The Hooker and the Hermit
Page 43

“I know.” I gave him a little smile, nodded again. “I trust you.”
His gaze hardened, and he flinched; it was almost imperceptible, but I saw it.
I frowned at his reaction to my words and blurted, “Ronan, I am so sorry.”
He glared at me until the doors opened, his jaw ticking as he withdrew inside himself, and I heard him mutter as we left the elevator, “So am I.”
***
He was right.
There were photographers in the lobby and on the street. Everyone knew my name and called to me. It was disconcerting, but he shielded me with his body until we were in the limo. We sat on the two sides of the bench, Ronan putting the length of the back seat between us.
He spent the entire time on his phone, his knee bobbing up and down in an uncharacteristic display of nerves, and I stared out the window, thinking about the irony of the situation. The first time we’d gone out to lunch together—which felt like a lifetime ago but was really just over month—he’d scolded me for checking my phone.
When we arrived at the event, there were even more photographers. But this bunch was more professional and obviously present to document the comings and goings of the sporting elite.
Ronan exited first then held his hand out to help me from the car. He then tucked my hand in the crook of his elbow and led me to the red carpet.
Once we were clear of the limo—flashes going off in every direction—Ronan leaned down and whispered in my ear, “If you can manage a smile, that would be great. Also, we’re about to meet a few of my mates. You’ll want to look them in the eye as you shake their hands, say hello—you know, talk to people. Otherwise, they’ll think you’re a stuck-up American bitch.”
I glanced at him as he retreated, and he held my gaze, smiling at me like he’d just said something charming and expected me either to laugh or blush.
His words were nasty, mean, unlike him. He seemed…off.
And again, the irony of the situation struck me. Ronan was giving me advice on how to behave, what to do, what to say. This was the real world, his world of beautiful people and fame. My world was the virtual world of avatars and words. My currency wasn’t traded in this forum. Nevertheless, his words were condescending and unnecessary, and his aim was perfect.
I smiled at him, as big and brilliant as I could manage. Then I punched him in the shoulder with all my might, hoping it looked like a love tap.
His grin doubled, and he laughed, though it sounded a bit sinister. “Ouch, darling. Trying to hurt me?”
“Of course not.” I shook my head in a playful manner, my smile plastered on my face. “I would never assume hurting you was within my power.”
I didn’t know why I said it, but I felt a surge of bitter satisfaction when his grin waned and fiery anger flashed behind his eyes. Hopefully the photographers mistook it for passion.
I tore my gaze from his and smiled at the flashing bulbs. I smiled at the attendants who met us and showed us where to stand. I smiled as Ronan was interviewed—both at Ronan and the interviewers. I smiled as he skirted questions about our relationship and told everyone I was here as his friend with practiced smoothness. I smiled as we entered the event.
And I smiled as I was introduced to his mates.
My cheeks hurt like a bitch, and yet I still smiled.
Strangely, I found the smiling helped. It helped a lot. It felt like a mask for me to hide behind. No one expected me to actually speak, only to smile and nod and drink champagne and look pretty and laugh at the appropriate times. It was the opposite of my comfort zone—behind the computer, sharing my thoughts with the world and being valued for what I did and wrote, not what I looked like—and yet…and yet it was fine.
I was fine.
I’d been so twisted up about Ronan and my feelings for him that I’d forgotten to obsess about the event, or freak out about the plunging neckline and high hem of my dress, or wallow in my social phobia. Now that I was here, surrounded by the conversation of strangers and on the arm of the man I’d stupidly fallen in love with, it was my fake-as-fuck smile that won the day.
No one noticed.
After another glass of champagne, I stopped noticing, too.
Well, that’s almost the truth. I stopped noticing until I felt Ronan’s hand grip mine like a vise and his body turn rigid next to mine.
We were approaching our table near the front, and he was moving through the crowd; I was indulging myself by watching him move. He was so graceful, adroit. Being next to him made me feel more graceful. I’d managed to keep from tripping over my own feet all night, which was a huge achievement in and of itself.
