Calories: 4,000.

Workout: 4.5 hours in total.

Eggs: Could go to my grave quite happily without ever seeing another one.

 

 

*Ronan*

I’d just finished doing fifty chin-ups when the phone started ringing.

And if that wasn’t the opening line of a narcissistic arsehole, then I didn’t know what was. I’d spent way too much time around privately educated, privileged rugby brats, and their ways had finally rubbed off on me.

At least I didn’t say I was getting my pump on.

Anyway, I’m not a narcissistic arsehole. However, I might be a bull-headed idiot with too short a fuse who lets his temper get the better of him when there just so happen to be paparazzi hanging about, but that’s a story for another day. Or you could go out and pick up a tabloid.

Yeah, I was going through a bitter patch, but I had every right. I was sick of my private life being splashed all over the papers. Somehow, I’d never connected the idea of being good at a sport with the possibility of becoming a “celebrity.”

I understood my role; I did my best for my league and for the sport. I knew what rugby needed from me, and I wasn’t planning on letting anyone down. But if there was one thing I hated in this world, it was people who wrote about other people’s personal lives for a living. Those people could all do with taking a dive off a very high building, in my opinion.

You see, bitter.

Picking up a towel, I wiped the sweat from my neck then went to pick up the phone. My little sister Lucy’s face was flashing on the screen which made me less hesitant to answer. I thought it might be my publicist, Sam, with some new instructions on how I could clean up my public image, and I was in no mood for that shite.

“Luce, how’re you doing?” I said as I held the phone to my ear and looked out at the Manhattan skyline before me. Some people might have been well up for living in a penthouse apartment in the center of New York, and yeah, it was my choice to come here; but I hadn’t anticipated there would be nowhere to drive. Driving was one of the only things that kept me sane. Me and my 1969 Chevy Camaro and the open road. No stress, just miles and pure freedom. Ah, that was the life.

I should have done my research.

In order to make up for the lack of driving, I’d been working out more than usual, which was always a good thing when you played professional rugby for a living. Well, technically I was suspended from the team; but fingers crossed I’d be back in a couple of months, and I wanted to return fighting fit. You wouldn’t think it to see the dark, moody eyebrows I was sporting, but I was a silver-lining sort of bloke. It wasn’t my intention to be irritable; life had just dealt me a crap hand lately.

“Morning, bro. You sound out of breath. Did I catch you at a bad time?” Lucy replied. There was something about her tone that put me on edge. Usually she was cheerful and upbeat. The girl was full of sunshine. Right now she sounded hesitant, and, almost as if I was having a moment of foresight, I knew I wasn’t going to like the reason why.

“Timing’s perfect. How’s everything at home?”

“Oh, you know, the usual. Ma’s still spending too much money on clothes. I’m trying to teach her that material possessions don’t equal happiness. It’s a work in progress.”

Ever since I’d made the big time, my mother had acquired expensive tastes. I didn’t mind. My mother and my sister were the only real family I had. If my money could give them a good life, then I was all for it.

I chuckled softly. “It’s not like she’s snorting cocaine, Luce. She likes dresses. What woman doesn’t?”

“There are so many things wrong with what you just said, I don’t even know where to start, Ronan.”

My smile grew. I always enjoyed baiting her. “What? Girls like pretty things. It’s a known fact.”

“You know what, I don’t even feel bad about what I have to tell you now. Take out your computer. There’s something you need to see.”

My smile vanished and was instantly replaced with a frown as I walked through the penthouse to find my laptop. I flipped it open and brought up a new window. “What is it this time? Has Brona been spreading her lies again?” I asked.

“No, no, it’s nothing like that. It’s actually kind of funny. I read this blog all the time because I love the girl who writes it. At least, I think it’s a girl. It could very well be an old bald fellow in a basement with a pet rabbit. It’s called New York’s Finest, and you were featured on Saturday. Only get this, she thinks you’re Colin Farrell. How hilarious is that?”

My frown slowly disappeared as I typed in the name of the website and brought it up. Being mistaken for a famous Irish actor when you were in fact a famous Irish rugby player was positively whimsical when compared with some of the PR disasters I’d experienced of late. Then the article popped up, and I was frowning again.

There was a picture of me standing by the bar at my mate Tom’s restaurant last week, signing autographs for a couple of women. It looked like it had been taken from a low angle, as though the person who took it was sitting at a table. It was a completely unexceptional picture until you factored in the plethora of red arrows that surrounded it, each one pointing to some perceived flaw in my appearance.

