March 17

1:14 a.m.

Dear Ronan,

I’m not ignoring your last message, but I’m writing you now because I wanted to be the one to tell you before you found out from someone else. This article (attached) hasn’t been published yet, but it will be in tomorrow’s newspaper, and shortly after that all over the gossip sites. As you read it, you’ll see that your ex-girlfriend is accusing you of domestic violence and years of emotional abuse. I have a friend at the paper who sends me celebrity stuff before it’s in print.

Please don’t react! You should probably make a few benign posts on Twitter today, maybe about your boring diet (take pictures) or about your friend Tom’s restaurant. I will also be happy to tweet back and forth with you about something related to your charity.

Just…don’t react to it. She sounds completely crazy. If you react, you’ll be playing right into her hands.

Sincerely, Secretly Miss. Lonelyheart

 

*Annie*

My internal debate lasted from the time I went to bed at 1:30 a.m. until I awoke from a fitful sleep at 7:13 a.m.

Then it lasted two minutes more. I could stay at home and work and ignore my worry about Ronan and his spiteful ex-girlfriend, wait to be contacted by the office once the story was printed; or I could go into work, break the news to Joan, and have him called in for a damage-control meeting.

Ultimately, I gave into the urge to seek out Ronan. I justified it to myself by recalling that he wasn’t just any client. We’d been partnered, and Joan wanted me to be more present in the office. Plus, I could use it as an opportunity to return the necklace.

When I arrived at the office Monday morning, the streets were already crowded with people setting up for New York’s St. Patrick’s Day parade. I wasn’t scheduled to be in the office until Wednesday and may have been checking both my work account and my Socialmedialite email account obsessively on the way in, hoping he would email one of us. I was also checking his Twitter feed, hoping he didn’t plan to retaliate publically.

As soon as I arrived, I went to Joan’s office. Her assistant told me she’d arrived an hour ago but was currently in a meeting. I asked that she call me as soon as she had a free moment and then I retreated to my office.

I was able to get some work done. Focusing on the beginnings of an action plan to counter Brona O’Shea’s propaganda was a good way to channel my restless energy, but I continued to check my emails.

At 9:00 a.m. on the dot, my cell phone chimed. I grabbed it and saw that the number listed was the phone line from the main conference room.

I stood as I answered it. “Uh, hello?”

“Annie, are you online yet?” Joan’s voice arrived with a slight echo; I knew I was on the speakerphone in the conference room.

“Yes, I’m online.”

“Good. Listen, the Times is running a story today on Ronan Fitzpatrick, and it’s…well, I’ll let you read it. It’ll be all over the place by this afternoon. The point is we need to come up with a plan. I’ll need you in the office today.”

“Oh, well—”

She cut me off. “You should know I’m sitting here with Rachel, Becky, Gerta, and Ian. Mr. Fitzpatrick is on his way. How soon can you get here?”

I cleared my throat, a ripple of excitement running through me at the news that Ronan was already on his way. I’d be spending time with him today. I wished it were under different circumstances, but I couldn’t deny that I was excited to see him. My hand smoothed down the length of my knee-length black dress. Like the other clothes Joan had purchased, it fit me like it was made for my body yet was completely appropriate for the office. I’d paired it with a cropped pink cardigan and black velvet heels.

“I saw the article early this morning. I’ve put together a basic action plan and can send it to the team. Basically, my take on the situation is that we need to pair him up as soon as possible. We need an appropriate and steady date for him, and we need to step up the public appearances, both with the date and without.”

“I agree.” This came from Ian. “Those were my sentiments exactly. We need to pair him with someone the media will love, someone with credibility and the opposite of Brona O’Shea, and give them plenty of romantic photo-ops. A new love interest will bury this story. We’re going to have to scrap the earlier plan for multiple partners, at least for now.”

I swallowed a sudden bitterness in my throat and tried to focus on the plan, the good of the client. “Ronan is interested in charities for disadvantaged children. I know the program director for Sports Stars, and I know she’d love to have Ronan for events.” This was mostly true. The Socialmedialite knew the program director for Sports Stars. Either way, the charity focused on pairing sports celebrities with at-risk youth, and The Socialmedialite had orchestrated several introductions in the past. The program director owed me a favor. The group was great for photo-ops and positive press.

