Calories: 4,500.
Workout: 5 hours in total.
Steamed chicken: Starting to fantasize about frying, roasting, sautéing, grilling, braising, barbecuing...
*Ronan*
Six-thirty in the morning, and I’m staring at the screen of my laptop, pissed. The only reason I had the thing was so that I could email Lucy and Skype with her and Ma from time to time. Other than that, I wasn’t much of an Internet sort of bloke. When people asked me if I was on Facebook and I told them no, they looked at me like I was an alien from another planet.
I liked face-to-face interaction, wanted to be able to see, smell, and gauge people in the flesh. Screens to me were just flat black mirrors. They wiped out all of the most vital and exciting things about a person, giving you a bland, one-dimensional representation instead.
I made the concession of emailing Lucy because of the time difference when I was traveling. If I was somewhere like Australia, we were on opposite ends of the globe, and it was nearly impossible to find a decent hour that suited us both to talk over the phone.
Which brings us to the present and why I was looking at a highly offensive message from The Socialmedialite that had made its way to my inbox. I’d been under the assumption that the virtual pimp-slap I’d given her would be my triumphant last word. (Virtual pimp-slaps were allowed in my book; real-life ones, not so much.)
Within the space of two short paragraphs, she’d managed to squeeze in a cacophony of insults. I was yet again a hobbit/leprechaun, I stuffed my jocks with a tube sock, I drove a fast car to compensate for a small dick, and I was a fitting tribute to the short-fused, temperamental Irish stereotype.
Almost of their own accord, my hands were moving over the keyboard, clicking on “reply,” and furiously venting the anger I felt inside. Somehow I was channeling all of my hatred toward the media at this one faceless person. I didn’t think I’d ever typed so fast in my life. I’d written a long, meandering tirade of a paragraph when I looked back at it, immediately highlighted the entire thing, and then hit “delete.”
I wasn’t going to let this blogger know she was getting to me. I was going to be just as cutting as she was without conveying the fact that I gave a shit. Of course, strangely, I did give a shit, a whole lot of a shit. It wasn’t just my legendary quick temper, either, but I wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of knowing that.
So I took a deep breath, composed myself, and started from scratch.
March 11
Dear Socialmedialite,
It’s obvious that you live in a fantasy world for the following reasons:
1.) You believe in hobbits and leprechauns.
2.) You call your vagina a pot of gold.
3.) You think I’d ever be interested in your pot of gold.
4.) You believe a tube sock looks like a cock.
Ronan Fitzpatrick
P.S. Your xenophobia truly knows no bounds. Stereotypes are bullshit, but I guess it makes sense that you’d spout them, being the peddler of excrement that you are.
I sat back, flexed my hands, and hit “send,” feeling a rush of satisfaction as I wondered how she would react to my response. Trying not to delve too much into the notion that I might actually like fighting with this person, I quickly shot a message off to Lucy. I included a few things I thought she would potentially be interested in, mostly how I hated having to work with this PR company, but that there was a pretty girl named Annie who they were going to pair me up with, so it wasn’t a complete loss. Ever since Brona, Lucy had been trying to encourage me to get back into the dating scene, so I mentioned Annie purely to keep her happy. Thus far I’d had a couple of sordid one-night stands, and, as I said, that’s all I was after.
A brief memory of the soft, silky feel of Annie’s skin against my knuckles struck me, and it was a welcome distraction. The recollection was so visceral in its simplicity that I felt myself harden.
It had officially been too long since my last shag.
As I made my way into the gym and pulled my iPod from my pocket, I wondered how long it would take to lure Annie into shedding her clothes. They disguised her well, but I’d noticed the subtle curve of her waist and breasts. She would be exquisite when I got her bare, such a contrast to the plain, dowdy way in which I’m sure she thought most people perceived her. And despite the fact that it frustrated me, there was something about her timidity that appealed to me on a very base level. I could just imagine how easily she’d…submit.
My thoughts were making me way too excited for 8:00 a.m. I briefly considered a long shower instead of a workout, but I struggled onward. Perhaps hitting the treadmill extra hard would work off some of the sexual frustration. Firing up my iPod, I selected my favorite workout playlist and started at a slow jog. “The Final Countdown” came on, putting me instantly in the zone.