Apparently, I chose my outfit while drunk, my footwear was disturbing, and my cock and balls were on display. I scowled and tried not to get pissed. I was going to give myself high blood pressure if didn’t quit getting so worked up about the media. Still, it was irritating how this blogger had totally ripped into what I was wearing. Clothing for me was all about function. I wore what was best for training purposes and gave not one iota of shit what I looked like.

Scrolling down, there was a short article written by someone who referred to themselves as The Socialmedialite, who called me both a leprechaun and a hobbit, and then went on to suggest I invest in a cup. Well, when I say “me,” I mean Colin Farrell because that’s who this person thought I was, which is ridiculous because I barely even look like him.

“Oh, you so look like him, Ronan,” Lucy disagreed down the line, and I realized I’d said that out loud.

“I don’t. This blogger is an idiot if she can’t see how much I don’t look like him. I bet she does her research on flipping Wikipedia, the amateur.”

I scrolled down the page to the next post to see she’d snapped a photo of Bradley Cooper getting out of his car in workout clothes. There was a wet stain on his pants that was obviously sweat or spilled liquid. Nevertheless, The Socialmedialite had composed an article containing a list of possibilities as to how the stain had occurred. Some of the stories were way too detailed which made me think she was in serious need of a life. A number of readers had even commented below with their own scenarios. One person thought his personal groomer had tried to foist a bottle of clove oil on him to shave his face, and Bradley had swiped away the offending article, stating he would never shave off the source of all his sexy power, thus resulting in the stain.

Seriously, some people.

“This site is ridiculous,” I muttered while Lucy snickered in response. “It’s not even funny. And sausage is more German than Irish.”

“What are you talking about? It’s hilarious. It objectifies men in the same way women have been objectified for centuries. Turnabout is fair play, you know.”

“It’s stupid. And anyway, I’m way too tall to be a hobbit.” I stood up and walked over to look at myself in the mirror. At five feet eleven inches, I thought I was a decent height for a man.

“Oh, wow. Vanity, thy name is Ronan. She’s already getting to you, isn’t she? And she called you a hobbit because of those godawful shoes you were wearing.”

“My trainer suggested them,” I grumbled. “Don’t you have your yoga class to be getting to this morning?”

“Yes, I do, cranky. You’re obviously taking this all the wrong way. Don’t you know that the ability to laugh at oneself is the most desirous quality of all?”

“Not really in a laughing mood these days, Luce,” I replied gloomily and pulled a bottle of water from the fridge.

I could hear her sigh down the line. “I know. I’m sorry. I was trying to cheer you up. Promise I was. How is everything in the Big Apple? You settling in okay?”

“Don’t apologize. I’m a grumpy old bastard. And yes, I’m settling in fine. My car arrived yesterday which was kind of a cruel joke since all I can do here is sit in traffic. I should never have let Tom talk me into taking time off in New York. I wanted to go to Canada, get lost in the mountains or something.”

“Yeah, that would’ve been cool. But at least this way you get to go see the naked cowboy.”

“I don’t know who or what that is, but I think I’ll pass.”

“Spoilsport. I was looking forward to a picture of the two of you. Anyway, I’d better get going.”

“Okay, take care, Luce. I love you.”

She made a kissy sound into her phone that nearly deafened me. “Love you, too!”

The moment I hung up, my phone began ringing again, and this time it was Sam, my PR agent. I briefly considered ignoring the call but knew he’d have a fit if I didn’t answer. The man was more highly strung than Margaret Thatcher on the rag, God rest her.

“Sam, what can I do for ya, bud?”

“Oh, it’s more a matter of what I can do for you, my friend. But first, did you see were featured on New York’s Finest Saturday?”

Seriously, I felt like I was stuck in Groundhog Day, and that film always got on my tits. “Yeah, my sister already had the good grace to inform me.”

“Well, I don’t know why you sound so glum about it. This is a big deal, Ronan. You’re virtually unknown over in the States. This could be the thing that helps you crack America. I can just see it now, a picture of you reclining in a pair of tighty whiteys advertising for Calvin Klein on the side of a skyscraper.”

“Fuck, man. Are you a psychic? How did you know that’s my one true dream?”

I could practically hear him pursing his lips in irritation. “I’m going to ignore your sarcasm because I have more news, and I don’t have time for your pissy attitude. I have a friend who works for Davidson & Croft Media there in New York, and they’re just itching to meet you. They think they can re-brand you. Clean up your image. You know, turn you into the David Beckham of rugby.”

