The Creeper Selfie: When one takes a selfie with the express purpose of including some person or action in the background. Usually only part of the photographer’s face is present in the photo—usually the eyes, but sometimes half of a face—in order to display shock, excitement, or disgust.

Best for: Chaotic situations, when others are focused on the action the photographer is trying to document. Also, airplanes.

Do not use: In restaurants or near mirrors.

 

 

*Annie*

I followed the email exchange between my administrative assistant (Gerta) and Ronan Fitzpatrick on Wednesday morning for about two hours. It spanned a sum total of thirty emails before I finally stepped in to end the debacle.

Poor Gerta. All she was trying to do was set up a meeting with him for this week, and he turned it into a debate on James Joyce, under-age rugby, and whether Clongowes Wood College in Clane, Co. Kildare, was ultimately responsible for Ulysses. I made a mental note to give her a raise. Gerta deserved it. She really was a saint.

It appeared Mr. Fitzpatrick was not exaggerating when he’d said that he wanted to contact me directly. I didn’t know what to do about his persistence because I didn’t think anyone had ever been so determined to get in touch with me.

In the end, I sighed heavily, opened a window in Infographicsgenerator.net, and drafted my email to Mr. Fitzpatrick.

When communicating with clients, I use infographics almost exclusively. I find that most of our clients—as they are extremely busy and lack patience—do not respond well to text emails (i.e., emails containing only words); they prefer the shortcut of pictures. A graphic representation of my thoughts and/or the information I need to communicate allows the client to absorb the information faster and remember it for a longer period of time.

Infographics as a Means to Effectively Transfer Knowledge Reducing the Bias of Consumer Interpretation was the title of my Master of Science thesis at Wharton. The idea came to me when my master’s thesis professor mentioned that my emails and written correspondence often came across as terse and condescending.

The great thing about the pictures within infographics is that they’re always positive images. The images are not open to tone, inflection, or word-choice interpretation because they’re intrinsically happy. I don’t have to worry about people understanding the multisyllabic syntax. Not to mention the little illustrated people are always smiling, even when I’m not.

Think of it like sending someone a smiley-face emoticon instead of typing the words “You make me happy.”

Or sending a thumbs-up emoticon instead of “I agree.” Or “I like that.” Or “Good job.”

Since graduate school, I’ve found text-less emails to be invaluable as both a timesaver and as a means to ensure all business correspondence remains positive and strictly professional. It works for me. It works for my clients. It works for my co-workers. Everyone wins.

The only person I interact with at work who disallows my infographics is Joan. I assume it’s because she’s a bit old-fashioned in her consumption of data. Eventually, however, she’ll have to make the switch. As a society, we’re moving away from the written word. We want the shortcut. We don’t want to have to think about the meaning of words—ours or someone else’s—and how they affect us or those around us. We want to feel good.

I quickly assembled the graphic I needed—basically, a clock with a question mark, a picture of a calendar, and a series of food choices—and opted for a green, orange, and white color scheme. I felt that the subtle inclusion of the Irish flag’s colors would make Mr. Fitzpatrick feel good which might encourage his cooperation.

I saved the file and then forwarded it to Mr. Fitzpatrick.

Inexplicably, my heart thudded in my chest, and I pressed my palm against my ribs. I also found I had a lump in my throat when I hit “send.” This acute anxiety was likely attributable to the fact that the last time I saw Ronan, he was touching me, telling me he liked me, and suggesting we engage in unprofessional behavior.

And I kind of really, really liked it.

Ronan—that is, Mr. Fitzpatrick—had the uncanny ability to get under my skin and steal into my thoughts. I hadn’t stopped thinking about him since rushing out of the elevator less than twenty-four hours ago. Granted, I’d been thinking about him quite a lot since The Socialmedialite had received his first angry email.

Since our first in-person encounter and our initial virtual email exchange, I’d done a significant amount of research on him. Usually I would leave this type of task to a junior staff member and review a summary report. But not this time. This time, I wanted to make the calls myself.

I contacted his university, where he’d studied physiotherapy, and spoke with his major professor, and then I requested a transcript. I’d also chatted with his agent, coach, the team’s offensive coordinator, two of his teammates, his physical trainer, and his nutritionist back in Ireland.

They all had similar thoughts regarding my Mr. Fitzpatrick.

