The Hooker and the Hermit

by L.H. Cosway

  First, I was jetlagged.

  After the bathroom hug that lasted well beyond ten wordless minutes, Ronan led me back to our seats, holding my hand. Again he gave me the window seat. However, this time he also spent the rest of the flight touching me, but it was nothing overtly sexual, just affectionate. The touches warmed me, made my blood simmer, and went a long way toward melting my resolve. He brushed my hair away from my cheek, and his hand lingered on my neck; or he’d place his hand on my knee to get my attention and keep it there for several minutes, his thumb drawing light, slow circles on my kneecap.

  At one point he picked up my hand and massaged it. He didn’t ask permission; he did it absentmindedly while staring at my fingers.

  “Go to sleep,” he said. So I did, feeling both safe and at risk of falling deeper but too weary to care.

  The plane touched down at 7:30 a.m. Dublin time, which made it 2:30 a.m. New York time. Ronan woke me with a soft kiss, first on my lips then on my forehead. My brain felt stuffed with cotton and cobwebs and maybe maple syrup. I just wanted to sleep.

  The other reason I was following Ronan blindly was because of the photographers. As soon as we passed through customs, we were basically accosted. I’d been stunned by the sheer number; I tried to estimate but quit counting when I got to twenty.

  I thought the paparazzi in the States were aggressive, hiding behind bushes and trailing us around the city. I’d been so wrong. So very, very wrong. The “paps” in Ireland didn’t seem to understand the concept of personal space, nor did they see anything amiss about touching me or telling me how much they appreciated the size of my breasts.

  It was at this comment that Ronan wrapped his arm around me possessively and pressed me against him, caging me within his strong arms. He said something to the photographers, but I didn’t understand the words—either because I was too stunned or because Ronan was speaking another language, I had no idea. Then he navigated us both to the relative safety of the first-class lounge.

  When we got to the lounge, he looked like he was ten seconds away from murdering someone. He was so angry. He kept asking me if I was okay; meanwhile, he was grinding his teeth, his heart beating a hundred miles a minute, and his grip on my shoulders was just shy of painful.

  Without letting me go, Ronan walked to the bar, flipped open his phone, and placed a brief call. At the bar he ordered me a Bloody Mary and a soda water for himself, all the while administering “fuck off” glares to anyone who dared make eye contact. He waited until our drinks arrived before moving us away. Still under his arm, I stumbled where he led, which was to a corner behind a floor-to-ceiling panel, hiding us from the glass windows facing the rest of the airport.

  A big, leather couch sprawled under dimmed lights; he settled himself on one end and then situated me so I was next to him. He told me to drink the Bloody Mary. So I did. Then he told me to put my head on his lap and sleep for a bit. So I did. His arm rested along my body, his hand on my hip.

  Some indeterminate time later, Ronan woke me with another kiss, framing my face with his big palms. I was informed that his security team had arrived and they would make sure that we made it to the car unmolested.

  He added under his breath, “And they’ll keep me from killing those fuckers….”

  The security team did more than that.

  They took us out of the airport through a series of tunnels, thereby avoiding the paparazzi all together.

  Yet Ronan kept me tucked against him the entire time—when we walked through the tunnels, when we finally made it to the car, during the ride to the hotel, when we walked from the car to the hotel through another sea of photographers, and finally when we checked into the fancy schmancy Merrion Hotel.

  Once we boarded the elevator, Ronan barred the way, letting no one else on, and instructed the bellhop to take the next lift. No one argued. I glanced at Ronan’s face as the doors slid shut and found that I would not have argued, either.

  “Ronan…are you okay?”

  He glanced down at me, his handsome face marred by a frown of concentrated frustration. I was surprised to see that all his irritation was directed inward.

  “I am so sorry, Annie. They had no right to touch you or talk to you like that. Those motherfu—” He didn’t finish the insult. Instead, he clenched his teeth and glanced away, huffing a bitter laugh. “No wonder you don’t want to be with me. No one is worth putting up with all that shite.”

