The Hooker and the Hermit

by L.H. Cosway

He grimaced. “You saw it, then? You saw the story?”

  I nodded as he exhaled an audible breath.

  “Don’t worry, we’re going to—”

  “It’s all lies! I would never do that; I would never fucking—”

  I covered his mouth, holding his gaze for a beat, then walked him backward onto the elevator, grateful that we were the only ones in the lift.

  When the doors slid shut, I lowered my hand and pressed the button for the lobby. He caught my fingers, and his eyes never left mine.

  “You have to know. I would never do those things. I would never hurt a woman. I would never lock someone away in a room and…fuck, she is so fucking crazy!” His growly exclamation and expletives betrayed his obvious frustration. He looked like he wanted to tear something or someone apart, but I reflected that big, strong, powerful guys like him must always look that way when they’re angry. His body was made for force and action, but that didn’t mean he would actually do anything.

  Except, my brain reminded me, he did beat the crap out of his teammate and does regularly beat the crap out of guys on the rugby field….

  I squeezed his hand. “You’re right—she is crazy. But don’t worry. We have a plan.”

  He frowned at me, giving me a sideways glance laced with suspicion. “What kind of plan?”

  Before I could answer, the doors parted and announced our arrival to the lobby. He looked away from me, and I saw that his eyes were rimmed with sorrow and something else, something like helplessness.

  Maybe it was because of our amazing kiss last week, or maybe it was because of the emails he’d been trading with me as The Socialmedialite, but I felt protective of him, possessive. I wanted to keep him safe; I wanted to cheer him up. But I was clumsy at real-life interactions. I didn’t know what to do, what to say, how to be anything other than quiet, because when I spoke my thoughts, disaster and weirdness were usually close behind.

  Acting on instinct, because I wanted to give him comfort, I tugged him out of the elevator, slid my hand into the crook of his elbow, and walked close to his side.

  “Come with me, and I’ll tell you about it. I haven’t had breakfast yet, and I’m starving.”

  He glowered at the glass doors leading to the street, the set of his jaw stern and surly. “I’ve already eaten.”

  “Then you can watch me eat.” After I finished making the suggestion, I grimaced, and my cheeks warmed. That sounded really strange. Why would he want to watch me eat?

  He moved just his eyes to mine. They were almost completely hidden beneath his thick, dark lashes, and I was pleased to see his expression soften with curiosity. “What are you going to eat?”

  “Uh, I was thinking about an éclair.” My words were quietly spoken because they were somewhat embarrassing.

  The first time he saw me, I was eating an éclair. He was probably going to consider me obsessed with éclairs, which was true. I was obsessed with éclairs.

  His mouth crooked to the side. “Yeah, okay. That might be fun.”

  His answer was surprising; his assent sounded completely genuine, like he actually thought watching me eat would be fun. I couldn’t help my small answering smile.

  “Okay. Good.”

  “Good.” He grinned, his eyes moving over my face.

  I was so busy being lost in his truly magnificent bone structure and gently curving smile and warm eyes that reminded me of chocolate fondue and chocolate ganache and chocolate everything that I tripped as we exited the building.

  “Gah—shit!” I lurched forward, stumbling and reaching out with my free hand.

  Ronan caught me before I could make a cement face-plant and turned me toward him; he held my upper arms to keep me steady.

  “Whoa, are you all right?”

  I nodded, scowling at my clumsiness. “Sorry, I’m just obviously…. I’m not good at walking…sometimes.”

  “Well, you can’t be good at everything,” he teased.

  I felt my scowl give way, and I rolled my eyes. “Yes, of course it would be too much to expect that I’d be a proficient walker.”

  “Luckily for you, I’m quite gifted at walking. Here,” he said, sliding his arm around my shoulders and pressing me close to his side, “if I hold you like this, then you can share some of my mad walking skills.”

  I scrunched my face, my arms feeling awkward at my sides as we walked in this position. I tried tucking my hand into my dress pocket, but that just made me elbow him in the stomach.

  “What are you doing?” he asked. “Why are you wiggling around like that?”