Mullets and questionably tight pants aside, the best music in the world was ’80s rock, and I had no qualms about admitting it. I didn’t want music that was maudlin and depressing—I wanted music that put me in a good mood and made the world look a little bit brighter.
Two hours later I was showered, dressed, and on my way to my second meeting at Davidson & Croft. Joan had scheduled it with me yesterday, assuring me that Annie would be there. And yeah, I had kind of made it a requirement for my participation and attendance. I mean, the only reason I was doing this was because I wanted to get to know her. If I could clean up my rep while getting into Annie’s curvaceous knickers, then I’d be one happy, sexually sated camper.
Much to my irritation, when I arrived at the offices, I was ushered into a small conference room with Rachel and Ian, and there was no Annie in sight.
“Where’s Annie?” I said, folding my arms and leveling my stare at Rachel. She seemed to be more open to chatting than the stern-faced Ian.
Rachel shuffled her papers. She looked a little nervous. “Oh, she might be in later. Annie doesn’t always work at the office.”
I leaned forward, eager for more information. “Where else does she work?”
“From home. Aside from Joan, none of us really know her that well, but from what I’ve heard, she’s a bit of a hermit. The brilliant ones are always a little odd, you know.”
“Brilliant ones?”
“Well, yeah, Annie can singlehandedly turn your public image around. Remember that Oscar winner who nearly ran over an eighty-year-old lady when he was drunk?”
“Eh, no….”
Rachel grinned. “Exactly. Annie buries the bad and either exalts or manufactures the good, placing accomplishments on a bright, shining pedestal—with a spotlight no one can ignore. I’ve never seen anything like it, and I’ve been in this business for a long time.”
I briefly wondered if Annie thought it was ethical to cover up stuff like that or if she just did it because it was her job. Something about her made me think that, unlike the privileged and distinguished background I was reported to have, Annie was a lot like me. Coming from nothing but trying to build a solid place in the world, willing to do things she didn’t necessarily agree with in order to survive. I bear the name Fitzpatrick, but I have never been accepted by my father’s family. They didn’t approve when my dad married my mother, a girl of no means and no social standing. So, when I was just a kid and he died in a car crash, they basically disowned me and Lucy.
I kept my voice disinterested, conversational, and pushed Rachel for more information. “Where’d she learn to do that?”
“She graduated top of her class at Wharton.” Rachel’s grin widened, like she was proud of Annie’s accomplishments.
“Wharton? Isn’t that Ivy League in the States? Like those twats from Cambridge and Oxford?” I knew I sounded unimpressed. I was disappointed at the thought that Annie was a blue blood.
Rachel shrugged, though she looked amused, like she was trying not to laugh. “Something like that.”
I scowled. “So, she’s a bit of a snob, then? Comes from a rich family?”
She vigorously shook her head. “God, no. Not at all. I think she grew up in Scranton.” Rachel wrinkled her nose as though the word “Scranton” tasted like piss. “She just likes to keep to herself, and like I said, she’s completely brilliant at what she does. She had her pick of firms around the world trying to win her over, but she chose us. That’s why Joan allows her eccentricities. We all know we’re lucky to have her.”
I stared at Rachel, thinking about all of this.
Growing up, we had very little. Ma had to work hard to put me through Belvedere, the same school Dad had attended, and I’d always be grateful to her for that. I wondered who had worked hard to help Annie go to Wharton.
“So, Mr. Fitzpatrick,” Ian began, all business, “Rachel and I have put together the preliminary proposal, and I’d like to run through it with you if that’s all right?”
“Sure, go ahead,” I replied, shrugging, and that was my cue to zone out.
Ian seemed to be slowly losing his temper as I continually clicked a pen while he spoke. He could get as angry as he wanted. Joan had promised me Annie would be here today. So I was feeling a little bit conned with the whole “no Annie” situation.
“We’d like you to attend a few high-profile film premieres and awards ceremonies over the coming weeks. Having you photographed on the red carpet will get you featured in magazines and on websites, put you on the radar, so to speak,” said Ian before glancing down at the papers in front of him and continuing under his breath, “so we should look into vetting potential dates for you.”
