The Hooker and the Hermit
Page 28
- Background:
- Text Font:
- Text Size:
- Line Height:
- Line Break Height:
- Frame:
March 18
6:46 p.m.
Hi, Annie.
Lost and Found recovered your phone. I have it here and will send it via courier before I leave today.
Also, Mr. Fitzpatrick stopped by. He apologized about having to cancel today and rescheduled your appointment for Thursday morning at 7:00; he indicated that you knew the address/location.
I took the liberty of moving your phone conference with Becky and the team regarding the Starlet to Friday afternoon.
See you tomorrow, Gerta
I cringed. I’d sacrificed Dara Evans, aka The Starlet, on my blog on St. Patrick’s Day in an effort to draw attention away from Brona’s lies. Now I’d pay for it, and poor Becky would likely bear the brunt of the fallout from The Socialmedialite’s “baby seal” article.
At least I could look forward to a Thursday morning date with Ronan, even if it was all pretending for the cameras. The problem was I was pretty sure my pretending to be smitten with Ronan was more honest than all my forceful denials that we couldn’t be together. Fiction had just become truer than reality.
***
I was early, but Ronan was earlier. I caught sight of him when I was about twenty yards away. He was hard to miss. Though he wasn’t especially tall, he was cut like a marble statue. Presently he was wearing a white long-sleeved Under Armor running shirt that left none of his torso to the imagination, and black spandex running pants.
At some point I would have to talk to him about the spandex, but it wouldn’t be today.
I was too busy being grateful for the advent of spandex to bother with trying to save him from his poor fashion choices. His thick, muscular thighs—rugby thighs—made my head swim as I approached. I had to force myself to look away even as I ached to take a picture of him, something I could keep for myself and look at later when I was feeling lonely.
…like a creeper.
Ugh! I was gross.
Ronan hadn’t tried to call me, and he hadn’t responded to the Socialmedialite’s email. I missed him. Add to this my latest exchange with WriteALoveSong,
@WriteALoveSong to @Socialmedialite: THE WORLD IS ENDING!… I thought Ronan F. was the cocky jock who sent you the douchiest email ever. Why are you suddenly friendly with him on Twitter? Did he apologize? Or are you mesmerized by his… toe shoes.
@Socialmedialite to @WriteALoveSong: I’m trying to help him navigate social media. He’s not a bad guy, he was just having a douchey moment.
@WriteALoveSong to @Socialmedialite: Maybe he should put that on a T-shirt “Watch out for random douchey moments” You’re too nice to people, I can’t believe you’re helping him.
@Socialmedialite to @WriteALoveSong: He’s actually really cool! You’d like him.
@WriteALoveSong to @Socialmedialite: I think you mean, ‘He’s actually really hot!’ This is why I can’t cover mainstream showbiz, it’s the pretty people who are always forgiven.
I wondered if she was right. I was more than physically attracted to Ronan; I was desperately in lust and infatuation. Yet it was so much more than what he looked like. If all I wanted was handsome, I would have hooked up with my neighbor Kurt the King of Moisturizers.
As I neared, I saw that his skin was flushed and his white shirt was damp, sticking to the sweat covering his chest and back and sides. Obviously, he’d already done at least one lap around the park. My steps faltered. Soon I would be close enough to touch him…to talk to him. I thought about turning around and leaving, but I couldn’t. I really, really missed him, the way he made me feel reckless, the way he looked at me like I was the only person in the room, on the street, in the world.
“Shelly sells shitty sea shells by the shitty sea shore….” I mumbled nervously, letting my anxiety get the better of me and giving into my compulsion to curse. I ground my teeth and continued forward.
Ronan was stretching, using a bench for balance. His gorgeous back was to me, and therefore he didn’t see me approach. I cleared my throat loudly when I was about six feet away. This caused him to still and glance over his shoulder; I lost my breath a little when our eyes connected.
He wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t frowning, either. He was just looking at me. Then he wasn’t just looking at me, he was smoldering at me.
Two days without my Ronan fix and now I was seized, caught in the web of his…Ronan-ness.