  “Where do I put my arm? It feels weird just hanging here.”

  He threw his head back and laughed. Eventually he glanced at me as his fit of humor tapered off. He looked at me like I was adorable and hilarious and enchanting. It made me feel less and more awkward at the same time.

  “Put it around me, like this.” He pulled my arm around his middle so that my hand rested on his opposite hip. A heated flush spread from my chest to my throat at the way I was touching him. It felt entirely too intimate, like we were embracing while we walked.

  Ronan was so strong and solid and male. I tried to swallow away the dichotomously wonderful and alarming sensations being so close to him elicited. My stomach twisted and fluttered. I tried to even my breathing and failed.

  “What’s wrong now?” he asked. I found him watching me with narrowed eyes.

  “Nothing.”

  “Yes, something is wrong. You’re breathing funny, and you’re really tense. If you can’t loosen up, we’re going to stop here, and I’ll make you relax by giving you a back massage…or an orgasm.”

  I snorted a surprised laugh and then covered my mouth with the hand that wasn’t currently touching his hip.

  His answering laugh—a shocked bark likely caused by the sound of my inelegant snort—made me laugh even harder.

  “What is that sound? Are you snorting?” He squeezed my shoulders as we crossed the street, his voice thick with amusement.

  I snorted again—because when I laugh, I snort like the love child of a pig and an alligator unless I hold my nose, in which case I sound like I’ve got a terrible case of the hiccups—which made him laugh even harder. Soon we were in a perpetual laughter loop, and we had to stop in front of a bike shop to catch our breath. I couldn’t look at him without bursting into a snorting fit of giggles, so I kept my eyes on the sidewalk until he pulled me forward and hugged me to him.

  I was paralyzed by my own merriment and didn’t push him away; instead, I buried my head against his chest, gripping the lapels of his jacket and enjoying the rolling, rumbly cadence of his laughter as it receded. He had a great laugh, a sexy laugh. My laugh was the mating call of the Yeti.

  “You have….” He paused, sniffed, lifted a hand to wipe his eyes, and waited until I looked up at him. “Ah, God….” He shook his head, smiling at me. I knew he was trying to collect himself, so he wouldn’t dissolve into another bout of uncontrollable hilarity. “You have the most astonishing laugh I’ve ever heard.”

  I let my forehead fall to his muscular chest and pressed my lips together; my words were muffled when I finally trusted myself to speak. “This is why I don’t laugh around people. I have the worst laugh. It’s the worst.”

  “It’s wonderful.”

  I tilted my chin upward and glared at him. “It sounds like the sound a pig would make if it were having sexual relations with an alligator.”

  Ronan threw his head back, and—surprise, surprise—he laughed.

  I allowed myself a smile but swallowed my giggle before it could bubble beyond my lips.

  “Come on.” I tugged on him. “I’m hungry, and we still have two blocks to walk.”

  “Good.” He pulled me backward against him then threaded my hand around his waist. He placed it on his hip and me once more under his arm. “That’ll give me time to tell you some of my favorite knock-knock jokes.”

  ***

  I didn’t realize that I was relax
ed until I’d already been relaxed for over an hour. True to his word, Ronan had fun watching me eat, maybe too much fun.

  The bakery was quite small and had only two tables, both pressed up against the glass storefront and overlooking the sidewalk. He claimed the only vacant table while I ordered my food. I joined him, sitting across from him like it was the most natural thing in the world, while he picked up a terrible knock-knock joke where he’d left off before we’d separated for me to order.

  I ignored his eyes, which were dancing with challenge, daring me to laugh, and instead set a cup of water in front of him, arranged my tea, and then stuffed my face with the sweet, soft, creamy éclair.

  I might have moaned. I know I closed my eyes while I chewed. It was…it was heaven with cream filling.

  When I opened my eyes, I found Ronan watching me. His elbows were on the table, and he was leaning slightly forward, sitting straight in a chair that looked too small for his athletic form. One of his thumbs was brushing against his lips, and his eyes were trained on my mouth like it had just cured cancer.

  I stiffened. “Do I have something on my mouth?”