“We need a final list of candidates by the end of the day, Ian.” Joan’s voice held an edge, and I could almost see his pained expression. “And no actresses or models or spoiled, rich brats. We don’t want any drama. Profile women in sports or a professional type who is looking for career advancement. We need someone serious, so this Brona will look frivolous in comparison. Maybe check with the district attorney’s office, see if they have any up-and-coming legal stars with an eye on politics. But she’s got to be gorgeous because no one will care if she isn’t gorgeous.”

“So a smart, serious, gorgeous professional woman who doesn’t mind pretending to date a foul-mouthed, obnoxious Irish rugby player whose trashy ex-girlfriend is accusing him of domestic violence…did I get that right?” Ian’s sarcasm was so heavy I wondered that we weren’t all crushed by the weight of it.

“Just get it done, Ian. We need someone now.” Then Joan turned her attention back to me, and her voice softened. “Listen, Annie. I really need you in the office when Mr. Fitzpatrick arrives. If you can head him off and assure him we have a plan, I think it will go a long way toward easing the Rugby League International people. The story broke last night in Ireland. It was all over the evening papers, and to say that they’re having a meltdown is an understatement.”

“Yes.” I nodded, pacing my office. “Yes, I can do that. I’ll speak with him when he arrives.”

“Thanks, Annie. Send out your action plan to the team, and Ian will fill in the blanks for the candidates,” Joan said and then clicked off the call.

I pulled the phone away from my ear and scrolled through my Socialmedialite email account again, looking for a message from Ronan. Still nothing.

My stomach growled just then, and I realized with some fascination that I’d skipped breakfast. This was highly unusual. I loved breakfast food. I especially loved waffles. I never got twisted up and distracted by client drama; but then, I’d never kissed a client before, and I’d never emailed back and forth using actual words instead of infographics.

I allowed myself to think about the kiss. My fingers drifted to my lips. I touched them, recalling the feel of his mouth against mine, his hands on my legs, my fingers fisting in his shirt, the way he smelled, how he tasted.

The kiss.

My body warmed at the memory, and I leaned against my desk because my knees felt a little wobbly and—double doughnut dammit—that man was an excellent kisser.

But more than that, we’d connected in some rudimentary way last Thursday over lunch. Hearing about his childhood, listening to him speak, how open he was, how guileless and willing to trust…he made me want to trust. I hadn’t wanted to trust anyone since I foolishly entrusted my virginity to the high school quarterback on prom night. The night had been so stereotypical in its tragedy and disappointment, thinking about it now made me both laugh and cringe.

I’d been so stupid.

People couldn’t be trusted.

Waffles, however, never let me down or dumped me the morning after. I could count on waffles.

I decided all at once that I needed waffles…or an éclair…and peppermint tea. Maybe I would message WriteALoveSong and see what she was up to…

I grabbed my black clutch wallet and bolted for the door, not really paying attention to the occupants of the hallway as I made my way to the elevators. I pressed the call button, then checked the messages on my phone again. Peripherally, I was aware of the ding of the elevator. Without glancing away from my email, I took a single step toward the lift.

“Annie.”

I stopped short, recognizing Ronan’s voice immediately, and glanced up just as he stopped directly in front of me. He was coming off the elevator and he looked…awful. He looked upset and irritated and frayed. His hair was wet, but he hadn’t shaved. The dark shadow of his stubble mirrored the worry shadows under his eyes. He was wearing a white T-shirt and jeans and his black leather jacket.

He looked just as yummy as an éclair but with an aura of dark vulnerability that made me want to cuddle him and make him tea and kiss him a lot. These feelings were alarming as I’d never done these things for someone, nor had anyone—well, since I was six—ever done them for me.

“Ronan….” I breathed, automatically reaching for his hand and searching his gloomy expression. “Are you okay?”

He grimaced. “You saw it, then? You saw the story?”

I nodded as he exhaled an audible breath.

“Don’t worry, we’re going to—”

“It’s all lies! I would never do that; I would never fucking—”

I covered his mouth, holding his gaze for a beat, then walked him backward onto the elevator, grateful that we were the only ones in the lift.

When the doors slid shut, I lowered my hand and pressed the button for the lobby. He caught my fingers, and his eyes never left mine.