“Oh,” Rachel said excitedly, “I’m on good terms with Taylor Swift’s people. Perhaps I could get you an intro.” She glanced at Ian. “Is she single right now?”
Ian shrugged. On the inside, I was pissed at the idea of being set up like that; on the outside, I took the piss.
“You know who I’ve always had a thing for, that Rosie O’Donnell. You think she’d be up for a bit of the young stuff?”
Rachel obviously didn’t understand sarcasm because she gave me a confused look. “Um, I’m pretty sure she’s a lesbian. And that’s not really the image we’re going for. You need to date someone young and attractive, someone the press really likes.”
At that moment the door swung open, and Joan stuck her head in. “Hello again, Mr. Fitzpatrick. Are you being well taken care of?”
I cocked my head to her. “I thought Annie was going to be here.”
Joan frowned for a moment. “She was supposed to be.” She glanced at Ian. “Didn’t Annie show up today?”
“I haven’t seen her,” he replied.
“Well…isn’t that curious.” And with that she left the room.
I looked back to Rachel and Ian. “I think we’re done here.”
“But Mr. Fitzpatrick, we still have to go over the rest of the preliminary proposal. We haven’t even covered the social media front and the planned press releases, and I would like your input at some point, too.”
I was already standing up. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll go to the premieres and all that. Just give me a few days’ warning so that I can make sure I’m available.”
“Of course,” said Rachel.
Ian didn’t argue further. To be honest, I thought he was glad to see the back of me. As I was making my way to the elevators, I was cut off by Joan. It was funny how a five-foot-nothing woman could come across so foreboding. I stopped and looked down at her. I wasn’t glaring, and I wasn’t scowling; but I was definitely emanating hostility.
“We made a deal, Mrs. Davidson.”
“That we did, and the deal is still on,” she said and handed me a small white business card. “This has all of Annie’s contact details. She’s been unexpectedly busy today, but said she’d like you to give her a call so that the two of you can arrange to meet.”
I took the card, momentarily pacified, and stuck it in the back pocket of my jeans. “I’ll be sure to do that. You have a nice day.” I nodded and walked by her, continuing to the elevators. It was a long walk down the hallway. When I finally reached the corner, I saw a familiar figure wearing a gray coat hurry inside a car. She was mumbling to herself, but I couldn’t quite catch what she was saying. I jogged forward and slipped into the elevator just as the door closed.
When Annie saw I was the person who’d just entered, her eyes got all big, the same as they did yesterday. Then she looked away and studied the floor. She stood in the corner, and I stood about a foot away from her. She appeared to be wishing I’d give her some space, but somehow I wasn’t feeling charitable.
I’d ask myself what it was about her that made me want to get so close, but I already knew. She was incredibly beautiful and a perfect candidate to explore my baser needs with.
The elevator stood still, neither one of us having selected a floor yet. I stepped forward and hit the button for the lobby, hearing her exhale in relief and mutter indistinct words to herself again.
“Good to see you, Annie,” I said, smiling amiably. Not that the smile was having much effect since she wouldn’t look at me. The elevator started to descend.
“Yes, you, too,” she replied, lifting her eyes to me with a concerted effort.
I felt like I’d just been given a gift. Those eyes were unfathomably big and brown, like melted chocolate. I even thought I could see flecks of gold. After having spoken to Rachel, I was now beginning to understand that Annie might be a little bit socially phobic. Why else would she choose to work from home most of the time? And why else would she be so uncomfortable talking to me? It made something in my stomach tighten. Simultaneously, I both loved and hated her coming across so hunted just to be standing alone in an elevator with me.
The protector inside me was frowning while the predator soaked up her discomfort with glee.
Still, I wanted her to be relaxed. Okay, that was a lie. I wanted her to lose control, and I pondered how I might coax her into doing that. She was looking away again as I glanced at her sideways, considering. What I did next might have been a bad idea, but I had to see if pushing her boundaries would work. Since she was leaning against the wall in the corner, she was in the perfect position for me to cage her in.
Brazenly, I hit the “stop” button, and the elevator came to a shaky halt.
“What are you doing?” Annie asked, a hint of nerves causing her voice to rise.