First, he had a temper, but not like it had been portrayed in the media. They’d all credited his short fuse to passion—for his mother and sister and the people he cared about—and not mindless or childish temper tantrums (like the media suggested).

Second, Ronan was dedicated and honorable, if a tad overly serious and a bit of a wet blanket. This description of him—provided by his teammates and confirmed by his university coach—made me laugh, mostly because it was so completely unexpected and at odds with the flirtatious man who’d cornered me in the elevator.

It seemed Mr. Fitzpatrick took his physical health and competition readiness to the level of near obsession. When the rest of the team gathered after a match to drink at a nearby pub, Ronan was always the designated driver. His nickname was Mother Fitzpatrick.

Third, everyone in Ireland—according to my contacts—knew the reason Ronan had lost it on the field and pummeled his teammate, and her name was Brona O’Shea. There was a YouTube video of the fight that had garnered millions of views. Even though he was the one doing the damage—and boy, did he know how to throw a punch—I felt bad for Ronan as I watched it. There was a sort of pain in his eyes that struck a chord with me. When I spoke to his nutritionist (Jenna McCarthy) about Ronan and Brona, she made it sound like they were the popular celeb golden couple, and all of Ireland followed their every move. As well, no one in the whole of Ireland (all five million people) understood why Ronan Fitzpatrick put up with Brona O’Shea.

“Why, I was just talking to my husband about it last night,” Jenna had said, sounding far too invested in Ronan’s relationship status. “I said I hoped Ronan doesn’t take her back this time. She’s a snake, an absolute snake, and she’s holding him back.”

“This time? Have they split before?” I’d pushed, telling myself I needed to understand the history of Ronan’s relationship with Brona in order to craft a comprehensive image profile for our social media team.

“Ah, yes, but it hasn’t been quite so public before. This time she crossed a line. Instead of dallying about with some rock star, this time she slept with his teammate, his flanker—Sean Cassidy.”

“She—” My mouth moved, but I struggled to find words. I was shocked. “Ms. O’Shea cheated on Mr. Fitzpatrick?” I made a mental note to Google image search Sean Cassidy. In fact, I did it surreptitiously as I spoke to Jenna. He was hot in a blond, pretty boy sort of way.

“Of course! What do you think we’re talking about? She’s a woman of easy virtue, that Brona. Ask anyone. Ronan’s the most loyal person I know, oh!” Jenna made a sad sound, and I heard her sigh before she continued, “I think Brona having it away with his flanker was the last straw. He put up with her changing the way she looked, helped her with her joke of a music career, and all of her other garbage. If you ask me, the man deserves a medal.”

“So….” I’d paused, mulling this information over before asking, “So Mr. Fitzpatrick isn’t responsible for Ms. O’Shea’s altered appearance?”

“Eh? What’s that? You mean her plastic surgeries and the fake tits and the rest of it? No, no. Those were all her doing.”

“What about his family? What do they think about his relationship with Brona O’Shea and her behavior?” I’d asked this question to everyone, and they all gave me more or less the same answer.

“Oh, the high and mighty Fitzpatricks? They won’t even talk to Ronan, never have. His ma raised him and his sister by herself. The Fitzpatricks won’t even acknowledge him. He’s better off without them, in my opinion. They’re the posh society types. They think everything they do is brilliant and everything he does is shite. But he won’t speak a harsh word against them. He’s too good for them, if you ask me.”

Going to the source certainly had given me a lot to think about, such as the unfair assumptions I’d made.

I knew better than anyone that information found on the Internet was suspect at best, and I reprimanded myself for believing—even for a short time—the rumor magazines’ depiction of Ronan. It certainly did explain his anger and overreaction to my article on New York’s Finest last Saturday and his emails to The Socialmedialite; he’d been exploited by money-hungry gossipmongers. He hated the media.

I’d decided to put off responding to his latest email, where he’d called The Socialmedialite xenophobic. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t want to fight with him or add to his aggravation. But I also didn’t like that he’d lumped New York’s Finest in with the trashy, infotainment garbage that had been tearing him down.

No person is ever truly their online or media persona. For better or for worse, the human condition, desires, and faults are so much more robust than pixels on a screen or words beneath a caption.

Nevertheless, robust isn’t my job nor is reality.

My job is shortcuts and sound bites and manipulation of perception. But it’s so much nicer when the image I create is representative of the real person. I never enjoy putting the shine of perfection on a piece of shit, à la It’s not poop, it’s chocolate…just don’t try to eat it because it’s full of E. coli.