“You have to know. I would never do those things. I would never hurt a woman. I would never lock someone away in a room and…fuck, she is so fucking crazy!” His growly exclamation and expletives betrayed his obvious frustration. He looked like he wanted to tear something or someone apart, but I reflected that big, strong, powerful guys like him must always look that way when they’re angry. His body was made for force and action, but that didn’t mean he would actually do anything.

Except, my brain reminded me, he did beat the crap out of his teammate and does regularly beat the crap out of guys on the rugby field….

I squeezed his hand. “You’re right—she is crazy. But don’t worry. We have a plan.”

He frowned at me, giving me a sideways glance laced with suspicion. “What kind of plan?”

Before I could answer, the doors parted and announced our arrival to the lobby. He looked away from me, and I saw that his eyes were rimmed with sorrow and something else, something like helplessness.

Maybe it was because of our amazing kiss last week, or maybe it was because of the emails he’d been trading with me as The Socialmedialite, but I felt protective of him, possessive. I wanted to keep him safe; I wanted to cheer him up. But I was clumsy at real-life interactions. I didn’t know what to do, what to say, how to be anything other than quiet, because when I spoke my thoughts, disaster and weirdness were usually close behind.

Acting on instinct, because I wanted to give him comfort, I tugged him out of the elevator, slid my hand into the crook of his elbow, and walked close to his side.

“Come with me, and I’ll tell you about it. I haven’t had breakfast yet, and I’m starving.”

He glowered at the glass doors leading to the street, the set of his jaw stern and surly. “I’ve already eaten.”

“Then you can watch me eat.” After I finished making the suggestion, I grimaced, and my cheeks warmed. That sounded really strange. Why would he want to watch me eat?

He moved just his eyes to mine. They were almost completely hidden beneath his thick, dark lashes, and I was pleased to see his expression soften with curiosity. “What are you going to eat?”

“Uh, I was thinking about an éclair.” My words were quietly spoken because they were somewhat embarrassing.

The first time he saw me, I was eating an éclair. He was probably going to consider me obsessed with éclairs, which was true. I was obsessed with éclairs. 

His mouth crooked to the side. “Yeah, okay. That might be fun.”

His answer was surprising; his assent sounded completely genuine, like he actually thought watching me eat would be fun. I couldn’t help my small answering smile.

“Okay. Good.”

“Good.” He grinned, his eyes moving over my face.

I was so busy being lost in his truly magnificent bone structure and gently curving smile and warm eyes that reminded me of chocolate fondue and chocolate ganache and chocolate everything that I tripped as we exited the building.

“Gah—shit!” I lurched forward, stumbling and reaching out with my free hand.

Ronan caught me before I could make a cement face-plant and turned me toward him; he held my upper arms to keep me steady.

“Whoa, are you all right?”

I nodded, scowling at my clumsiness. “Sorry, I’m just obviously…. I’m not good at walking…sometimes.”

“Well, you can’t be good at everything,” he teased.

I felt my scowl give way, and I rolled my eyes. “Yes, of course it would be too much to expect that I’d be a proficient walker.”

“Luckily for you, I’m quite gifted at walking. Here,” he said, sliding his arm around my shoulders and pressing me close to his side, “if I hold you like this, then you can share some of my mad walking skills.”

I scrunched my face, my arms feeling awkward at my sides as we walked in this position. I tried tucking my hand into my dress pocket, but that just made me elbow him in the stomach.

“What are you doing?” he asked. “Why are you wiggling around like that?”

“Where do I put my arm? It feels weird just hanging here.”

He threw his head back and laughed. Eventually he glanced at me as his fit of humor tapered off. He looked at me like I was adorable and hilarious and enchanting. It made me feel less and more awkward at the same time.

“Put it around me, like this.” He pulled my arm around his middle so that my hand rested on his opposite hip. A heated flush spread from my chest to my throat at the way I was touching him. It felt entirely too intimate, like we were embracing while we walked.

Ronan was so strong and solid and male. I tried to swallow away the dichotomously wonderful and alarming sensations being so close to him elicited. My stomach twisted and fluttered. I tried to even my breathing and failed.

“What’s wrong now?” he asked. I found him watching me with narrowed eyes.

“Nothing.”

