her this morning.
“I guess it’s not a surprise.” Seeing my expression, she bites her lip. “But, Clodagh, you’re stunning too.”
She’s trying to make me feel better, but it makes me feel worse. “Listen, be careful. I don’t want to see you get hurt again. We were all worried about you when you split up with asshole Niall. You lost so much weight and were quiet all the time.”
“Yeah, you’d think I’d learn to stay away from men who can hurt my heart. Anyway, it’s fine.” I shrug, picking up the pace again. “I’ll only be working for him for another few months. The cowboy agency thinks they have another au pair position for me in Brooklyn.”
Best I move off the topic of Killian. “What about the guy from…” I rack my brain, trying to recall our conversation from last night. Which state was it? The middle states are a bit of a blur to me.
Now it’s Orla’s turn to look tortured. “Kansas.”
Last night, three of us left with security. Me, Orla, and her hedge fund guy.
“I took him home with me. I have a bad dose of the Catholic guilt too. Last night, I brought home a solid ten, but this morning, I woke up with a four. I didn’t fancy him at all. I’m shallow, aren’t I?” She whimpers, looking at me to make her guilt disappear.
“You’re not,” I say soothingly, trying to hide my smirk. “You seemed quite taken with him last night.”
“Ugh, don’t remind me. I’m so relieved Uncle Sean isn’t home right now. I’m twenty-five, but I still want him to think I’m a virgin. It wasn’t even worth it. I got really freaked out during the sex because I started thinking that Auntie Kathy’s ghost might be watching. She died in that room, you know?”
I groan. “I’m glad I didn’t know that when I lived there.”
“Let’s forget last night ever happened for both of us.”
I snort. “If only. I still have to live under the same roof as my mistake.”
We walk on in silence for a bit, reflecting on our mistakes.
“Was yours good, at least?” Orla asks with a sly grin.
“Yeah,” I say with as much flippancy as I can muster, thinking about Killian’s eyes blazing into mine.
My stomach churns as the unease I’ve felt since last night returns. I’m too soft to handle this.
It wasn’t just good. It was the best sex of my life.
And that realization is terrifying.
***
I spend the rest of Sunday hiding in my studio. Killian doesn’t trouble himself to seek me out.
My only reprieve of the day is when my first shipment of wood and tools arrives.
As soon as my beautiful selection of hardwoods was deemed “non-explosive” (I wasn’t kidding when I said Killian had more security protocols than JFK airport), the security team handed them over.
Sam personally delivered them to me. He wanted to hang out, but I fobbed him off by saying I was feeling under the weather. My mood isn’t conducive to talking.
Having no workshop here limits what I can do, but I have saws, clamps, and wood glue to make a decent birthday gift for Teagan. It’s a nice distraction after dicking around all day, mourning something that doesn’t exist and feeling sorry for myself.