“Again, do you have a crystal ball, because this shit is positively clairvoyant.”

“They want to meet you today at one. I’m emailing you directions,” he said impatiently.

I glanced at the clock. “It’s already half past eleven. I have to shower, and the traffic in this city is a nightmare. Can we re-schedule?”

What I really wanted to say was, Can we forget about it altogether? But I still had some sense of professionalism, and yeah, I guessed working with this agency could probably do me some good. It would be like pulling teeth, but I knew anything worth doing was usually difficult. I ended the call and went to hop in the shower. I was in and out in less than ten minutes and made quick work of getting dressed. When I walked by my computer, I noticed that the website was still open, and I had a sudden urge to vent.

It seemed like my life was being controlled by faceless people sitting behind computers writing stories about me, and I was sick of it. Sam always coached me to have a “no comment” policy on this kind of thing, but I wanted to have my say for once.

Months of silence meant I had a lot to get off my chest, after all.

So I sat down in front of my laptop, opened up a fresh email, and began to type. Fuck it if I was late to the meeting. If these people were so eager to see me, they could wait.

 

March 10

Dear Socialmedialite,

Just thought I’d enlighten your vacuous little mind as to a few things.

1.)     I’m not Colin Farrell, I’m Ronan Fitzpatrick. Go look me up. It’ll make for some colorful reading.

2.)    Your fixation on the minute details of the male form leads me to believe that one, you have no life, and two, you have not been laid in a loooong time.

3.)    I think that if you’re going to make these kinds of judgments on the appearance of others, then you should at least be open about who you are. Anonymity is the choice of cowards.

My suggestions:

1.)     You actually do your research and make sure that when you think you’re getting a picture of Colin Farrell, it’s actually Colin Farrell. FYI: Ear-wigging on the conversation of a group of giggling women does NOT constitute research.

2.)    Go out and have a drink. Talk to a guy. Let somebody fuck you. You’ll be amazed by what clearing those cobwebs can do for your frame of mind.

3.)    Put up a picture. Tell everyone who you are. Let’s see if you can handle people criticizing your looks the same way you criticize theirs.

You’re welcome.

Ronan Fitzpatrick

 

And send.

That felt good.

I quickly made a note of the address Sam had sent me and then went to catch a cab. Arriving at the agency’s building, I stared up at the high-rise before walking in and announcing my presence to the receptionist. She was a slim, attractive blonde and immediately gave me the glad eye after she took in my appearance. If I was the same guy I was at twenty-two, I’d have been in there like swimwear. Unfortunately, I was a cynical, disillusioned twenty-seven-year-old with no patience for women and their wiles. Right now, all I was on the market for was no-strings sex. For years I’d been faithful to Brona, and then she’d gone and shoved my fidelity in my face by shoving my teammate’s cock down her throat.

But maybe Brona did me a favor. My vision was now remarkably clear. These women were all glittery, seductive eyes and shallow propositions. All I could see was another version of her: superficial, dim-witted, materialistic fame-whores, looking for a place to hitch their star, only out for what they could get. Not surprisingly, that was enough to deflate even the most determined hard-on.

“I’m looking for Davidson & Croft. Can you help me out” —I glanced at her name tag before finishing— “Stephanie?”

She smiled, all white teeth and glossy lips, before giving me instructions to take the elevator up to the twelfth floor. When I finally reached the busy offices, a handler was waiting for me—more glossy lips and white teeth. I checked out her arse as I was led to a room where several people were sitting around a table, dressed in smart business clothes. I looked completely out of my place in my dark brown leather jacket, boots, jeans, and a plain black T-shirt.

They all stood the moment I entered, and a short woman who, I shit you not, looked like Danny DeVito in drag came and offered me her hand.

“Mr. Fitzpatrick,” she said in a voice that was surprisingly feminine, given her appearance. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Joan Davidson, and these are my associates, Rachel Simmons and Ian Timor. Come, have a seat.”

I sized her up quickly. She was definitely the one in charge; there was just something imposing—almost intimidating— about her despite her size.

“Same to you, Joan. And you can call me Ronan.”

I nodded hello to Rachel and Ian before sitting down as instructed. A moment of silence ensued as I cleared my throat, leaned forward, and steepled my fingers in front of me on the table.

