The Hooker and the Hermit
Page 61

“He found out about your home life? When you were a child?”
“No. Not that, I told him about that.” I waved her question away. “He found out about who I am now, what I do when I’m not at work or working. Actually, he knew all along, and I didn’t know. And now that I know that he knew…I just don’t know.”
“Annie, stop speaking in code. I can’t help you see reason and get your shit together if you don’t tell me what’s really going on. Why is it that you left Mr. Fitzpatrick, the man that you supposedly love and trust?”
I peered at her from between my fingers and shook my head. “I can’t tell you. If I tell you, then you will fire me.”
Joan frowned at me, her gaze feeling remarkably penetrating and shrewd.
Then I felt the hairs on the back of my neck rise as she said, “Oh, I think I understand. This is about your stolen laptop and hobby blog, isn’t it? You should know the laptop was recovered before it could be hacked—Ronan told me on the phone. Your secret is still relatively safe.”
I straightened. My hands dropped as I held her gaze but said nothing. I couldn’t speak. The news that they’d recovered my laptop before I was exposed should have eclipsed everything else. It didn’t. The fact that Joan knew my secret was the only take-home message.
Her lips curved into something resembling a smirk, and she shook her head. “He knew all along, did he?” Then she added as though speaking to herself, “Ronan Fitzpatrick is smarter than I thought.”
Again, and for the second time in a half hour, I wondered into what bizarre universe I’d just stumbled.
“Wha-wha-what do you mean?”
“New York’s Finest. The Socialmedialite,” she said plainly. “Well, of course I know. I’ve said it to anyone who will listen—you are the best. You’ve built a social media empire over the course of three years. Your contacts are invaluable. Your influence priceless. Why do you think I pay you so well? It’s not for those irritating infographic emails, that’s for certain.”
“But…how? How did you—”
Joan interrupted me. “That’s not relevant. And, just to ease your mind, no. No one else knows or suspects, as far as I’m aware. The issue here is that Ronan Fitzpatrick knows.”
I swallowed mostly air. The fact that Joan had known my secret all along circled my head like chirping birds. I couldn’t quite grasp it…. I seemed to be having this problem a lot lately.
“Although….” Joan’s smirk flattened. “I was quite irritated by that Dara Evans article you published over St. Patrick’s Day. I surmised you did it to draw attention away from Mr. Fitzpatrick. Nevertheless, Becky and Ian had a hell of a time convincing her to get rid of that infernal baby seal coat. You know what she said? She said seals sexually assault penguins and deserved to be clubbed. That woman is nuttier than a Snickers bar.”
I snorted a shocked laugh and then clapped my hand over my mouth before I could completely embarrass myself. Joan’s smirk was back. She looked…more human somehow. Not quite approachable but not the Wicked Witch of the West, either.
She twisted and glanced at the couch behind her and then took a seat, smoothing her black skirt as she sat. “Let’s get to it. Ronan did what exactly? Why did you flee Ireland? It’s such a lovely country, and the people are so accommodating.”
I gaped at her, still overwhelmed by her recent revelations, but found myself talking regardless. “Nothing…really. You’re right, I completely overreacted.”
I proceeded to tell her about what had happened—the emails exchanged, how I’d kept the secret from him and he knew the whole time, how he’d told me he loved me but I hadn’t reciprocated. I felt myself deflate as I spoke. Obviously, I left out the heavenly kinky sex part and the more intimate details. When I was finished, I found my voice steady and calm but tired, recent events coming into distinct focus.
She nodded thoughtfully and paused after I finished my tale, surveying me with squinted eyes.
I watched her for a bit then volunteered, “I guess I’m worried that he won’t take me back. I mean, I made such a mess of things.”
“Well, he shouldn’t have emailed The Socialmedialite under false pretenses, though I certainly understand why he did it. That’s a gray area. Also, I understand why you didn’t tell him about your blog, but you shouldn’t have been such a ninny about your feelings.”
“But how could I tell him how I felt when I was lying to him?”