“Yes, something is wrong. You’re breathing funny, and you’re really tense. If you can’t loosen up, we’re going to stop here, and I’ll make you relax by giving you a back massage…or an orgasm.”

I snorted a surprised laugh and then covered my mouth with the hand that wasn’t currently touching his hip.

His answering laugh—a shocked bark likely caused by the sound of my inelegant snort—made me laugh even harder.

“What is that sound? Are you snorting?” He squeezed my shoulders as we crossed the street, his voice thick with amusement.

I snorted again—because when I laugh, I snort like the love child of a pig and an alligator unless I hold my nose, in which case I sound like I’ve got a terrible case of the hiccups—which made him laugh even harder. Soon we were in a perpetual laughter loop, and we had to stop in front of a bike shop to catch our breath. I couldn’t look at him without bursting into a snorting fit of giggles, so I kept my eyes on the sidewalk until he pulled me forward and hugged me to him.

I was paralyzed by my own merriment and didn’t push him away; instead, I buried my head against his chest, gripping the lapels of his jacket and enjoying the rolling, rumbly cadence of his laughter as it receded. He had a great laugh, a sexy laugh. My laugh was the mating call of the Yeti.

“You have….” He paused, sniffed, lifted a hand to wipe his eyes, and waited until I looked up at him. “Ah, God….” He shook his head, smiling at me. I knew he was trying to collect himself, so he wouldn’t dissolve into another bout of uncontrollable hilarity. “You have the most astonishing laugh I’ve ever heard.”

I let my forehead fall to his muscular chest and pressed my lips together; my words were muffled when I finally trusted myself to speak. “This is why I don’t laugh around people. I have the worst laugh. It’s the worst.”

“It’s wonderful.”

I tilted my chin upward and glared at him. “It sounds like the sound a pig would make if it were having sexual relations with an alligator.”

Ronan threw his head back, and—surprise, surprise—he laughed.

I allowed myself a smile but swallowed my giggle before it could bubble beyond my lips.

“Come on.” I tugged on him. “I’m hungry, and we still have two blocks to walk.”

“Good.” He pulled me backward against him then threaded my hand around his waist. He placed it on his hip and me once more under his arm. “That’ll give me time to tell you some of my favorite knock-knock jokes.”

***

I didn’t realize that I was relaxed until I’d already been relaxed for over an hour. True to his word, Ronan had fun watching me eat, maybe too much fun.

The bakery was quite small and had only two tables, both pressed up against the glass storefront and overlooking the sidewalk. He claimed the only vacant table while I ordered my food. I joined him, sitting across from him like it was the most natural thing in the world, while he picked up a terrible knock-knock joke where he’d left off before we’d separated for me to order.

I ignored his eyes, which were dancing with challenge, daring me to laugh, and instead set a cup of water in front of him, arranged my tea, and then stuffed my face with the sweet, soft, creamy éclair.

I might have moaned. I know I closed my eyes while I chewed. It was…it was heaven with cream filling.

When I opened my eyes, I found Ronan watching me. His elbows were on the table, and he was leaning slightly forward, sitting straight in a chair that looked too small for his athletic form. One of his thumbs was brushing against his lips, and his eyes were trained on my mouth like it had just cured cancer.

I stiffened. “Do I have something on my mouth?”

When he spoke he sounded a little dazed. “Not yet….”

I lifted an eyebrow at him as his eyes refocused on mine; they were hot and…interested. Almost predatory. Actually, they were definitely predatory. Definitely. 

I swallowed unnecessarily, my stomach fluttering, and I looked at him sideways. “What?”

“I could watch you eat that all day.”

I lifted my eyebrow higher but was silent.

“It’s true. I could. We should do that. I should have you over to my place. I’ll provide the éclairs, now that I know where you get them, and you provide the entertainment.”

“No, please, no. Based on your gift-giving track record, you’d buy every pastry north of 59th Street.”

“Liked the flowers, did you?” His grin reminded me of a very wicked and very pleased little boy. “I like the idea of filling up your place with treats."

“Wow, that’s a very tempting offer.” I endeavored to sound both unimpressed and demure, but really, an apartment full of éclairs was right up my proverbial alleyway of bliss.