Joan tapped a finger on her chin as she contemplated me. “So, Ronan. I have to say, I’m very interested in working with you. I’ve been in this business for a long time, and I love a challenge. I’ve been acquainting myself with the details of your career, and what I’ve learned leads me to believe we could make a big difference working together. So, what would you like to achieve with us? I want to know your vision so that we can help you actualize it. We like to tailor the experience here at Davidson & Croft to the individual.”

I let out a long sigh. “I’ll be straight with you, Joan—my agent back home sprang this meeting on me just over an hour ago. Publicity isn’t my thing. I’m an athlete, and I don’t get the whole media circus that’s been surrounding my life lately. I just want to play rugby and be left alone.”

“Well, that’s positively boring,” Joan chuckled, soliciting grins from the thus far silent Rachel and Ian, and a glower from me. “And being left alone isn’t an option, I’m afraid. You’re the bad boy of rugby, the one all the girls swoon over.”

I grimaced. “Yes, I understand what’s expected. I’m aware of what the league is hoping to accomplish through me, but I’d like for it to be about how I play the sport on the field.”

She continued as though I hadn’t spoken, “The problem is you’re a little too bad right now. We need to make you clean bad, acceptable bad. We want you to be Mark Wahlberg, not Charlie Sheen. We want to reform you. Think Robert Downey, Jr., but younger and without any prison time.”

Rubbing at the back of my neck, I replied, “You see, this is the problem. All of what you just said went right over my head, love.” I was playing dumb, and it seemed that Joan was shrewd enough to sense that.

“You hospitalized one of your teammates, Ronan.”

My jaw tightened. Who did this woman think she was speaking to? “So what?”

“That’s not a good thing.”

“That’s rugby.”

“Usually it’s supposed to be an opponent, isn’t it? Not one of your own.”

I shrugged. “Usually. But this time I made an exception because he slept with my fiancée.”

She waved me away. “There’s no need to be defensive. I’m here to remedy you, not incite you.”

I blinked at her. She was here to remedy me?

Joan smiled. “Look, what you did was bad, but it’s not the worst thing you could’ve done. The more time that passes, the more people will forget. And you’d be surprised how easily that can be done. We get you seen going on a date with a much-loved actress, maybe giving a donation to a charity or two, and the tarnish on your reputation will begin to disappear. What do you say?”

I frowned at her and worked my jaw. This whole thing was making me itch, and I needed to get out of there. “I say I need to take a piss.”

Joan didn’t bat an eyelid at my harsh response. “Very well. The bathrooms are located at the end of the hall, the blue door on the right.”

The one named Rachel stood like she was going to escort me to the head. I glared at Joan, who apparently understood my irritation because she waved at Rachel to sit and shook her head.

I swiftly rose from my chair and left the room. Stomping down the hallway, I stopped midway to the end and ran a hand over my face. I was ridiculously tired. I wasn’t sleeping like I used to. I thought that spending a couple of months in a place far from where I came from would work, help me to detach from everything that had happened. Too bad my brain didn’t know how to shut off.

Finding the bathroom, I quickly relieved myself and then began to make my way back to the meeting. I was passing by what looked to be the staff break room when I paused, considering ditching this whole thing and heading out to Tom’s place for a while.

Glancing through the door, I saw a dark-haired woman sitting at a table. I noticed she had a cup of tea in front of her as she brought a cream cake to her mouth for a bite.

Her full lips curved to one side in a pleased smile laced with blatant anticipation. I’d never seen someone look so hot for a confectionary before. It was kind of sexy; and I’m not sure why, but it made me smile the first full-on smile I’d had in weeks.

Then she opened her mouth, setting the soft, sweet cake on her pink tongue, and I nearly groaned. Kind of sexy transformed into fucking hot. I didn’t know this woman at all, but I briefly wondered if she was up for a bit of no-strings fun.

I must have made some movement to alert her to my presence because she looked up quickly, big brown eyes widening when she saw me. She swallowed just as a glob of cream fell from the cake and plopped right onto her top.

I chuckled, mostly to mask my voyeurism, and took a step into the room. “Messy bastards, those éclairs.”

She just kept on staring at me, her eyes getting bigger and bigger by the second. I waited a few beats for her to say something, but she seemed stunned to silence. Fuck, I could tell she recognized me.

Of its own accord, my gaze wandered over her form, or what I could see of it: lush hips, full-figured but not fat. She wore a brown skirt, black tights, and a big gray top, her dark brown hair in a neat bun. Her clothes were plain. As I took in her face properly, though, I realized that she didn’t need any glitz. She was incredibly striking in a very natural way. Especially since her cheeks and the ridge of her pretty nose were turning bright pink.