  His words caused an acute stab of discomfort in my chest near my heart. Looking at him intensified the hurt. Maybe it was because I was jetlagged, or maybe it was because of the Bloody Mary; but I couldn’t let that statement stand unchallenged.

  “You’re absolutely fucking crazy if you think you’re not worth putting up with those wankers.”

  The hard line around his jaw softened, and his eyes widened in surprise. I didn’t take too much time to process the abrupt change in his demeanor because I’d just realized that my words were somewhat slurred. I scrunched my face as I tried to concentrate on willing the cobwebs away, but it was no use. I was not a person who could function well on less than six hours of sleep.

  Therefore, I pressed on, hoping to make my point as clear as possible even in my unsteady state. “You’re worth…going to graduate school again; you’re worth writing a master’s dissertation with Professor Perkins as a mentor.”

  “Who is Professor Perkins?”

  “Now, she is a motherfucker. Just be glad you’ll never meet her.” I shook my head, found the movement made me dizzy. I stopped shaking my head but continued my rant, which was quickly turning into a tirade. “You are worth so much more than the hassle of a few asshole paps. It’s not your fault that they acted like a pack of crude douchebags. You’re smart, and kind, and…just fucking wonderful. Never doubt that. Never.”

  I let my head loll to the side as I gazed up in his big brown eyes. I loved his eyes. They were so big. And brown. And dreamy. And they were smiling at me. In fact, his whole face was smiling at me, his eyes sparkling as they perused my features.

  “Annie dearest, are you feeling okay?”

  “Mm-hmm.” I nodded dreamily then added, “But I’m a little tired…I think.”

  His mouth was pulled to the side in a delicious slant. I wanted to lick the curve of his bottom lip, but I didn’t, mostly because the doors to the elevators slid open to our floor just as I seriously considered lifting on my tiptoes to make it happen.

  He stared at me for a beat, not immediately exiting the lift, like he was waiting for me to say or do something. Eventually, tearing his gaze from mine, Ronan guided me down the hall to the room. I didn’t take note of the room number as we entered, nor—for that matter—did I know what floor we were on. Neither did I think much of the facts that our suite was huge and beautiful, but had one bedroom, and that one bedroom had only one king-sized bed.

  Now that I’d made my point with Ronan and he seemed to be sufficiently calmed down, all I could think about was sleep. When I saw the bed, I stepped out from beneath the safety of Ronan’s arm, stumbled toward it, and let myself fall face first into its feathery embrace.

  “Oh…this is heaven,” I groaned as I swam up the length of the soft duvet, caressing the satiny texture with open palms. “I never want to get up.”

  I felt the bed depress next to me and then Ronan’s hand on my back; he shook me a little. “Annie, you shouldn’t sleep anymore until tonight. You need to stay up, or else your body won’t get used to the time difference.”

  I turned and lay on my back. The movement caused my sweater to ride up and bare my midriff; Ronan’s hand now rested on the skin of my stomach. The sensation wasn’t sobering. If anything, it made me feel delightfully warm and cozy. I wanted him to keep it there. I had his touches on the plane to blame for my level of comfort with his touch now.

  I wanted him to curl up on the bed and spoon me. I’d never been spooned—I’d only been forked and knifed.

  “I don’t care.” I tried to open m
y eyes so I could look at him and show him that I was serious; I failed. My eyes would not stay open. So I covered his hand with mine and administered an ineffectual tug, trying to get him to lie down as well. “Come lie down with me; sleep with me. You know you want to.”

  Ronan huffed, or growled, or some combination of the two. “You’re making it really hard for me to be good.”

  I reached blindly for him, already succumbing to the gentle promise of sleep in a luxurious bed. “So what if we don’t” …yawn…“adjust to the time difference” … yawn… “what’s the worst…” yawn… “that could…” yawn… “happen?”

  Ronan’s voice sounded far away when he answered; but his hand was still on my stomach, and my hand still covered his. “The worst that could happen is that we’d be up all night.”

  “So?”

  “Do you want to be up all night with me, Annie?”

  “Mmm….”