  When he spoke he sounded a little dazed. “Not yet….”

  I lifted an eyebrow at him as his eyes refocused on mine; they were hot and…interested. Almost predatory. Actually, they were definitely predatory. Definitely.

  I swallowed unnecessarily, my stomach fluttering, and I looked at him sideways. “What?”

  “I could watch you eat that all day.”

  I lifted my eyebrow higher but was silent.

  “It’s true. I could. We should do that. I should have you over to my place. I’ll provide the éclairs, now that I know where you get them, and you provide the entertainment.”

  “No, please, no. Based on your gift-giving track record, you’d buy every pastry north of 59th Street.”

  “Liked the flowers, did you?” His grin reminded me of a very wicked and very pleased little boy. “I like the idea of filling up your place with treats."

  “Wow, that’s a very tempting offer.” I endeavored to sound both unimpressed and demure, but really, an apartment full of éclairs was right up my proverbial alleyway of bliss.

  “But you should know….” Ronan leaned close and glanced over his shoulder like he was making sure no one else was listening. I sipped my tea and tried to look bored as he continued, “You’ll have to do it naked.”

  I spit out my tea.

  I spit out my tea right in Ronan’s face.

  It was horrible. I was horrible, even though it wasn’t at all purposeful.

  A terrible moment of shocked and mortified paralysis passed where I could only belatedly cover my mouth and gape at him and what I’d done. Meanwhile, after his initial flinch of surprise, he sat motionless, his eyes closed and my warm tea all over his face and white shirt.

  “OhmygodIamsosososorry!” I jumped up, grabbed at the napkin dispenser, and pulled out at least ten paper napkins in quick succession; then—because I didn’t know what else to do—I began mopping his face and neck and shirt. But I was so focused on the mess I’d created, I didn’t notice where I’d placed the cup of tea until it was too late.

  That’s right. I knocked it over with my elbow just as he opened his eyes, and it rushed across the table, splashed on his shirt, and puddled on the front of his pants. Ronan sucked in a sharp breath then stood abruptly, his chair falling in his haste to stand, and he cursed (likely because the tea was still hot).

  “Oh, my God!” I stepped back and away, lifted my hands to cover my face, and held perfectly still because, if I was still and silent, then I could cause no more damage. I still clutched the damp napkins.

  I’ve always been slightly clumsy, but this was ridiculous. The trip and slight stumble earlier were more my modus operandi. I was always tripping over my own feet or colliding with things because I wasn’t looking up. Spit-takes and drenching people with hot tea were well beyond my normal. I closed my eyes and willed myself to disappear.

  Then I heard his laugh.

  I opened one eye and peered through my fingers; I found him leaning against the window, holding his stomach, laughing uncontrollably. I watched him for a few moments, wondering if he was laughing because he was frustrated or because he was actually finding my abuse of him funny.

  Seeing my reticence, he gave me a big smile. Shaking his head and exhaling an audible breath, Ronan looked the opposite of the furious and tortured man I’d encountered about an hour ago. He looked befuddled, yes, but he also looked merry and happy and maybe a little overwhelmed.

  I dropped my hands to my sides and took a half step forward. “I am so, so sorry. I am so sorry.”

  He waved away my apology as the lady from behind the counter came over with a towel and asked if he was okay.

  “I’m fine,” he said to both her and me. He closed the distance between us and placed his hands on my upper arms. He must not have liked my expression because he dipped his chin to his chest and repeated, “Really, I’m fine. I am.”

  “I can’t walk, and obviously I have difficulty swallowing.”

  He tsked. “That’s too bad….”

  My eyes widened at his statement, but my mouth dropped open when he added, “I prefer a woman who swallows, but spitting doesn’t bother me much.”

  “Ronan!” I hit him on the chest. I had no idea when we’d crossed that line, the line where I felt comfortable hitting him for his naughty taunts, but there we were.

  Another laugh rumbled from his chest, and he didn’t look at all ashamed. “Oh, the tea was totally worth it. I’d take it a hundred times for the expression on your face right now.”