I turned and stalked to her, placing my hands behind her on the wall of the lift over either side of her shoulders. My gaze wandered over her features—luscious lips, sweet nose, long lashes, fucking beautiful eyes that rapidly flickered between mine. I heard her breathing escalate.
Bending down a little so we were almost level, I lifted a hand from the wall and rubbed my thumb along her chin.
“I like you,” I stated.
She swallowed, her voice sounding rough and uneven. “Mr. Fitzpatrick, that button is only supposed to be pushed in case of an emergency.”
Obviously, I knew that, but I figured I’d deal with the consequences after getting a little taste of her. I wanted to sample those pretty lips.
“I’m living up to my bad-boy reputation, then, aren’t I?” I murmured, dropping a hand to her collarbone, the flat of my palm against her sternum. Her heart was racing. “Is your heart beating fast because you like it when I touch you or because you don’t?”
There was a momentary flash of temper in her expression. “Obviously, the latter.”
“Have dinner with me,” I said, ignoring her answer. My gaze wandered to her mouth, where she very briefly wetted her lips. I wondered if she was attracted to me but was trying to hide it.
“Of-of course we’ll be having dinner together.” She cleared her throat, and her eyes finally settled on mine. “Davidson and Croft frequently schedules client dinners.”
“I’m not talking about client dinners.”
She swallowed. “We’re going to be working together, so non-client dinners would be unprofessional.”
I brought my mouth closer to hers, and our breaths mingled as I said quietly, “Let’s be unprofessional together, Annie.”
Her eyes seemed to glaze over a little after I said it, making me grin, because it looked like she was imagining what that would be like. I wanted to be so fucking unprofessional with her, it wasn’t funny. Quickly, she righted herself, brought her hands to my chest, and pushed. I caught them, holding them in mine, my thumb brushing her inner wrist. She shivered. Her hands were shaking.
“Nothing can happen between us, Mr. Fitzpatrick.” She didn’t sound convinced.
“It’s already happening, Miss….” I paused, let go of one of her hands, and pulled the card Joan had given me out of my back pocket to read it. “Catrel.”
She focused on the business card, and panic flickered over her features before they hardened. “Who gave you that?”
“Joan,” I happily replied. “She wanted to make sure I’d be able to contact you directly, seeing as you were missing from the meeting today. I was very disappointed when you didn’t show.”
She tried to grab for the card, but I stepped back and held it out of her reach.
“Give that to me. You don’t need it. I’ll contact you if we ever have to meet,” she said desperately.
I chuckled as she advanced on me until I was the one backed into the opposite corner of the elevator. Her chest pushed into mine as she went up on her tiptoes, still swiping for the card. “Look at you, Annie; you’re all over me,” I teased.
Immediately, she backed away, scowling and folding her arms over her chest. “I don’t want you calling me unless it’s work related,” she said in defeat.
My devious smile told her I had absolutely no intention of sticking to that rule.
“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it,” I purred, lazily scanning her figure. Her coat was long and bulky, covering everything up. It was a good thing I had an active imagination.
“I bet you have a killer body under all those layers,” I said huskily, still in a teasing mood.
She blinked, and her mouth straightened into a firm line. “Some of us don’t feel it necessary to flaunt our looks, and I’m very happy with my layers.”
The remark was obviously aimed at me, and I didn’t know why she seemed so against being friendly. I wasn’t that bad of a guy. Well, not really. “That’s not what I meant. I was trying to pay you a compliment, Annie.”
My words were low, tender; my sincerity seemed to elicit a reaction in her. Her previous disgruntlement deflated. It was true. For whatever reason, I thought she was the perfect combination of genuine, beautiful, and sexy. I wasn’t used to genuine. She glanced at me, opened her mouth to say something, but then snapped it closed again.
Just then a voice crackled through the speakers, requesting to know why the elevator had been stopped.
“It’s nothing. We’re fine,” Annie said, clearing her throat again and talking into the speaker. “Can you start it back up, please?”
Seconds later, we were moving again. I took a step toward her, but the look she gave me said it would be a good idea to keep my distance. People started to get on and off, and once we reached the ground floor, Annie quickly scurried by me, rushed straight out of the lobby, and into a yellow cab. I didn’t mind her scarpering as I glanced down at the card I still held in my hand.
I had her number now, and I had every intention of using it.