So when Ronan stopped suddenly and I collided against him, I figured my luck was up. But he moved quickly, his strong arm slipping around my waist, keeping me upright. He turned toward me, but he wasn’t looking at me. His eyes were frustrated and unfocused; he was glaring at some inconsequential spot beyond my head.
“Shite,” he breathed through clenched teeth. “I was hoping they wouldn’t come.”
Unthinkingly, I placed my hand over his chest and searched his expression for a clue. “Who? Who is it?”
His gaze sliced to mine. “My grandparents.”
I frowned, not understanding why this was upsetting news for ten seconds. Then I realized he was referring to the Fitzpatricks, the family who’d never claimed him as their grandson, the family who thought of him and his sister and his mother as a stain on their good name. I finally understood why he’d been acting so anxious. I thought it was because of me, because I’d angered him. Maybe my rejection earlier had contributed to his foul mood, but the Fitzpatricks and the possibility of their presence at the ceremony was the root cause. Turning my head just slightly, I caught sight of the elderly couple, arm in arm, both well-dressed and silver-haired, graciously mingling with their peers. They were the picture of old money.
I felt sad for Ronan and wished I could take his unhappiness away. On a complete whim of instinct, I leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the mouth, cupping his cheek with my hand then smoothing it down to his neck and shoulder.
Then I whispered against his ear, “Ronan, you are worth ten thousand Fitzpatricks and their self-important douchebaggery. Their stupidity is their loss, not yours.”
I gave his shoulder a squeeze of reassurance and then leaned away so I could see his face.
He was smiling at me. It was a small, quizzical smile, like I was maybe a little weird but maybe also a little wonderful.
“You don’t have to say that kind of stuff. No one is around to hear you.”
“I know I don’t have to.” My eyes fell away under his steady stare. I was frustrated by my ingrained instinct to look away.
But soon I bested my innate desire to shrink under the weight of his penetrating gaze. Clearing my throat, I lifted my chin stubbornly and firmed my resolve, meeting his probing eyes with determination. When I continued, I did so because I wanted to bolster Ronan’s confidence with the truth. But also, I wanted to prove that I could be strong for someone, be resilient and a source of courage for someone other than myself.
“But the words are true, Ronan. They needed to be said. You needed to hear them, and I wanted to say them.”
His gaze narrowed, searched mine. “Why?” he pushed.
We were standing very close, but I felt like we were still a great distance apart.
Not having anything to lose, I told him the truth—well, part of the truth. “Because I c-care about you, Ronan. You mean s-something to me.”
He considered me, his eyes no less examining but growing a good deal less aloof and guarded.
Abruptly, he leaned forward and kissed me. He released my hand and scooped me up, moved both his arms around my waist, wrapping me in the strength of rock-solid man.
It was terribly inappropriate for a formal ballroom. I didn’t really notice. But when he finished, I did notice his smile was self-satisfied, charming, and completely genuine.
He administered a quick up-down sweep of my body then sighed. “Holy fuck, you’re gorgeous tonight. I’ve been trying not to think of how satisfying it would be to take you from behind in that dress.”
My mouth opened in shock, and I felt a flaming blush creep up my neck to my cheeks. “Ronan!”
He shrugged as though this were perfectly polite conversation. “I’ve wanted to tell you all night” —he paused just long enough to give me a small peck on my nose and then continued as he turned away and tugged me toward our table— “but I wasn’t sure if you’d punch me in the shoulder again.”
***
“How is your sister, Ro? She still coloring her hair to look like a rainbow?” Bryan Leech, one of Ronan’s teammates, asked this question from the far side of the table. He was one of the only guys present who didn’t bring a date. As such, he was one of the only guys present who didn’t have a woman on his lap.
Everything had gone swimmingly. I was Ronan’s smiling date. He’d ignored his extended family with polite indifference. Then he’d presented the award and done a great job. Everyone wanted to talk to him after dinner. He was a perfect gentleman, introducing me to each new person as his “good friend” from New York. Then, as the evening was winding down, we were waylaid by six of his teammates who insisted on buying us a round of drinks.