“Because the blog isn’t any of his business, that’s why. It is, in fact, your business. It’s how you make a substantial amount of your income. It’s not illegal, and your identity is a secret for obvious reasons. You weren’t lying to him. Has he told you about all the ways he makes money? About all of his investments? Certainly not. What a silly thing to expect.”
“Joan….”
“You know I’m right. But it’s neither here nor there since he does know. As I suspected would be the case, he doesn’t care.”
“What if I’m too late? What if he doesn’t want to marry me anymore? What if he won’t take me back?”
“Do you want to marry him?”
“Yes,” I answered without giving it much thought beyond how my heart swelled and danced and felt ready to burst.
She nodded thoughtfully. “Well, you’ll find out tomorrow. You and he are scheduled to attend the premiere of Accidental Assassin.”
I heaved a watery exhale, crossing my arms and letting my head fall to the chair behind me. “I’m so afraid.”
“There is nothing wrong with being afraid, Annie,” she said, standing and sighing. “But there is everything wrong with being only afraid.”
***
Everything happened as I feared it would.
Ronan slipped into the limo, his face blank, his eyes hooded as he settled into his seat. He then took stock of the interior of the limo, his gaze moving over me with no trace of interest. I recognized this look from our first night in Ireland, how he’d inspected me before the Sportsperson of the Year dinner, except this time it felt more permanent, less premeditated.
“Ms. Catrel.” He nodded at me. His tone wasn’t aloof. It was polite.
Ugh.
I twisted my fingers and tried to swallow the building lump in my throat. “Ronan, can we—”
Before I could finish my question, Beth opened the opposite door and poked her head in, her efficient gaze sweeping over both of us.
“Oh, good, Annie, you’re wearing the dress Joan picked out. Remember, at least three big kisses on the red carpet—at least—and hold hands the entire time, okay? Since the sudden separation in Ireland, you two really need to lay it on thick. Also, put these earrings on.” Beth handed me a velvet box.
Ronan seem to be watching our exchange with bored indifference.
At a loss, I opened the box and glanced at the contents. Within were diamond studs, at least a carat and a half each. Expensive but understated. They would have been perfect for me, except—
“She can’t wear those.” Ronan leaned forward, grabbed the box from my fingers, and passed it back to Beth, who was still hovering outside the limo.
“Why not?” Reluctantly, she accepted the box.
“Because her ears aren’t pierced,” he added as he settled back into his seat, looking irritated and impatient. “Time for us to go.”
Beth nodded, her eyes moving between us, then stepped away from the car and shut the door, leaving us in an odd, strangled silence. The car moved. We were on our way.
I stared at him.
He looked out his window.
I was afraid.
Fear clawed at my throat.
But for once, I wasn’t only afraid. I was hopeful.
“Ronan, can we talk?”
“What about?” He didn’t look at me. He sounded completely indifferent. I felt my hope shrivel a little.
“F-first, I n-need to apologize for…for s-so many things.”
“Apology accepted.”
I gritted my teeth and closed my eyes, resting my elbow on the window sill and holding my forehead in my propped-up hand. “Please let me say this; please let me—”
“There’s nothing to say, Annie. You left. Again. After I asked you to marry me. And you didn’t return my phone calls. That spoke volumes.”
I cringed, glanced at him. “I didn’t want to talk over the phone.”
“Then invite me over for fucking tea.” His voice was hard.
“Ronan—”
“No.” The single word was steel, echoed in the limo. It spoke volumes. “No. I know what you’re going to say, and I find that I don’t have it in me to care. There are some things, some people, worth fighting for. You would be worth fighting for, you would, if you wanted me like I…like I want you.”
“But I—”
He lifted his voice over mine, his bitterness a tangible third being in the car. “And I’m not just saying that because you’re an excellent fuck, because you are the best lay I’ve ever had.” He said this with an acrimonious laugh, and I winced at his harsh, vulgar words. He continued, “I’m saying it because you don’t believe it. You’re not invested, Annie. Not in me, not in yourself. And I can’t fight that. I can’t make you fight.”