Lowering her eyes, her black lashes a stark contrast to her peachy skin, she picked up a napkin and began furiously rubbing the cream from her top. She was just making matters worse. I walked over to her, knelt down, and took the napkin from her hand. She actually flinched when I touched her. Jesus.

“Let me help. The idea is to dab, not rub,” I said, getting all up in her space. I sneaked my hand under her top to pull out the material so that I could clean it. My knuckles brushed against her stomach, and I heard her suck in a harsh breath. Her skin was beautifully soft. I dabbed at the fabric, and the air in the room seemed to thicken. It lasted only a moment before she tentatively pushed my hand away from her, grabbed the napkin, and pulled back.

“I can manage on my own, thank you.” Her tone was impeccably polite, her cheeks now full-on red. She was definitely embarrassed. I had gotten a little too close. When I was drawn to someone, though, I often forgot about boundaries.

“I’m Ronan,” I said and presented my hand. Her gaze flickered to it for a brief moment, and I watched as she gathered a deep breath, almost like she was summoning courage. She fit her fingers in mine quickly, giving me a firm shake.

Her hand was soft and warm. It also shook as she withdrew it hastily.

“Annie,” she said, so quietly I almost didn’t hear. Her eyes barely settled on mine before she looked away again. Her lovely, pale throat was working without swallowing.

“It’s nice to meet you, Annie.” Christ, she was pretty. It was too bad she looked like she was going to have a heart attack if I didn’t leave soon.

Her skin was flawless, radiant. But her clothes became a source of irritation; she might as well have been wearing a tent. I wanted to see the shape of what lay beneath.

She also seemed a tiny bit apprehensive. Perhaps she thought I was a psycho who beat up his friends and put them in hospital. I never knew what people had read about me or what they believed.

When she had gotten most of the stain out, her eyes shot to mine, and there was something guarded and defensive in them, almost like she was bracing herself for a fight. “Can I help you with something?”

Deciding to hell with it, I went all in. I hadn’t felt an attraction to anyone in months, so I wasn’t going to let her slip through my fingers. “Your number would be a good start,” I said in a low voice.

Her eyes widened again, and it was obvious I’d caught her completely off guard. Quickly, the vulnerability was gone; it was replaced first with flustered confusion and then hardened resolve. “No.”

Her single-word denial made me frown. Before I could ask Annie if she was already seeing someone, Joan walked into the room. “Ah, Ronan. I thought we’d lost you on your way back from the bathroom.”

“Just getting to know your lovely employee here,” I said, giving Annie a flirtatious wink. She looked like she wanted to flip me the bird, but she couldn’t since her boss was standing right there.

“Oh, Annie is our brightest and best,” said Joan with an expression that showed she truly respected the woman. Then she paused for a second as though struck by a thought. “You know, tell me if this sounds crazy, but I just had an idea.” She glanced at me. “Ronan, you said you were clueless when it comes to publicity, and Annie here is a whiz at cultivating a popular online presence for our clients. I think I need to pair you two up. Annie can teach you the social media ropes, show you how to play the game, while our team gets to work on revitalizing your public image.”

“You know what, Joan, I think that’s a brilliant idea.” I beamed at her. Of course I did. If it meant spending time with this gorgeous Annie, then I’d suffer through the nausea that social networking presented. And honestly, in a way, her rejection was refreshing. Most women saw my wealth and my fame and instantly had dollar signs flashing in their eyes.

Annie didn’t seem so keen on the idea of teaming up, and okay, maybe I could understand her hesitation. I’d practically groped her under the guise of helping her get out a stain, but still, she looked like she found me about as appealing as second-hand underpants.

She cleared her throat, which I noticed was still red with embarrassment, and spoke up. “I’m very busy at the moment, Joan. Perhaps somebody else could help.”

Joan waved away her protestations. “Nonsense. Tell Rachel to take some of your workload, free up your schedule. I think you two will work well together. I just have a feeling.”

There was something in Joan’s expression that brooked no further argument, and Annie seemed resigned as she nodded her acquiescence, her big brown eyes flickering to mine and then to her teacup.

Joan clapped her hands together. “Wonderful! Come with me, Ronan, and we’ll figure out a schedule.” As the tiny woman led me from the room, I gave Annie one final heated smile.

This day was looking up already.