“Sorry,” I say, looking around them. “You guys didn’t come out for dinner to talk about my issues.”
“Nonsense.” Killian’s mum waves a hand. “It’s so nice to meet you, Clodagh. I think it’s wonderful for Teagan to have some young female company in the house.”
Killian’s mum pronounced my name right the first time because she’s Irish. You could easily mistake her for an American until a few words slip through with her Irish accent.
“You’re not imposing,” Killian says gruffly beside me. “Teagan really wants you here.”
But do you?
“Yes, we’re delighted to have you here.” Killian’s mum tents her arms on the table and smiles warmly at me. “Tell me all about yourself, Clodagh. Killian tells me you’re a trained carpenter.”
He did?
All the blue-eyed family are watching me now.
“Hmm, yeah, a carpenter by trade,” I say, fiddling with my fork. “I’m taking a career break while I settle into New York. Trying something new.” I can’t say that the only reason I took the job was to get a visa.
I bite into another soft cheese ball and get a funny look from Killian.
“Is there a reason you’re eating balls of butter?”
“What?” I gasp, gawking at the ball. “I thought it was some sort of gourmet cheese!”
“No, it’s butter.”
Killian’s mum winces. “Jesus, dear.” She reaches for my hand. “If you keep eating like that, you’ll never keep your figure.”
Mortified, I return the butter ball to my plate, my face burning hot with embarrassment. I’m an idiot. They’re going to think we don’t have any fancy restaurants in Donegal. I’ll never get through three courses with the Quinn family.
Next to me, Killian lets out a low chuckle.
“I remember my first day in New York,” Killian’s mum starts, thankfully moving on from my embarrassing butter faux pas. “I was willing to do anything for work when I came over. Anything.” Guess she has me all figured out. “I was eighteen. Fresh faced off the plane from Dublin. So young.” She sighs wistfully. “The seventies were wild in New York. It was a really special time.”
“Everyone was doing drugs, and smoking was good for you,” she adds mournfully.
Killian erupts into a cough beside me. “Mom, for fu-flip’s sake.”
I hide a smirk. I don’t know why I hid my tattoos under a lace cardigan over my dress now. I even took out my nose ring, thinking his mum would be posh as hell.
“Oh stop, Killian.” She waves her hand dismissively and gives Teagan’s shoulders a squeeze. “Teagan knows better than to take drugs.”
Teagan smiles innocently at her gran.
Killian’s mum turns back to me. “Tell me, dear, where are you from originally? I can tell you’re a northerner.”
I smile. “Donegal.”
She looks delighted. “Do you know any O’Sullivans from Donegal town? They used to…”
Here we go. The ‘do you know this family’ game.
I smile at her.
My eyes stray to Killian, and as if he can sense it, he moves his attention from his mum to me and raises his eyebrows in question.
My cheeks heat, and I quickly look away.
Five minutes later.
“Do you know any Maloneys?”
“Yup, I think I know that family.”
“Lovely,” she squeals. “Do they still own the bakery in Donegal town?”
“I think so,” I fib as the army of waitstaff arrives with our starters.
My stomach growls in response; I had skipped lunch in anticipation of this moment. I quickly take a photo with my phone to send to Orla.
Half an hour passes, and I’m feeling relaxed. Different conversations at the table sometimes cross over each other. Killian’s mum is fun, and Connor uses every opportunity to wind Killian up.
Even Killian is relaxed and laughing. He may not smile often, but it’s worth the wait when he does.
I’m starving by the time the mains arrive because the starters were the size of a pea.
“Your tartare, ma’am,” the server declares, placing my dinner before me.
I squint in confusion, unsure of what I’m looking at. It looks like the mincemeat my mum buys at the butcher’s.
I take a bite and cough.
It’s slimy. And cold. Why is it cold?
My fork trails through the weird meat. This is fucked up.
“Everything okay?” Killian murmurs, watching me.
“Yeah.” I squirm in my seat because the tummy control pants are chafing. “It’s just not what I was expecting.”
“You know tartare is raw, right?”
“Like rare?”
“No. Raw. Uncooked.”
I stare, transfixed at my plate in horror. I blew my chance at the World’s Onion for this? “I thought it was like a bourguignon,” I mutter, taking a swig of water to get rid of the taste of the raw meat in my mouth. They should fucking highlight that fact on the menu. “Why would I want to eat raw meat? I’m not a dog. Is it even safe?”
“They blend raw egg and raw beef with seasonings. It’s an acquired taste.” The corners of his mouth quirk into a light smile. “In a restaurant like this, it’s safe.”
Raw egg and meat blended together? Sickos.
I tentatively gather a small sample of meat onto my fork and take a bite. This is a disaster. If I don’t think too much about what it is, I might not projectile vomit. “Sounds yummy.”
I eye Killian’s succulent steak with triple-cooked fries and peppercorn sauce.
I might cry.
How am I supposed to enjoy my potatoes with this vomit-inducing muck on the plate?
I take a big swig of wine and wonder if I could get away with requesting a neat whiskey and pouring it over the abomination on my plate to disguise the taste.
“You don’t have to eat it if you don’t like it.” Killian nudges me. I wish he wouldn’t watch me. This is traumatizing enough as it is without spectators. “Do you want to order something else?”
“I can’t,” I groan in despair. “I have to finish everything on my plate because I’m doing it for all the starving children in the world who can’t.” Damn Catholic guilt.
He nudges my hands away from my plate as the others are caught up in Teagan’s and Becky’s gushing about the pop star dude.