  That was a delicious thought, much more delicious than an éclair; and it was with that thought that I fell completely and pleasantly asleep, dreaming about all the things I wanted to do to Ronan that night.

  ***

  I was woken up by the sound of a phone ringing, but it wasn’t the normal light trill of my cell phone. It was a meaner noise and sounded less like a ring than an oscillating buzzer. I lifted my head and tried to get a handle on where I was and what time it was and what the hell was going on and am I in my underwear?

  The ringing stopped abruptly. I blinked at the side table where the phone now lay silent and then glanced around the room. The morning’s events came back to me but not in a rush. More like a sporadic leaky faucet. I remembered the plane landing and customs and the rude paparazzi and…the bar at the airport. The rest was a little fuzzy, but I did recall leaving a car and entering the hotel lobby, Ronan checking us in, and flopping down on the bed as soon as we walked into the hotel room.

  I glanced down at myself. I was under the covers of the bed, and I was dressed in my underwear, bra, and the T-shirt I’d been wearing under my sweater. I thought about my state of undress for several seconds and realized Ronan must’ve taken off my jeans and sweater when I passed out; he must’ve also tucked me in and closed the drapes. I spotted my clothes folded into a neat pile on the foot of the bed.

  The phone rang again, causing me to jump and my heart to bounce around my ribcage. I pressed my hand against the spike of anxiety in my chest and grabbed the phone, mostly to stop the infernal sound.

  “Yes?”

  “Ms. Catrel, this is O’Hare, the concierge. Mr. Fitzpatrick left instructions to wake you at noon. It is now noon. I am also to remind you of your appointment at two.” The voice on the other end was impossibly polished. It did more to clear my head than the ringing phone.

  “My appointment at two?”

  “Yes, ma’am. In your room. Massage, facial, pedicure, manicure, hair, and makeup…for tonight’s event.”

  I swallowed a sudden weird sensation in my throat. “Oh, right. Thanks.”

  “No trouble at all, Ms. Catrel. Your lunch is on its way up now, and may I suggest the complimentary bathrobe in the closet should you not yet be appropriately attired to receive guests?”

  As if on cue or by magic, a knock on the suite door sounded at just that moment.

  “Thank you,” I said absentmindedly to the elegant voice, searching the room for the aforementioned closet.

  “No trouble at all, Ms. Catrel. Again, my name is O’Hare should you require any assistance during your stay. Patricia’s has been assigned to you and Mr. Fitzpatrick for the duration, and I hope that you will not hesitate to contact me or Patricia should you need anything at all.”

  “Oh, okay. Thank you.” I scrambled to the edge of the bed and jogged to the nearest closet.

  “No trouble at all, Ms. Catrel. Enjoy your lunch.”

  And, with that, O’Hare clicked off. I tossed the cordless phone to the bed and yanked open the closet door, finding a beautiful woman’s paisley blue silk bathrobe hanging next to an equally lavish black and gray striped man’s bathrobe. I quickly tugged off my shirt and pulled on the robe, tying it as I jogged to the front door of the suite.

  A pretty older woman stood in the doorway. She was dressed in a business suit, and her graying red hair was tied back in a severe bun. She was smiling at me.

  “Good day, Ms. Catrel. I’m Patricia.” She reached her hand forward, and I took it, shaking it automatically.

  “Nice to meet you. Please call me Annie.”

  “Yes, of course. We have your lunch here as well as several items for your afternoon appointment.” She shifted to the side, indicating with a wave of her hand the food cart behind her, five burly-looking bellhops or waiters, three youngish maids or beauticians, and various contraptions set on luggage carts. “May we enter?”

  Inwardly, I shrank at the sight of the crowd outside my door, but I was too surprised to think much about their presence. Ultimately, my desire to avoid confrontation won out over my fear of interacting with people.

  “Yes—yes, please come in,” I stammered and stepped out of the doorway. They filed into the room very much like a parade; the food cart and shiny brass luggage carts were parade floats.

  Patricia administered orders to the group of them, telling them where to put what. Then she turned back to me. I was still hovering by the entrance, watching the bustle with some fascination.