I couldn’t decide if I felt better or worse after talking to Jenna and the others. In addition to my inconvenient and forceful physical attraction to Ronan Fitzpatrick, I also found myself liking him—specifically the him painted by my calls to his acquaintances and teammates—which was possibly even more inconvenient.

As I waited for Ronan—I mean, Mr. Fitzpatrick—to respond to my infographic email and meeting request, my mind drifted and then landed on the memory of being trapped in the elevator with him. I wasn’t surprised. I had difficulty thinking about anything else.

He was so…present.

When he looked at me, I felt so entirely seen. But it was more than that because I got the impression he wasn’t just looking at me when we were together. Yes, he watched me, but he also touched me and felt me. He listened to me and not just my words; he listened to the sounds my body made as it moved, as though searching for a clue or a tell.

I wondered if this—this being present and focused on more than just the superficial—was a learned skill, part of what made him a world-class athlete.

I also had the distinct impression that, when he’d leaned into my space, he’d tried to smell me, and he’d managed to do it without coming across as a creepy creeper.

Admittedly, if he were less epically good-looking, he might have come across as a creepy creeper. But, as he had the body of a gladiator and the face of a movie star, I felt flustered, flattered, and turned on. The fact that I felt flattered made me feel like an idiot. I hated this about myself. I hated that, even though I knew better, good looks negated odd behavior.

His odd behavior being that he was attempting to use all five of his senses to experience me while trapping us in an elevator; I didn’t doubt that, if I’d given him any indication that I was in favor of his advances, he would have tried to taste me as well.

I shivered at the thought, a wave of warmth spreading from my chest to the pit of my stomach, stinging and sudden, like a hot flash. I lost my breath a little, imagining what it would be like to kiss him. He was so confident in real life, in a way that was a complete conundrum to me, and appeared to excel at everything he attempted. If he tried to use all five senses when speaking with me in an elevator, I expected his kisses would also be of the world-class variety.

I got up from my computer, took a lap around my apartment, then opted to run some cold water over my wrists to cool down. As I was working from home, I was still in my yoga pants and the Shark Week long-sleeved T-shirt from my workout earlier in the day.

Inside the bathroom, I glanced at my reflection in the mirror, finding my eyes bright and excited, my skin flushed. I grimaced. This was not good. I was going to have to interact with Ronan—ack! Mr. Fitzpatrick! His name is Mr. Fitzpatrick, and I will call him Mr. Fitzpatrick—over the coming months.

Keeping my distance had always been easy for me because the alternative held no allure. Or rather, since high school I’d never met someone alluring enough to make me question keeping my distance.

My phone dinged, alerting me to a message. I glanced at the screen and saw it was from my online BFF, @WriteALoveSong.

In truth, I didn’t know much about her. I was pretty sure she lived in New York and worked in some field related to the music industry. Her blog, Irony For Beginners, focused more on the indie scene, whereas my posts were more mainstream. She seemed to enjoy her anonymity almost as much as I did.

Yet, we checked in with each other every few days, if not every day. She shared news stories with me, and I’d send her pictures of independent artists or anything that might be related to her content focus. As well, we’d message back and forth about our days or the blogs or life in general—always careful to never reveal too much.

I had several other online friends, but she was my closest friend. I looked forward to her messages. In this one she wrote,

 

@WriteALoveSong to @Socialmedialite: Is the cocky jock still giving you shit? I’ll beat him up for you.

 

I quickly responded,

 

@Socialmedialite to @WriteALoveSong: I’m ignoring him. I’m hoping he’ll disappear if he thinks I’m indifferent.

@WriteALoveSong to @Socialmedialite: Good luck with that. Hey, why did the hipster leave the ocean?

 

I braced myself as I typed,

 

@Socialmedialite to @WriteALoveSong: Why?

 

WriteALoveSong (how I thought of her in my head) sometimes liked to send me hipster jokes. They were always cheesy and silly. I kind of loved them.

 

@WriteALoveSong to @Socialmedialite: Because it’s too current… ba-da-da-dum.

@Socialmedialite to @WriteALoveSong: I sea…

@WriteALoveSong to @Socialmedialite: Oh no! Not an ocean pun! Now you’re just being shellfish.

