A Night Of Passion

2

Just no.

“Coming right up,” I say, breaking Liam’s heady gaze. I grab a glass and pull the pale ale pump, enjoying the quiet. In an hour, the pub will be packed.

“Glad to see you’re staying,” he says gruffly. Liam’s from Belfast, so his accent is more guttural than mine. It made for the best s*x grunts.

Panic rises in my chest as my heart does a little jig.

Am I staying?

Yesterday, my world came crashing down. ÉireAuPair4U told me know that the Kennedys, a second-generation Irish family, won’t need me after all. I was going to nanny their ten-year-old daughter to help bring her closer to her Irish heritage.

It turns out the Polish au pair agency was cheaper, and that’s more important than their roots. The Kennedys were my ticket to staying in the States.

Luck of the Irish, my fat arse.

“I have a flight booked back to Belfast next week,” I say mournfully.

Liam shifts in his barstool, making an abrasive screech with the legs. He looks as devastated as I feel.

Because in seven days, my American dream ends. I’ll have overstayed my welcome.

Orla and I entered the States a few months back, intending to stay. I’m on a tourist visa, which bought me ninety days, and my egg timer has run out. We cheekily took cash-in-hand jobs in the pub to keep us afloat.

The au pair position was my only possibility of getting a visa to stay legally in New York.

He scowls at me. “Ack, sure, we’re all in the same boat here. Ain’t none of us legal. You’ll be alright. You don’t need to leave.”

I don’t want to be like you, Liam.

“f**k’s sake, Sean will give you a wee job here for as long as you need it,” Aidan, also from Belfast, chimes in, looking at me like I’m being unreasonable. “And you have that wee stretching class you teach on Saturdays. Sure, what else do ye need?”

Belfast-ers use wee to refer to anything and everything, regardless of size. “He’s bought a wee boat” could be anything from a dinghy to a superyacht.

I don’t want my only option to be cleaning the men’s toilets of The Auld Dog. And yes, I enjoy teaching my wee yoga class in the park on Saturdays, but that’s just a hobby with a few tips thrown in.

Yoga with Clodagh. Very clever, if I say so myself since it rhymes. Most people outside of Ireland try to pronounce the silent gh, though, so it’s a marketing bust.

If I’m illegal, that’s what I’ll be restricted to.

But… I can’t leave.

I won’t.

I stare at the pretzel crumbs Aidan has all over his T-shirt and take a deep breath. Then I plaster a smile on my face. Smiling tricks your brain into feeling positive. “It’s fine. I read an article that Ireland will be the best place to live in 2030 because of global warming.”

“Stop that shitty chat. You’re back on the waiting list for the au pair agency,” Orla pipes up. “They’ll sort you out with a job.”

Orla is burying her head in the sand. If I’m honest, I am too. Immigration will have to take me to the airport in a straitjacket because I refuse to leave American soil.

Orla has gold-dust genes. Even though she grew up beside me in Ireland, she was made by American sperm, allowing her to stay in the States. Never in my life have I hated my deadbeat, absentee, Irish-born father so much.

“Unlikely.” I sigh, refilling the lads’ pretzel bowl. “They won’t find another family in time. I’ve told them I’d nanny Satan’s spawn for minimum wage if it means getting a job in the next seven days.”

I am f****d, for want of a better word. I’m calling the agency so much that they’ll get a restraining order against me. But it’s my only chance of getting sponsored to stay.

“You’ll be grand, Clodagh,” Declan slurs, grinning at me. “You’ll be grand. No need to worry.”

Saying I’m grand is as useless as the gh in Clodagh. An overused filler word in Ireland. If I’m not on that flight on Monday, I’ll be at risk of deportation and a life of hiding from immigration.

That’s not grand in any way.

These guys don’t get it. They’ve been illegal for years and have never been caught. But they’re also in their own New York prison. It’s one life or the other. Ireland or the States. If they ever board a flight home, it’s game over.

Which makes sense why all they do is talk about what’s happening in Ireland.

I don’t want the American Dream that way.

“If you’re that worried, do what everyone else who wants to be legal does,” Declan says, stuffing pretzels into his mouth while he talks. “Find somebody to marry you. Good-looking girl like you should have no bother.”

Declan’s grin widens into something more sinister as he swivels one-eighty in his stool.

Mr. Suit catches his gaze and lifts a brow.

I stiffen. No, Declan. Don’t play this game.

“Are ye looking for a nice young Irish wife?” Declan calls over to him loudly. “She’s very bendy, so she is—”

“Declan!” I yank on his arm as Liam growls at him to quieten down.

Christ on a bike.

My gaze locks with Mr. Suit, and my cheeks heat. “Ignore him.”

He looks pissed off at the attention. “If I were looking for a wife, this bar is the last place in New York I’d search.” Rude. Texan accent or somewhere down South. Yup, Mam would have kittens.

“It’s okay.” I smile thinly, internally reeling. I wouldn’t marry you either, buddy. “I don’t want a visa that badly.”

Mr. Suit returns a trace of a smile before focusing back on his phone.

“Let’s call marrying a random guy plan C,” Orla says with forced cheeriness. “We’ll find another option.”

Swallowing back the lump in my throat, I try not to let my eyes well up. It’ll only set Orla off. I’m out of options. All my eggs were in the ÉireAuPair4U basket.

Brainstorming with Orla brought up no other viable solutions other than the following.

A) Claim a dead American guy was my father.

B) Take a dead person’s identity.

Or C) get married to an American, obviously. Ideally, not an old guy with a comb-over.

“Drink The Auld Dog’s bad wine for the next seven days to forget I’m leaving,” I say, trying to make light of my sticky situation.

“No!” she wails. “I hate that plan. The guys are right. You can stay here. Loads of people are illegal.”

I give a tired sigh, averting my eyes from Orla. Annoyed from going around in circles with the same conversation. Staying illegally means I’d always be looking over my shoulder. And Nan is pushing eighty, even though she says she’s forty-two. I couldn’t live with myself if I couldn’t go back… if I lost her.

“Another pint of Guinness, please.” The dry voice from the corner catches me off guard.

“Right away, sir.” I pull Mr. Suit’s second Guinness as Orla comes out from behind the bar to move chairs around the tables. When there aren’t many customers, she’s like a bored child.

I take it over to him and set it down.

“Oh my God,” Orla murmurs. “Clodagh!”

She kneels on the next seat over with her nose squashed against the window. “The FBI’s outside!”

“The FBI?” Coming behind her, I look over her shoulder, my eyes adjusting to the sunlight streaming through the window.

Sure enough, an expensive car with tinted windows is parked outside. Two men wearing suits and earpieces lean against the car.

What does immigration look like? Do they do pub raids? Technically, I’m not supposed to be working on my holiday visa.

“Maybe Mafia!” Orla says excitedly.

“They’re drivers,” a low voice deadpans. “My drivers.”

My gaze shoots back to the other table. Mr. Suit’s lips curl in a hint of amusement.