  “Mr. Catrel, I see you have not unpacked.” She motioned to my luggage, where it lay stacked by the sofa. Patricia crossed to me, slid her hand into the crook of my elbow, and then guided me away from the door and toward the bedroom, where the food cart had just been wheeled. “Please allow me to unpack your belongings while you enjoy a soak. Your lunch is in here, next to the sitting area within your room. I will be pleased to draw you a bath.”

  “I-I can draw my own bath.”

  “Of course you can, but it would be my pleasure,” Patricia said, her voice level and kind. She brought me to a comfy chair and deposited me there and then motioned for the bellhop—or was he a waiter?—to arrange the cart in front of me.

  She disappeared into the bathroom while the waiter lifted the elegant silver coverings, revealing china laden with an assortment of delicious-looking salads, little sandwiches with no crust, a piping-hot bowl of lobster bisque, a big basket with fresh berries, a carafe of yogurt—which he noted was made at the hotel—and a tray of various Irish cheeses.

  Also revealed was a steeping teapot and glass-topped tea box with loose-leaf teas; I had my choice of everything from prosaic peppermint to exotic oolong. And last, but certainly not least, he lifted the top off a platter of delicate petit fours, three of which were miniature éclairs.

  My mouth was watering.

  I felt like I was in one of those rags to riches movies from the 1960s and ’70s, where the insignificant orphan is suddenly faced with everything she ever wanted—namely, lots of beautiful little desserts.

  When the waiter was finished announcing my lunch, he made a short bow, asked if I needed anything further, and then—when I shook my head—left me to my food.

  I stared at the lot of it, not sure where to start. My stomach rumbled in protest at my indecision.

  I’d just decided to begin with the soup when Patricia re-emerged from the bathroom and strolled toward me with smart steps. “I’ve taken the liberty of adding rose and lavender essential oils to your bath.” She stopped at the edge of my table and began spooning peppermint tea into the steeper. “Please don’t hesitate to call upon me during your stay, Ms. Catrel. Our team’s sole purpose is your comfort while you are here with us. Since you’re traveling without your own team, please think of me as your personal secretary.”

  “Uh, I have no…team.”

  “That’s no matter.” Patricia gave me a warm smile and a little nod. She then turned and exited through the bedroom door, calling as she left, “I shall return in a half hour to unpack your things and then again at two for your appointment.”
r />   A few minutes later, I heard all of them file out of the suite and the door close with a soft click.

  Then, feast before me, warm bath next on the agenda, I was alone.

  ***

  I decided I could really get used to being pampered even if that meant having to endure increased levels of human interaction. I stuffed myself. It was shameful. But I wanted to try everything, and everything tasted so good. The only item I finished was the yogurt. It tasted more like a custard than yogurt, and I feared I would go into withdrawal when I returned to New York.

  After gorging myself, I sent a quick message to WriteALoveSong. Before I’d left New York, I told her I was going to be out of town for a few weeks for work, but I promised to message as often as I could. So I fired off a fast note.

  @Socialmedialite to @WriteALoveSong: I just arrived and ate my weight in breakfast foods. You may not hear from me for the next week as I digest all these waffles.

  I was surprised when she quickly responded:

  @WriteALoveSong to @Socialmedialite: Ohhh… waffles! What did the hipster glass of water say to the ice cube?

  @Socialmedialite to @WriteALoveSong: …oh no… what?

  @WriteALoveSong to @Socialmedialite: I’m you before you were cool. Have fun on your trip!

  I rolled my eyes and chuckled despite myself, typing out a speedy, Farewell for now. After switching off my phone, I waddled to the bathroom and disrobed, climbing into the most luscious bath of my life. Really, there was no other word for it. It was luscious.

  The water was still hot, and I discovered why when I was fully immersed; the porcelain was heated. As well, the bubbles were miraculous and never seemed to diminish or fizz out.

  Patricia knocked on the bathroom door to announce her presence and alert me to the fact that she was unpacking my bags. I thought about sending her away, but the luscious bath and sumptuous lunch made me feel lethargic and amenable to being spoiled. So I called my acknowledgment and relaxed.