I had the distinct sensation that I was falling into his eyes; they seemed to have their own gravitational field. Without my intending to do so, my feet carried me forward as he straightened and turned completely around. I stumbled over nothing, and he stepped closer, his hands coming to my waist even though I was in no danger of falling to the ground.
“You look a little dazed,” he said, giving me a crooked grin.
The rumbly cadence of his voice called to my inner—and thus far dormant—vixen. I was surprised to find that I had one and that I liked how vulnerable and exposed I felt under the beautiful burden of Ronan’s stare.
But I hated that he was so handsome…and smart…and quick-witted…and perceptive….
Especially perceptive.
“I’m—I’m fine.”
He nodded once then bent to kiss me. I closed my eyes and moved more completely into his arms, but then the kiss was over. It had just been a simple press of his lips against mine, and it left me feeling unfulfilled and cheated.
My lashes fluttered open, and I gazed up at him; his eyes felt distant, guarded as they moved over my face. He lifted a single eyebrow.
“I think that’s a good enough show for the paps.”
“The paps?”
“Yes, the paparazzi.”
“Oh. Oh, yes.” Remembering myself, I stepped away and looked at the still-brown grass under our feet. “Right.”
I felt his eyes move over me, and I wondered if he saw the acute disappointment I felt at the impersonal nature of the kiss, meant only for show. I hoped he didn’t. I did not want to be that girl, the one who sends mixed signals. Maybe it was already too late for that. Maybe I was that girl. But I couldn’t help it. I liked him. I liked him more than I should.
This thought helped me regain my composure and focus on putting emotional distance between us, if not physical distance. Ronan reached for and held my hand in his then tugged me toward the trail.
“I’ve already gone once around the park. Do you want to run, jog, or walk?”
“I usually just walk.” I glanced at nothing—a gazebo, a bench, a tree—just as long as it wasn’t him.
In my peripheral vision, however, I discerned he was looking at me. “If we walk, then we might have to talk to each other. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather jog?”
My attention darted to him; his statement surprised me. “You don’t want to talk?”
He shrugged and gave me a small smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “What’s the point?”
I winced at his question, my heart twisting with a dull pain, and I lowered my eyes to the trail. We walked in silence for several minutes. I felt winded, my chest heavy, even though we weren’t walking very fast.
Then abruptly he said, “Unless you want to tell me why you’re doing this.”
I tried not to flinch at the hard edge in his voice. “Doing what?”
“This.” He paused then added, “This. Pretending to be my girl. I’m actually very curious. Will it help you with your career? Move up in the company?”
He sounded bitter. I gave him a sideways glance and found that his expression was clearly bitter as well, his lovely brown eyes rimmed with jaded sorrow. It reminded me of the first time I saw him, when I thought he was that Irish actor, and I wanted to embrace him and soothe away his troubles. Instinctively, I shifted so that I was walking closer, moved my hand to his elbow, and tucked myself close to his body.
“No, Ronan. It’s not going to help with my career,” I answered honestly, watching his profile. It wouldn’t help me with my career because I had no plans to move beyond my current position, and it certainly wasn’t helping my peace of mind.
His jaw ticked. “Really?”
“Yes. Really. I like what I do. I have no desire to…to be in charge of a group of people, be a manager. Right now I’m talent. I provide content, expertise, and guidance to the team. This is what I want to do. I have no ambitions to move up. If I could stay doing exactly what I’m doing forever, then I would do just that.”
“Then why don’t you explain to me what’s really going on? Why are you doing this?”
“Because….” I began then stopped. My feet also stopped which forced him to stop. I pulled on his elbow until he was facing me.
Honesty, I told myself. Be like The Socialmedialite…just be honest.
I swallowed with difficulty because he was staring at me, and I could feel myself getting caught in his gravitational field.
“Because I want to help you,” I blurted. My eyes darted away, but then I forced myself to look at him again.
He didn’t believe me. I could tell.
“I don’t get it, Annie.” He shook his head. “One minute you don’t want anything to do with me—”
“I never said that.”
“‘I don’t want you, Ronan.’” He repeated the words I’d said to him in the bakery on Monday, making me cringe. My hand on his arm tightened as he continued, “One minute you don’t want me, and the next you agree to go along with this farce that we’re a couple. Why would you do that? To save face?”