 

I laughed and clicked off my phone. I loved that WriteALoveSong and I could have so much fun yet never have met in person. We worked, our friendship worked, because we didn’t push each other for more. We didn’t need to see each other to know each other. We were happy in our shadows of anonymity.

Whereas Mr. Fitzpatrick might be a nice guy, a serious guy, a loyal, generous, wet blanket of a man, but he also lived his life in the spotlight. He was always pushing. I took great pains to fly under the radar and blend in with furniture. I’d been born introverted, and life experience proved my natural instincts were actually a blessing.

In real life, I could count on me. I could rely on me. I would never abandon myself. I would never go back on my word or lie to myself or let myself down. The way I saw it, everyone else was a wild card, and that included Mr. Fitzpatrick.

I also didn’t like how disordered and reckless he made me feel, how aware of my body and the beating of my heart. He made me want…things, things that I’d learned to bury and forego. My life was about control—over my thoughts, emotions, environment, and therefore—over my destiny.

My pulse had calmed to a nice, steady beat; I took one more calming breath then returned to my computer, intent on ignoring these clamoring feelings and desires. Instead, I would focus on preparing my portion of Mr. Fitzpatrick’s proposal and then write a new blog post that had nothing to do with cocky jocks.

The chime of my email pulled my attention to a new message waiting in my work mailbox. It was from Mr. Fitzpatrick, and it was a response to my infographic meeting request. I held my breath, intent on controlling my body’s alarming insta-reaction to anything related to the gorgeous rugby player.

Despite my best intentions, I clicked the message and devoured its contents.

It read:

 

March 12

Annie dearest,

If you insist on sending me images, I’d prefer they be of you.

See you tomorrow at 8.

Affectionately, Ronan

P.S. I can’t eat any of that stuff you sent. Again, if you’d sent a picture of yourself, then it would be a completely different story…

 

Unsurprisingly, my pulse quickened at the double meaning in his last line. He couldn’t eat any of the food, but if I’d sent a picture of myself, he’d…he’d….

I groaned.

Then I ran back to the bathroom. This time I opted for a cold shower.

***

New York’s Finest

Blogging as *The Socialmedialite*

March 13

Have you noticed that the ratio of supermodels in Jason Carter’s entourage to number of Jason Carters has been steadily declining over the last twenty-four months? The number of Jason Carters has remained constant at one (or two, if you count his custom-made Louis Vuitton fanny pack as a separate sentient being), whereas the number of supermodels has decreased from seventeen to six in just two short years.

Exhibit A (picture 1) was taken nearly twenty months ago as he and his harem of seventeen left Tiffany’s.

Now look to Exhibit B (picture 2). This picture was taken nine months ago. Here he is down to twelve.

Now look at Exhibit C (picture 3). This was taken last week. Again, we have Jason Carter and his fanny pack, but an entourage of only six.

WHAT IS GOING ON, PEOPLE?!?!?!

Why the diminishing number of models?

Doesn’t he know he is the primary source of fame for these women? Doesn’t he care we’re going to have poorly dressed supermodels if he and his fanny pack don’t step up and foot the bill for their Jimmy Choos and Louis Vuitton handbags??

I thought I could count on three things to never change in life: death, taxes, and Jason Carter’s (and his fanny pack’s) entourage.

Is nothing sacred? What’s next? Will George Clooney date someone his own age?!?!?

Feeling a tad out of sorts today….

<3 The Socialmedialite

***

I was uncomfortable.

And that was putting it mildly.

I tried to cross my legs, but the sky-blue silk skirt—which fell just above my knees—felt too short; I opted for crossing them at the ankle instead. I also tugged, I hoped surreptitiously, at the V-neck of my long-sleeved, cream-colored shirt because it showed cleavage. It showed my cleavage. My cleavage was showing. As well, the shirt was formfitting and plainly exhibited the shape of my stomach, back, shoulders, and chest.

It was a nightmare.

I wanted to run to my office, grab my Snuggie (which is basically a blanket with armholes), and cover myself up.

Unfortunately, Joan was sitting across from me, watching me like a hawk. I was a mouse, and she was a peregrine falcon. Resistance was futile. I’d arrived at the building and found her in my office at 7:15 a.m., five garment bags full of clothes lying on my couch. She was drinking a cappuccino from my machine and smiling at me like she’d just won something.