“But you should know….” Ronan leaned close and glanced over his shoulder like he was making sure no one else was listening. I sipped my tea and tried to look bored as he continued, “You’ll have to do it naked.”

I spit out my tea.

I spit out my tea right in Ronan’s face.

It was horrible. I was horrible, even though it wasn’t at all purposeful.

A terrible moment of shocked and mortified paralysis passed where I could only belatedly cover my mouth and gape at him and what I’d done. Meanwhile, after his initial flinch of surprise, he sat motionless, his eyes closed and my warm tea all over his face and white shirt.

“OhmygodIamsosososorry!” I jumped up, grabbed at the napkin dispenser, and pulled out at least ten paper napkins in quick succession; then—because I didn’t know what else to do—I began mopping his face and neck and shirt. But I was so focused on the mess I’d created, I didn’t notice where I’d placed the cup of tea until it was too late.

That’s right. I knocked it over with my elbow just as he opened his eyes, and it rushed across the table, splashed on his shirt, and puddled on the front of his pants. Ronan sucked in a sharp breath then stood abruptly, his chair falling in his haste to stand, and he cursed (likely because the tea was still hot).

“Oh, my God!” I stepped back and away, lifted my hands to cover my face, and held perfectly still because, if I was still and silent, then I could cause no more damage. I still clutched the damp napkins.

I’ve always been slightly clumsy, but this was ridiculous. The trip and slight stumble earlier were more my modus operandi. I was always tripping over my own feet or colliding with things because I wasn’t looking up. Spit-takes and drenching people with hot tea were well beyond my normal. I closed my eyes and willed myself to disappear.

Then I heard his laugh.

I opened one eye and peered through my fingers; I found him leaning against the window, holding his stomach, laughing uncontrollably. I watched him for a few moments, wondering if he was laughing because he was frustrated or because he was actually finding my abuse of him funny.

Seeing my reticence, he gave me a big smile. Shaking his head and exhaling an audible breath, Ronan looked the opposite of the furious and tortured man I’d encountered about an hour ago. He looked befuddled, yes, but he also looked merry and happy and maybe a little overwhelmed.

I dropped my hands to my sides and took a half step forward. “I am so, so sorry. I am so sorry.”

He waved away my apology as the lady from behind the counter came over with a towel and asked if he was okay.

“I’m fine,” he said to both her and me. He closed the distance between us and placed his hands on my upper arms. He must not have liked my expression because he dipped his chin to his chest and repeated, “Really, I’m fine. I am.”

“I can’t walk, and obviously I have difficulty swallowing.”

He tsked. “That’s too bad….”

My eyes widened at his statement, but my mouth dropped open when he added, “I prefer a woman who swallows, but spitting doesn’t bother me much.”

“Ronan!” I hit him on the chest. I had no idea when we’d crossed that line, the line where I felt comfortable hitting him for his naughty taunts, but there we were.

Another laugh rumbled from his chest, and he didn’t look at all ashamed. “Oh, the tea was totally worth it. I’d take it a hundred times for the expression on your face right now.”

I flattened my smile, determined not to subject him to my snort-laugh again, and surveyed his clothes. He was a mess.

“At least, I don’t know, let me help you somehow….” I dabbed at his soaked shirt, quite liking how this close I could see the muscles of his chest and stomach. Distractedly, I patted the front of his pants.

“Annie….”

“I know; I remember. I’m supposed to dab, not rub.” I recalled his words from our first meeting.

“Annie….”

“Am I rubbing?”

“No…but, God, I wish you would.”

I stared at him for a beat, understanding the implication of his words, then groaned and closed my eyes. “You have to stop doing that. You can’t say those things.”

“I know you like it.”

“Maybe so, but that’s how you end up with tea spit in your face.”

“It’s not so bad.”

I peeked at him, found his eyes on me, warm and appraising.

“You’re a bit of a tornado, aren’t you?” He said this good-naturedly, and his warm and appraising gaze turned hot and interested. “After all this, I think the least you can do is give me a kiss to make it better.”

I stared at him, nonplussed. Movement over his shoulder caught my attention, and I glanced at the woman cleaning up after my mess at the table. She was watching us furtively and obviously eavesdropping on our conversation. I cleared my throat and took a step closer to him, lowering my voice so it couldn’t be heard.

“How can you want me to kiss you? I’ve just assaulted you with my tea…twice.”

