Ronan’s sister, Lucy, had rainbow hair, meaning she’d dyed her hair in sections. The front was red and then came orange, yellow, and green. Blue, indigo, and violet merged to form an amorphous bluish-purple at the back. Currently, she wore it in a long and loose French braid down her back.

She was sitting in profile and shared Ronan’s attractive bone structure, but her features were exceedingly refined, elegant, and delicate. It was like his face but softer and feminine. Also, I remembered last night being startled by her eyes because they were cornflower blue.

Really, she was beautiful. But more than that, she had a friendly, carefree, spirited energy about her. During our very short introduction, she’d struck me as joyful, and I could see it now as she spoke to her brother. Her hands were animated as she talked, and her smile was enormous.

I shifted on my feet, allowing myself to lurk for a moment longer as I brought my attention to his mother. She was…well, she was beautiful. But hard. Even from this distance, I recognized in her a sort of kinship, a woman who’d had a difficult life, had been dealt an unfair hand.

She had the same blue eyes as her daughter, but—other than their coloring—Lucy and Mrs. Fitzpatrick looked nothing alike. Where Lucy was delicate, Ronan’s mother was exotic, her features sharp. Her hair was blonde; her lips were cushioned and full; her cheekbones high, leaving a hollow above her jaw. She was stunning.

But hard.

She held herself away from her children even as she sat at the table with them. She wore a smile like people wear a coat or a scarf. It looked foreign and bulky on her features.

I wondered briefly if I looked like that. I wondered if a smile and joy and happiness looked like transitory visitors on my face rather than like they belonged there.

…or was I like Lucy?

No, I thought sadly. I am not like Lucy.

A cold sensation slithered over my skin, a blanket of sorrow, an inkling that maybe Ronan deserved someone less messy, less reticent—because he still had joy. Yes, at times his eyes were sad, but he still had a brightness in him, one he couldn’t contain or hide. It was a part of him, and I loved it.

“Can I help you, miss?”

I started, turning my attention to the hostess who stood at my elbow. She was young, likely in her first or second year of college, and exceedingly pretty. Her eyes moved over me with solicitous curiosity.

“Oh, yes. I—uh, I see my party. They’re right there.” I pointed to the table where Ronan sat with his mother and sister.

The hostess’s gaze followed where I’d indicated, and I heard her murmur under her breath, “Lucky you….”

I should have smiled at this and chuckled. A normal person likely would have agreed, Lucky me. Instead, I felt cagey and irritated. This was how it would be with Ronan. Other women looking, liking, coveting. I didn’t have any desire to be waging a constant war against taller, sexier, slimmer, prettier girls. I felt a bit lost, in over my head. I didn’t know what I was thinking, what I was doing here.

Who did I think I was? That I would have a chance with this guy? I was living in a fantasy, one that would leave me abandoned—again—and heartbroken.

These were my cheerful thoughts as the hostess unnecessarily guided me to the table. Her steps were hasty, leaving me several feet behind. I noted how she touched Ronan’s shoulder and bent near him, whispered in his ear, how close she stood, how she lingered.

His eyes lifted as she spoke and fell on mine. Then he smiled.

And it was like the clouds parting.

I saw his joy, witnessed the happiness in his features shining like a beacon. He stood abruptly and must’ve not realized the hostess was still there because his chair hit her in the legs, and she stumbled back. He turned briefly to offer a hasty apology and then darted around the table to meet me.

He was…eager, excited, even. His excitement was palpable, contagious, and I found myself smiling broadly as he approached.

I opened my mouth to say hi, but he stopped me with a quick kiss, his hands sliding into my open coat and squeezing my bottom. I was glad the coat was long and hid his handsy liberties.

“I like your necklace.” His eyes were warm, told me that he was pleased. Then he added against my mouth, “I missed you.”

“It’s only been ten hours.” I smiled up at him, tilting my head back so I could see his face.

“It’s been ten lonely, painful hours.” He lowered his face to my neck. “I needed you last night. I had to be content with remembering how wet and soft your pussy felt when you came on my fingers.” Ronan’s voice was low as he whispered in my ear.

I shivered, my eyes half closing. I caught my lip between my teeth, unable to speak. I was panting and abruptly primed for anything he wanted to do to me.