“I know you’re busy, so I had one of the shoppers buy you a new wardrobe,” she’d said, holding up an outfit. “Change into this one now.”

When I opened my mouth to object, she added, “Looking professional is no more than I would ask of any of my employees.”

Objectively, I knew the clothes the shopper had handpicked were lovely. They were stylish, well made, very expensive, and undoubtedly professional looking. It’s just they weren’t brown or navy or gray. They weren’t baggy. They fit, and they fit too well, like they’d been made to highlight my curves and…assets. I looked pretty in them, like a girl. Like a feminine girl. And, adding to my horror, there were shoes! Little kitten heels and spiky stilettos and everything in between, one pair for each outfit.

People had stared at me when I walked down the hall. I could feel their eyes following me, though I kept mine on the hallway carpet. I distinctly overheard one of the associates from Printed Media say, “Is she new? Who is that?”

When I walked into the conference room, all conversation stopped. My team gaped. Rachel gasped. Ian stared. And Joan smiled. I felt like a sideshow act at the circus, the kind where people stare and point.

Again, it was a nightmare.

I shuffled and thumbed through my stack of papers. I turned to Gerta, attempting to ignore her stunned perusal, and asked whether she’d made enough copies for the team. I purposefully sat near the door just in case I needed to make a quick escape. Worst-case scenario, I could pretend I had gastrointestinal distress.

I was still forming my escape plan and trying to fight my blush of intense discomfort when Mr. Fitzpatrick arrived.

He was five minutes early.

“Bollocks, bitches, and Battlestar Galactica,” I mumbled.

I have a bad habit of mumbling curse words when I’m aggravated; honestly, I think I might have a mild case of Tourette’s. To soften the string of foul language and make me feel like less of a freak, I try to throw in a pop culture reference at the end. It usually works, but not today.

I closed my eyes briefly, gathered a slow, steadying breath through my nose, and tried to wrestle the spike of adrenaline into submission. People moved around me, crossing to the door and shaking his hand, introducing themselves. I stood slowly, my jaw clenching so tightly I thought I might crack a tooth, and turned.

But I couldn’t quite bring myself to lift my eyes to his. So I waited, using my hair as a curtain, dipping my chin to my chest, and pretending to read the papers I’d brought and knew by heart. I waited until everyone was introduced and had reclaimed their spots around the conference room. I waited and listened as Joan invited Mr. Fitzpatrick to take the seat next to mine.

I waited until he drawled, “We keep having this breakdown in communication, Joan. I was under the impression that the entire team would be here.”

I lifted my chin just as Joan’s eyes flickered to mine, a pleased smile on her face. She began, “I think, Mr. Fitzpatrick—”

But I interrupted her with, “I believe everyone is here.”

Ronan glanced at me and did a completely ridiculous, cartoonish double-take complete with wide eyes, agape mouth, raised eyebrows, and three blinks. His confusion didn’t last long, maybe two full seconds, before his eyes traveled down and then up, quickly appraising my body like I might be an apparition and magically disappear. When his eyes met mine again, they were pleased and half-lidded. A lazy smile claimed his lips and did terrible things to my state of mind.

His gaze scorched me; my body ignited in a flash until I was sweating between my thighs, under my arms, on my stomach, and down my back. I was burning up.

I was officially a lunatic.

Pressing my lips together and averting my eyes, I motioned to his chair—the one next to mine—and cleared my throat. “Please, Mr. Fitzpatrick, won’t you sit down?”

“Yes,” he said a little too hastily, with a touch too much enthusiasm.

I basically fell into my seat, my knees no longer cooperating, but covered the clumsy bit of discomposure by scooting myself closer to the table and straightening the stack of papers in front of me unnecessarily. I did my best to ignore the way my shirt was sticking to my abdomen, never mind the fact that Ronan—I mean, Mr. Fitzpatrick—was still blatantly staring at me. I could see him in my peripheral vision.

As a countermeasure, I released my sheet of hair from where I’d tucked it behind my ear, essentially blocking my face from view. If I had to sit through this meeting—and maybe a hundred more like it—dressed in these damn clothes, then I deserved a coping strategy. Hiding behind my hair would have to be it. 

“Yes, well—let’s get started.” Joan sat on the other side of Mr. Fitzpatrick, her voice cutting through the chatter. “Ian, can you take us through progress to date?”

