by L.H. Cosway
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 mou
th 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....”
Chapter Six
Calories: 3,500
Workout: 3 hours in total.
Porridge: Cannot be redeemed by dried fruit, cinnamon, or copious amounts of honey.
*Ronan*
Her thighs felt good in my hands—too good, actually, all shapely and soft and everything I loved about a woman.
Seeing Annie in the clothes she was wearing today, I actually hadn’t recognized her for a second. The contrast between what she’d been in the last two times I’d seen her and now was striking. I kind of wished she was wearing the old clothes because seeing her like this was testing my willpower. She was all luscious curves. It was a wonder I managed to keep my hands to myself all through the meeting.
It was a relief when the others left us to talk things out alone. I knew my attention made Annie nervous, but at least now she could manage to get a few words out. Before, when her colleagues were in the room, I could tell she was having a hard time finding her voice. Her helplessness in that moment made me want to rescue her. Be her hero.
And now I was gripping her thighs, running my thumbs back and forth over the fabric of her skirt, and wishing it was her skin. In a heartbeat, I’d gone from savior to predator.
“Say again?” she asked quietly, and I repeated my previous statement.
“I said, Annie dearest, that I wonder what you taste like.”
Our mouths were only inches apart, and I felt the air move when she sucked in a soft breath like she was bracing herself. We stared at one another for a long moment, trapped in silence punctuated only by the sound of our breathing. I smiled when her body moved forward by the tiniest fraction as though she was drawn to me against her better judgment.
I could kiss her now.
Shifting in her seat, she swallowed and finally spoke. “Isn’t that kind of an intimate thing to say to a stranger?” Her tone betrayed her. I knew how to read body language, and hers was telling me that she was interested. I’d more than piqued her curiosity.
“Ah, we’re not strangers, Annie,” I whispered against her lips. “We’ve already shared a cozy elevator ride, I’ve cleaned your top, and you’ve sent me a very odd a picture of a question-mark clock. We’re practically dating.”
“I don’t date, Mr. Fitzpatrick.”
“No?” I murmured.
My thumbs were still caressing her thighs; and if she was feeling me like I was feeling her, I knew she had to be a little bit wet right now. The thought practically made me groan, and I couldn’t hold back any longer.
Decision made.
Gripping her tight, I brought my mouth to hers and kissed her hungrily. When our lips met, I heard her make a tiny sound. Her body went rigid, and she wasn’t reciprocating. I thought it might have been down to shock, though, because when my tongue slid past the seam of her lips, she opened them willingly and trembled against me.
My fingers dug into her thighs, and I pulled her closer. I was on fire, felt like I was melting into her. Never before had a single kiss gotten me so worked up. She tasted
like chocolate and mint. Annie rocked forward, and then I felt her tongue move experimentally against mine. Of its own accord, a groan emanated from deep in my chest. When I brought my hands to her neck and massaged her throat, she whimpered. I was hard as a rock already. Her hands were fisting my shirt, almost as though she didn’t know whether she wanted to push me away or pull me closer.
Then the cutest noise in the world came out of her when her stomach rumbled very loudly. Immediately, she drew away, her cheeks coloring. She could barely look me in the eye.
“Mr. Fitzpatrick, I….”
I cut her off. “It’s Ronan, Annie. Call me Ronan.”
She looked at me then, and we stared at one another for a long moment. I wanted to kiss her again. My heart was racing. I could still taste her.
“I can’t call you Ronan....” She said this, and I didn’t know if she was talking to me or herself; her fingers absentmindedly moved to her lips, touching them lightly.
“Yes, you can.”
“It would be too familiar.” Again, she sounded like she was speaking to herself.
“I like familiar.” I inched closer.
“It would be a mistake.” Her eyes were unfocused.
“Sounds like fun.”
“I can’t risk it….”
She was definitely speaking to herself, and the words had a sobering effect. I stilled and leaned back a bit, searching her face, remembering her earlier statement.
“Annie, why don’t you date?”
I was curious. I didn’t do relationships anymore, not after Brona; so I wondered if, like me, Annie had some deep-seated reason for not dating.
“Huh?” She blinked at me, dazed. She yanked her fingertips away from her mouth like she’d just realized what she was doing and shook her head.
I grinned because the kiss seemed to have made her foggy headed. “You said before that you don’t date. Why is that?”
“I just don’t.” Her eyes fell away and then lifted back to mine like she was trying to be brave. I thought that the way she spoke in short sentences was more down to her social anxiety rather than not having more to say. It was like the words were there, but they got stuck in her throat.