6:46 p.m.
Hi, Annie.
Lost and Found recovered your phone. I have it here and will send it via courier before I leave today.
Also, Mr. Fitzpatrick stopped by. He apologized about having to cancel today and rescheduled your appointment for Thursday morning at 7:00; he indicated that you knew the address/location.
I took the liberty of moving your phone conference with Becky and the team regarding the Starlet to Friday afternoon.
See you tomorrow, Gerta
I cringed. I’d sacrificed Dara Evans, aka The Starlet, on my blog on St. Patrick’s Day in an effort to draw attention away from Brona’s lies. Now I’d pay for it, and poor Becky would likely bear the brunt of the fallout from The Socialmedialite’s “baby seal” article.
At least I could look forward to a Thursday morning date with Ronan, even if it was all pretending for the cameras. The problem was I was pretty sure my pretending to be smitten with Ronan was more honest than all my forceful denials that we couldn’t be together. Fiction had just become truer than reality.
***
I was early, but Ronan was earlier. I caught sight of him when I was about twenty yards away. He was hard to miss. Though he wasn’t especially tall, he was cut like a marble statue. Presently he was wearing a white long-sleeved Under Armor running shirt that left none of his torso to the imagination, and black spandex running pants.
At some point I would have to talk to him about the spandex, but it wouldn’t be today.
I was too busy being grateful for the advent of spandex to bother with trying to save him from his poor fashion choices. His thick, muscular thighs—rugby thighs—made my head swim as I approached. I had to force myself to look away even as I ached to take a picture of him, something I could keep for myself and look at later when I was feeling lonely.
…like a creeper.
Ugh! I was gross.
Ronan hadn’t tried to call me, and he hadn’t responded to the Socialmedialite’s email. I missed him. Add to this my latest exchange with WriteALoveSong,
@WriteALoveSong to @Socialmedialite: THE WORLD IS ENDING!… I thought Ronan F. was the cocky jock who sent you the douchiest email ever. Why are you suddenly friendly with him on Twitter? Did he apologize? Or are you mesmerized by his… toe shoes.
@Socialmedialite to @WriteALoveSong: I’m trying to help him navigate social media. He’s not a bad guy, he was just having a douchey moment.
@WriteALoveSong to @Socialmedialite: Maybe he should put that on a T-shirt “Watch out for random douchey moments” You’re too nice to people, I can’t believe you’re helping him.
@Socialmedialite to @WriteALoveSong: He’s actually really cool! You’d like him.
@WriteALoveSong to @Socialmedialite: I think you mean, ‘He’s actually really hot!’ This is why I can’t cover mainstream showbiz, it’s the pretty people who are always forgiven.
I wondered if she was right. I was more than physically attracted to Ronan; I was desperately in lust and infatuation. Yet it was so much more than what he looked like. If all I wanted was handsome, I would have hooked up with my neighbor Kurt the King of Moisturizers.
As I neared, I saw that his skin was flushed and his white shirt was damp, sticking to the sweat covering his chest and back and sides. Obviously, he’d already done at least one lap around the park. My steps faltered. Soon I would be close enough to touch him…to talk to him. I thought about turning around and leaving, but I couldn’t. I really, really missed him, the way he made me feel reckless, the way he looked at me like I was the only person in the room, on the street, in the world.
“Shelly sells shitty sea shells by the shitty sea shore….” I mumbled nervously, letting my anxiety get the better of me and giving into my compulsion to curse. I ground my teeth and continued forward.
Ronan was stretching, using a bench for balance. His gorgeous back was to me, and therefore he didn’t see me approach. I cleared my throat loudly when I was about six feet away. This caused him to still and glance over his shoulder; I lost my breath a little when our eyes connected.
He wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t frowning, either. He was just looking at me. Then he wasn’t just looking at me, he was smoldering at me.
Two days without my Ronan fix and now I was seized, caught in the web of his…Ronan-ness.
I had the distinct sensation that I was falling into his eyes; they seemed to have their own gravitational field. Without my intending to do so, my feet carried me forward as he straightened and turned completely around. I stumbled over nothing, and he stepped closer, his hands coming to my waist even though I was in no danger of falling to the ground.