I still felt Mr. Fitzpatrick’s eyes on me, but mercifully Joan had decided to start with Ian’s status update rather than my part. I barely heard Ian. It didn’t really matter; I’d already read his memo, so I knew the team was vetting actresses, models, society types, and athletes in their search for suitable women to act as his “red herring” dates.

Part of me was glad. I would pale in comparison to those women, and Ronan’s attention would surely focus elsewhere.

Another part of me couldn’t think about Ronan attending a red carpet event, a supermodel draped on his arm, without wanting to stab something. I think I was a little infatuated with him after talking to his teammates.

After Ian, Rachel was next. She covered tangible media—so both print and television—and took the team through planned magazine spreads in Sports Illustrated, Men’s Health, GQ, and Playboy.

“I’ll say no thanks to the Playboy idea,” Ronan scoffed then continued humorously, “at least until after I’ve had my tits done.”

I tried not to smile. Rachel chirped a laugh, and Ian narrowed his eyes.

“Mr. Fitzpatrick, our aim is to make as many people aware of you as possible, and Playboy has a very large audience.”

Ronan folded his arms and stared at him coldly. “I thought we were supposed to be improving my image, you know, clean me up.”

“Yes, of course. But we’re not out to make you an altar boy, either.”

“I hope not. All the altar boys I knew are now heroin addicts.”

“Annie….” Joan paused, waited for me to meet her eye, and then said, “Help us out here.”

I nodded once and slipped Ronan one of my packets, withdrawing my fingers before he could make contact. If he touched me, my mind would blank, and I’d be even more of a spectacle. I placed my hands on my lap; they were shaking.

This was the part of the presentation Joan or Rachel usually did. I prepped the materials, and one of them would deliver the spiel. But not this time. No, no, no…not this time.

I cleared my throat and glanced quickly around the table. All eyes were on me. My heart beat faster, drumming uncomfortably in my chest. Everyone gathered had already read the proposal and signed off on the details of the mission statement, the ideal image sketch, and the social media campaign. They all knew it was my work. Nevertheless, it didn’t make speaking in front of a crowd any easier.

“I, uh….” I blew out a shaky breath, willed my mind to focus and cooperate, but it was no use. I could feel the panic rising, choking me like flood waters. I swallowed, the paper in front of me blurring.

Suddenly, Joan’s voice cut through my downward spiral, firm and steady. “Well, look at the time. I’m sorry, Mr. Fitzpatrick, but the team has another meeting. It looks like we’ll have to leave you and Ms. Catrel alone to discuss the specifics of the ideal image sketch. I hope you don’t mind?”

“No….” He answered almost absentmindedly at first, his voice sounding preoccupied, and then he responded in his normal tone, “No, not at all. I completely understand. I’m sure Ms. Catrel and I can take it from here.”

I came back to myself as the sounds of chairs being vacated and people leaving the room provided a backdrop to my breathing exercises. My clothes were sticking to me. I was sure my upper lip and forehead had broken out in sweat. I was hot and sticky and uncomfortable, but at least I wouldn’t have to give my presentation in front of the entire team.

No. Just Ronan Fitzpatrick.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, Fred Flintstone,” I mumbled.

The last sounds of my departing teammates were punctuated by the click of the door closing at my back, yet I didn’t look up from the table until several additional seconds had passed. I allowed myself a brief glance at Ronan and was surprised to find him reading the packet I’d placed in front of him.

Without looking up, he asked, “What does ‘ideal image sketch’ mean?”

A wave of gratefulness washed over me, and with it my heart stuttered then slowed. I didn’t know if Ronan was focusing on my work in an effort to disarm the tension caused by my near panic attack or if he was actually interested in the content of the plan. I guessed the former. Regardless, I breathed a silent sigh of relief and straightened in my chair.

Before I could respond, he continued, “Who put this together?”

“I did.”

His eyes darted to mine, a small frown creasing his brow, and then back to the packet. “I didn’t think you were all that involved so far.”

“I have been involved with the proposal, Mr. Fitzpatrick, even if I wasn’t present for the initial meeting. The preliminary details were discussed with you on Monday and Tuesday, and what Rachel and Ian reviewed today includes basic, common-sense strategies. Now, the work I do is much more focused on details, on shaping the message and creating your ideal image.”

“My ideal image?” His voice lacked inflection. He still wasn’t looking at me.

I lifted my chin, tossing my hair over my shoulder, facing him. “Yes. The version of you we want the public to see.”

