Page 12 of Accidental Irish Daddy

I start and whirl around.

Standing in the hallway where Martha and Bridget just disappeared to is who I presume to be Mr. Duncan…and wow. He’s really…reallyfit.

Tall with brown hair and dark, brooding eyes. He’s got a slight bit of a five o’clock shadow, but the rest of him is incredibly neat and well-kept. His hair is cut short, and a little long on the top. It looks wavy…like it might curl up when it’s wet.

If the way his dress shirt and slacks are hanging on him are anything to go by, he’s athletic and muscular.

“Sorry,” I say, and it comes out like a whimper. I clear my throat.

Focus, Aisling.

I take a step forward, extending my hand out to him. “I’m here for the interview. I’m Aisling Sweeney.”

“Yes, of course.” He offers up a smile. It makes his entire face radiate.

I’ve got a feeling that he doesn’t do it often, though. “Please, accompany me to the parlor.”

I follow him as he leads me off to the left, through the living room and into another hallway, to a door that slides open.

The parlor looks more like a smaller, fancier living room. Two couches with a coffee table in the center, an antique-looking chair in the corner next to a bookcase that reaches all the way up to the ceiling. On the walls, there are old paintings that look like they were done centuries ago, similar to the ones in the hall. These depict other things, though, not just portraits. One of them looks like some kind of summer gathering where everyone is just sitting out on the green grass and lying in the sun wearing their Sunday best.

When I look a little closer at it, it looks like the entire thing is just colored dots.

“Please have a seat.” He directs me to one of the couches.

I sit and he sits on the other side. I clasp my hands on my lap and try hard not to fidget under his intense, serious gaze.

“So, how long have you worked in healthcare?” he questions.

“For a few years now,” I reply. “I went to school for it and started working straight away. I’ve worked in hospitals and nursing homes. First, I was a volunteer, though. When I was in high school. I think they used to call it being a ‘candy striper’? Anyways, I worked in hospitals, then shifted over to nursing homes. That was something, working in nursing homes—”

“Right.” He chuckles. “Wee nervous, are you?”

My face turns into a furnace.

Dammit. I’m being a chatterbox again. “Sorry. Is it that obvious?”

He nods. It’s a quick tilt of the head, his eyebrows raised.

God, I’m so embarrassed.

“I just…I love being a nurse, is all,” I say. “It’s the one thing I’ve always wanted to do.”

“I see. The resume you sent over shows you’ve been exposed to a lot of different environments. That’s good. Shows you’re prepared for anything.”

I just nod and smile.

He doesn’t have my resume in front of him.

I’ve never been to an interview where they didn’t at least have a clipboard to refer to.

“Speaking of which,” he goes on, “you listed your last job as St. Angelica. How did you like working for them?”

It was fine until they fired me over a morality clause. I’m not even sure if that’s legal.I don’t say any of that. Instead, I say, “It was an enlightening experience. I got quite a bit of hands-on training in palliative care in particular.”

“That’s good,” he says with a smile. “I noticed Martha walking in with a little girl. Is she yours?”

I pause, a little taken off guard by the sudden shift in topics.

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