  I flattened my smile, determined not to subject him to my snort-laugh again, and surveyed his clothes. He was a mess.

  “At least, I don’t know, let me help you somehow….” I dabbed at his soaked shirt, quite liking how this close I could see the muscles of his chest and stomach. Distractedly, I patted the front of his pants.

  “Annie….”

  “I know; I remember. I’m supposed to dab, not rub.” I recalled his words from our first meeting.

  “Annie….”

  “Am I rubbing?”

  “No…but, God, I wish you would.”

  I stared at him for a beat, understanding the implication of his words, then groaned and closed my eyes. “You have to stop doing that. You can’t say those things.”

  “I know you like it.”

  “Maybe so, but that’s how you end up with tea spit in your face.”

  “It’s not so bad.”

  I peeked at him, found his eyes on me, warm and appraising.

  “You’re a bit of a tornado, aren’t you?” He said this good-naturedly, and his warm and appraising gaze turned hot and interested. “After all this, I think the least you can do is give me a kiss to make it better.”

  I stared at him, nonplussed. Movement over his shoulder caught my attention, and I glanced at the woman cleaning up after my mess at the table. She was watching us furtively and obviously eavesdropping on our conversation. I cleared my throat and took a step closer to him, lowering my voice so it couldn’t be heard.

  “How can you want me to kiss you? I’ve just assaulted you with my tea…twice.”

  “I’ll take your tea assault any day…if…” —Ronan leaned forward, lowering his head but stopping just a hair’s breadth from kissing me. He continued on a whisper— “…if it’s followed with a kiss.”

  His action drove the breath from my lungs, and I felt myself swaying forward. Even tea-soaked and messy, he made my stomach flip and my heart flutter. And, dammit, he was entirely too charming, too sexy, too…glorious.

  Before I could catch it, a desperate-sounding half moan, half sigh escaped my lips. He took this as permission—which, basically, it totally was—and he captured my mouth with his.

  And I kissed him back.

  We touched only with our mouths and tongue and teeth, and, like him, it was wonderful. He kissed like he
flirted, aggressively, with complete expert abandon. My breasts felt heavy and full, and I wanted him to touch them, touch me, do something other than tease me with his mouth. But he didn’t. And when I would have stepped into the kiss, he lifted his hands and caught me, holding me away. I gave a small frustrated groan and lifted my head.

  He looked pleased and content.

  Meanwhile, I was feeling frustrated and disoriented and hot.

  He pressed his lips to mine once more and then stepped away, his delicious chocolate gaze cherishing. “I don’t want to mess up that pretty dress.” His tone was soft as he explained, and pointed to his tea-stained shirt.

  I stared at him, feeling a little lost in Ronan Fitzpatrick and his epically warm smiles and hot kisses and scorching looks.

  I was completely out of my depth. My feelings were all tangled up, and I had no right to be tangling feelings with Ronan.

  Studying him now, really looking at him, I saw that—whatever we were doing, this dance we’d started—for him, this wasn’t a dalliance, a quick flirtation. He was actually interested in me. He liked me, or at least what he knew of me.

  And he deserved better, and I didn’t think this because I had chronically low self-esteem. I thought this because it was the truth. I was a mess. I was inexperienced. I was a broken, control-freak hermit. My issues had issues. My hurts had hurts. I knew how to run away. I was really good at running away; I didn’t know how to stay.

  Nothing could happen between us. Nothing could ever happen, and the sooner he realized this truth, the better.

  I didn’t know what to say, so I said, “I’m so sorry.”

  “Stop apologizing.”

  “Not for the tea, but I am sorry about that.”

  “It’s fine, no big deal.”

  He reached for my hand. I pulled it away, stepped back, and crossed my arms over my chest. His forehead wrinkled, betraying his confusion, and his eyes scanned me.

  “Annie—”

  “No, really, I’m sorry. I, we…this can’t happen. The gifts, it’s too much. Everything was wonderful, and your notes, they were so…and I can’t tell you how much I love—but this, we, us…it just isn’t ever going to happen.”

  His eyes narrowed on me; and I could see that he was preparing to argue, so I cut him off.