“Ronan, don’t be rude.” Mrs. Fitzpatrick’s voice cut through my arousal like a bucket of ice water. And lilting though it was, it held a granite edge.

He pulled back, a devilish grin curving his mouth as he examined the effect his naughty words had on my composure. His roguish brown eyes lit, fiercely ablaze. He looked like a mischievous boy who was quite pleased with himself for getting caught, looking forward to receiving punishment for plotted misdeeds.

I narrowed my eyes at him and endeavored to bring my body under control. Meanwhile, he winked at me and then turned back to his mother and sister, lacing his fingers through mine and pulling me after him.

“Sorry, Ma.” He didn’t sound sorry.

Ronan led me to the vacant chair next to his and his sister, Lucy’s; his mother was directly across from me. I smiled at both Mrs. Fitzpatrick and Lucy in greeting, noted that Mrs. Fitzpatrick looked more assessing than welcoming, and allowed Ronan to help me out of my coat. He pulled out the seat, made sure I was settled, then claimed his spot again.

“Good morning,” I said to the table. I was fighting with myself; I wanted to make eye contact but couldn’t manage more than quick glances at either woman. “I hope I’m not late.”

“Nah, we’re early. I was starving. My stomach thinks it’s dinner time.” Lucy grinned, angling toward me, giving me all her attention. “I’m so glad you came.”

I met her eyes directly and returned her friendly overtures with a broad smile. “Me, too. Thank you for inviting me.”

Lucy’s stare moved over my face, and she breathed out, “Goodness, you’re gorgeous.”

My attention dropped back to the table, and a surprised flush crawled up my neck. “Oh, thank you. That’s…you’re very kind.”

“Don’t embarrass her, Lucy,” Mrs. Fitzpatrick said, though to my ears it sounded more like, Don’t embarrass me, Lucy.

Lucy, ignoring her mother, addressed her next statement to her brother. “You said nothing, you tart. We’ve talked on the phone every day for the last month, and here you’ve lured the most beautiful woman in New York up to your lair.” She tsked, and I saw her shake her head. “My brother is a sneaky and saucy wench.”

“Can’t blame me for wanting her to myself, can you?” I heard the warmth in his voice, the affection for his sister. He leaned forward and placed a hand on my thigh, sliding it under the hem of my skirt but no higher.

I swallowed thickly and reached for my water because my mouth was dry.

“I knew once I told you about Annie you’d be over here in a flash, wanting to braid her hair and dye it chartreuse or some such nonsense.”

Lucy giggled. “I wonder, Annie. Have you ever thought about going blonde?”

“Don’t you dare.” His eyes widened with warning, though he looked like he was trying to keep from laughing. “Don’t change a thing about her. My Annie is perfect just as she is.”

This compliment quadrupled my blush, and I closed my eyes briefly. I was bad with compliments that weren’t specifically about my work quality. I wasn’t used to them, not real ones. Not compliments that came from a place of sincerity and fondness.

Yes, I’d been complimented on my looks before—but always with heat, never with warmth.

“Look, you’re embarrassing her!” Lucy admonished him then covered my hand, capturing my gaze with hers. “My dearest Annie, stick with me. I’ll make him stop torturing you.”

“She likes my torture,” Ronan muttered, squeezing my thigh, and reaching for his water glass.

Lucy made a face at him then glanced back to me. “He’s rough around the edges, and he thinks of himself a bit too highly; but inside he’s all mush. Did you know he likes show tunes?”

Ronan choked on the water he’d just sipped.

Lucy took advantage of his inability to speak to list all of the plays he’d taken her to and how they sometimes sang along to the soundtrack from The Phantom of the Opera while in his car back home. By the time he’d recovered from his coughing fit, the two siblings were sparring back and forth, seeing who could one-up the other with embarrassing details.

I watched their interaction with fascinated delight. They were so open. There was so much love, respect, and history between them. I was drawn to it and relaxed as I witnessed their banter. This went on for quite some time and was often paused when the three of us lost ourselves in a fit of laughter.

It was during these times—when Lucy, Ronan, and I laughed—that I was most cognizant of Mrs. Fitzpatrick. She didn’t laugh; though her smiles were appropriate, both in size and duration, they never seemed to reach her eyes.