“I’ll take your tea assault any day…if…” —Ronan leaned forward, lowering his head but stopping just a hair’s breadth from kissing me. He continued on a whisper— “…if it’s followed with a kiss.”

His action drove the breath from my lungs, and I felt myself swaying forward. Even tea-soaked and messy, he made my stomach flip and my heart flutter. And, dammit, he was entirely too charming, too sexy, too…glorious.

Before I could catch it, a desperate-sounding half moan, half sigh escaped my lips. He took this as permission—which, basically, it totally was—and he captured my mouth with his.

And I kissed him back.

We touched only with our mouths and tongue and teeth, and, like him, it was wonderful. He kissed like he flirted, aggressively, with complete expert abandon. My breasts felt heavy and full, and I wanted him to touch them, touch me, do something other than tease me with his mouth. But he didn’t. And when I would have stepped into the kiss, he lifted his hands and caught me, holding me away. I gave a small frustrated groan and lifted my head.

He looked pleased and content.

Meanwhile, I was feeling frustrated and disoriented and hot.

He pressed his lips to mine once more and then stepped away, his delicious chocolate gaze cherishing. “I don’t want to mess up that pretty dress.” His tone was soft as he explained, and pointed to his tea-stained shirt.

I stared at him, feeling a little lost in Ronan Fitzpatrick and his epically warm smiles and hot kisses and scorching looks.

I was completely out of my depth. My feelings were all tangled up, and I had no right to be tangling feelings with Ronan.

Studying him now, really looking at him, I saw that—whatever we were doing, this dance we’d started—for him, this wasn’t a dalliance, a quick flirtation. He was actually interested in me. He liked me, or at least what he knew of me.

And he deserved better, and I didn’t think this because I had chronically low self-esteem. I thought this because it was the truth. I was a mess. I was inexperienced. I was a broken, control-freak hermit. My issues had issues. My hurts had hurts. I knew how to run away. I was really good at running away; I didn’t know how to stay.

Nothing could happen between us. Nothing could ever happen, and the sooner he realized this truth, the better.

I didn’t know what to say, so I said, “I’m so sorry.”

“Stop apologizing.”

“Not for the tea, but I am sorry about that.”

“It’s fine, no big deal.”

He reached for my hand. I pulled it away, stepped back, and crossed my arms over my chest. His forehead wrinkled, betraying his confusion, and his eyes scanned me.

“Annie—”

“No, really, I’m sorry. I, we…this can’t happen. The gifts, it’s too much. Everything was wonderful, and your notes, they were so…and I can’t tell you how much I love—but this, we, us…it just isn’t ever going to happen.”

His eyes narrowed on me; and I could see that he was preparing to argue, so I cut him off.

“It’s because I’m a mess, okay? I’m a complete mess.”

“Everyone is a mess.”

“Not like me. This” —I pointed to my face— “I am crazy. I have severe abandonment issues and daddy issues and mommy issues. I’m not just shy. I’m petrified. And I don’t want to change. I like my life. I like having control over everything. I don’t want….” I swallowed and looked away, no longer able to meet the burning intensity of his gaze. “I don’t want you.”

“I know that’s a lie.”

“I don’t want you, Ronan,” I whispered harshly. “Not enough to change who I am.”

We stood there in silence, and I could feel his eyes on me. I watched the rise and fall of his chest as a war within me raged. I wanted to touch him, and I wanted to never see him again.

Just when the moment grew unbearable, Ronan turned away. He shuffled to the table we’d abandoned, pulling a bill from his pocket and placing it on the table. He paused there, obviously collecting his thoughts, then walked back to me. With measured slowness, he reached for my hand.

“Ronan, don’t—”

“I’m not asking you for anything. I just want to hold your goddamn hand, okay?”

My gaze flickered to his face, found his expression hard and determined. I nodded once and fit my fingers in his, ignoring the spark that traveled up my arm and the deep, fathomless swelling of want that choked my throat, making it impossible to speak.

He led us out of the bakery, down the sidewalk, across the two blocks, and back to my office building. We didn’t speak, and his hold on my hand was firm but not tight. If I’d wanted to, I could have removed myself, but I didn’t. When we stopped at intersections, he’d brush his thumb over my knuckles and between my fingers in a sweeping circle. The movement sent spikes of fluttering awareness to my lower belly.