“You look a little dazed,” he said, giving me a crooked grin.
The rumbly cadence of his voice called to my inner—and thus far dormant—vixen. I was surprised to find that I had one and that I liked how vulnerable and exposed I felt under the beautiful burden of Ronan’s stare.
But I hated that he was so handsome…and smart…and quick-witted…and perceptive….
Especially perceptive.
“I’m—I’m fine.”
He nodded once then bent to kiss me. I closed my eyes and moved more completely into his arms, but then the kiss was over. It had just been a simple press of his lips against mine, and it left me feeling unfulfilled and cheated.
My lashes fluttered open, and I gazed up at him; his eyes felt distant, guarded as they moved over my face. He lifted a single eyebrow.
“I think that’s a good enough show for the paps.”
“The paps?”
“Yes, the paparazzi.”
“Oh. Oh, yes.” Remembering myself, I stepped away and looked at the still-brown grass under our feet. “Right.”
I felt his eyes move over me, and I wondered if he saw the acute disappointment I felt at the impersonal nature of the kiss, meant only for show. I hoped he didn’t. I did not want to be that girl, the one who sends mixed signals. Maybe it was already too late for that. Maybe I was that girl. But I couldn’t help it. I liked him. I liked him more than I should.
This thought helped me regain my composure and focus on putting emotional distance between us, if not physical distance. Ronan reached for and held my hand in his then tugged me toward the trail.
“I’ve already gone once around the park. Do you want to run, jog, or walk?”
“I usually just walk.” I glanced at nothing—a gazebo, a bench, a tree—just as long as it wasn’t him.
In my peripheral vision, however, I discerned he was looking at me. “If we walk, then we might have to talk to each other. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather jog?”
My attention darted to him; his statement surprised me. “You don’t want to talk?”
He shrugged and gave me a small smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “What’s the point?”
I winced at his question, my heart twisting with a dull pain, and I lowered my eyes to the trail. We walked in silence for several minutes. I felt winded, my chest heavy, even though we weren’t walking very fast.
Then abruptly he said, “Unless you want to tell me why you’re doing this.”
I tried not to flinch at the hard edge in his voice. “Doing what?”
“This.” He paused then added, “This. Pretending to be my girl. I’m actually very curious. Will it help you with your career? Move up in the company?”
He sounded bitter. I gave him a sideways glance and found that his expression was clearly bitter as well, his lovely brown eyes rimmed with jaded sorrow. It reminded me of the first time I saw him, when I thought he was that Irish actor, and I wanted to embrace him and soothe away his troubles. Instinctively, I shifted so that I was walking closer, moved my hand to his elbow, and tucked myself close to his body.
“No, Ronan. It’s not going to help with my career,” I answered honestly, watching his profile. It wouldn’t help me with my career because I had no plans to move beyond my current position, and it certainly wasn’t helping my peace of mind.
His jaw ticked. “Really?”
“Yes. Really. I like what I do. I have no desire to…to be in charge of a group of people, be a manager. Right now I’m talent. I provide content, expertise, and guidance to the team. This is what I want to do. I have no ambitions to move up. If I could stay doing exactly what I’m doing forever, then I would do just that.”
“Then why don’t you explain to me what’s really going on? Why are you doing this?”
“Because….” I began then stopped. My feet also stopped which forced him to stop. I pulled on his elbow until he was facing me.
Honesty, I told myself. Be like The Socialmedialite…just be honest.
I swallowed with difficulty because he was staring at me, and I could feel myself getting caught in his gravitational field.
“Because I want to help you,” I blurted. My eyes darted away, but then I forced myself to look at him again.
He didn’t believe me. I could tell.
“I don’t get it, Annie.” He shook his head. “One minute you don’t want anything to do with me—”
“I never said that.”
“‘I don’t want you, Ronan.’” He repeated the words I’d said to him in the bakery on Monday, making me cringe. My hand on his arm tightened as he continued, “One minute you don’t want me, and the next you agree to go along with this farce that we’re a couple. Why would you do that? To save face?”