“What’s wrong with my current image?” Ronan’s brown eyes met mine, and they held a challenge; he faced me, pushing his chair back a bit, placing our knees about a foot apart. His mouth curved into a slight frown as though I’d offended him.

I swallowed my nerves, fisting my hands on my lap. This was another area where I completely failed: one-on-one, tactful communication with clients. I didn’t know how to tell clients the truth—that the public doesn’t want the real Ronan Fitzpatrick, that we needed to make him a different version of himself in order to maximize the exploitation of his talents and move him forward in his career—without pissing the clients off.

“Please understand that I am not suggesting that I tell you how to live your life, your real life. I’m not at all qualified to give advice on living life, and I am in no way judging you at all.” I took a calming breath and added under my breath, “In fact, I’m the last person on earth who should ever give anyone advice about real life.”

“What was that?”

“Nothing, sorry.” I glanced at the proposal then back to his penetrating stare. “What I’m talking about here is your public image. I am an expert on perception, of how to use social media to achieve gains in public opinion. There is nothing wrong with your current image, it’s just—”

“So, you like my image?”

“Of course I do, I mean—”

“Specifically what do you like about my image?” Now the corner of his mouth tugged subtly upward, and his eyes were dancing, dark pools of amusement.

I pressed my lips together, trying to stifle my answering smile, knowing I’d walked right into that. “Well, I like that your teammates call you Mother Fitzpatrick.”

I was gratified to see his eyebrows hitch slightly at my use of his nickname, his mouth open with equal parts smile and surprise. “I see you’ve been doing your research.”

“Of course. If I’m expected to shape your image, I need to understand the raw materials with which I’m expected to work.”

“Raw materials….” His eyes were positively dancing, and his grin was growing, like he knew something about me or he suspected something and liked it. “Who did you talk to?”

“Well, to start with, Jenna McCarthy, your nutritionist.”

“Hmm….” He didn’t look pleased or displeased, obviously schooling his reaction. “Who else?”

“Your major professor at university, your coach, your physical trainer, and two of your teammates.”

He stiffened at the last mention, and his eyes narrowed. “Which teammates?”

“Mr. Flynn and Mr. Leech.”

“Ah, they’re good blokes.” He nodded and added as though as an afterthought, “They’re all good blokes, but sometimes they make shite decisions.”

I thought that was awfully generous of him, considering his fiancée had had it away his flanker, as Jenna put it.

Ronan appeared to be lost in his thoughts, so I took the opportunity to study him. I felt my expression soften as my gaze traveled over his forehead, nose, cheeks, and lips. He had a few scars I hadn’t noticed before: one at the corner and beneath his right eye, about two inches long with a zigzag near the middle, like it had been the result of a jagged cut. He had another, much smaller and fainter, also slightly to the right under his full bottom lip.

He was so handsome, but more than that, there was an aura of feral sensuality about him, something powerful, magnetic. He wore his sexuality openly. He was so blunt and honest about his desires, about who he was. And if his friends and co-workers were to be believed, he was also intensely honorable, driven, and intelligent with a good, loyal, and generous heart.

Yeah…I’m a little infatuated.

“Why didn’t you come straight to the source?”

His question startled me, and I blinked at him, trying to make sense out of the jumble he’d just spoken. When I realized I couldn’t recall the question, I said, “I’m sorry, what was that?”

He gave me a small smile, his eyes telling me he was delighted. Leaning toward me, Ronan hooked his fingers behind my knees and pulled me forward between his legs. He then placed his hands on my thighs—resting them above the material of my skirt—and bit his lip, peering up at me like he wanted to know all my secrets, or at least borrow them.

I didn’t protest. At first I was too surprised. Then I was entirely too mesmerized by the way he was biting his lip.

“Annie….” he said.

“Yes?”

He paused until my gaze lifted from his mouth, met his eyes.

“Why didn’t you come straight to the source?” The question was a low, masculine rumble, almost a whisper, and his thumbs were moving back and forth over the silk of my skirt, sending lovely spikes of awareness and delight to my pelvis.

“The source?”

“Yes. If you wanted to know about me, why didn’t you just ask? I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

“Uh….” I licked my lips, and his eyes flickered to my mouth, seemed to darken. I wished then that I knew what he was thinking.

Then I cursed myself for wishing because he said, “I wonder what you taste like....”