But I couldn’t speak, and I could barely breathe. I still had the necklace in my bag, and I was still intent on returning it; but I knew now was not the time.

He didn’t let go of my hand until we were in the elevator, on our way up to the office. He stood on the opposite side of the carriage and wouldn’t look at me. The fury was back, the tortured and sorrowful rim around his eyes, and I felt like the biggest jerk on the planet because I had a part in putting it there.

When the doors opened, he waited for me to exit first. I walked in front of him, trying to figure out what to say, how to move us back to a professional space and away from Annie and Ronan. We needed to be Ms. Catrel and Mr. Fitzpatrick; we needed to work together.

I paid no heed to the receptionist as I walked past, but she stopped me.

“Oh! Ms. Catrel! Mr. Fitzpatrick! They’re all waiting for you in conference room two. You need to go there now, like, right now!”

I glanced at Ronan over my shoulder. His gorgeous face was marred with a scowl.

“Why?”

“It’s about the pictures,” she said, jumping to her feet. She looked at him, then at me, then at him again. Clearly, she expected us to know what she was talking about.

“What pictures?” he asked after a pause. “Did Brona publish pictures?”

“What? No. Not Ms. O’Shea. It’s the pictures of you and Ms. Catrel from today….” The blonde receptionist tsked then waved us over.

I shared another wary glance with Ronan, then walked around her desk, and leaned over her shoulder to see the computer screen.

Her next words were whispered. “See, outside the building. His arm is around you, and you’re laughing. And then these” —she scrolled farther down— “where you’re…well, you’re kissing.”

“What?” Ronan flinched then joined us behind her desk.

Sure enough, clear as day, there were pictures documenting my last hour with Ronan—well, everything leading up to and including the kiss. There were no pictures of us walking back to the building. I had to wonder if they just hadn’t been loaded yet.

But I couldn’t think.

I couldn’t process what this meant.

Dumbly, I asked, “And Joan? Joan has seen these?”

She nodded, “Oh, yes. That’s why they’re waiting for you in conference room two. You both need to go there right now.”

I straightened, my mind a mess, and blinked at Ronan.

He appeared to be baffled but not upset. Mostly just perplexed and surprised.

Meanwhile, I was twisting my fingers together and worrying my bottom lip and trying to plan a graceful exit strategy from Davidson & Croft. There was no way, no way on a cold day in Hawaii, that I was going to keep working here. Not after that. Not after my co-workers had seen pictures of me kissing a client. I was…. It was the worst kind of unprofessional behavior.

“There you are.” Joan’s voice roused me from my panicked planning. I didn’t even get two seconds to prepare before she was on us. “You two need to come with me.”

Insinuating herself between Ronan and me, she grabbed both of our elbows and pulled us forward down the hall.

“Joan,” I croaked, “I can explain.”

“No need, dear. It was brilliant. You are both brilliant.” She glanced at me and gave me something resembling a smile. “I’m so proud of you.”

“What?” I blurted, my wide eyes moving from her to Ronan. I found him looking at her in plain confusion. He was obviously just as befuddled as I was.

“The pictures. The laughing, the hugging, the kissing. It was all brilliant, though I wish you’d talked to me before putting your plan in action. But it’s fine. You’re perfect. You’re exactly what we want for Ronan’s image. Ian can’t believe he didn’t consider it before now. It makes complete sense, given your background. You’re the perfect candidate—you meet all the criteria.”

It was my imagination, I know for a fact it was; but I felt the world tilt, pitch to the side, and I heard the sound of a thousand screaming tea kettles in my ears.

“Wh-what?” I breathed, shaking my head, trying to bring Joan and Ronan and the hallway into focus.

Joan had no choice but to stop because my feet had stopped moving. She glanced at me with an expression that displayed her bemusement and gave me a once-over.

“Are you feeling well?”

“What do you mean I’m perfect? Perfect for what?”

She blinked at me. Her gaze flickered to Ronan and then returned to move over my face in a shrewd examination.

At length she said, “I mean that little act you two put on over the last hour was perfect. You, Annie, are perfect to act as Ronan’s fictional date, partner, and love interest for the foreseeable future…obviously.”