I frowned because the message was strange. I read it back several times then read his first email again. I searched for some clue as to why his second email was so terse, his tone truncated. I knew better than to read emotion into written words, so I tried my best not to fret over the note.
I tried and failed.
The words looked angry.
I went back to my room and changed, contemplated how to answer his message as I dressed. I spent the rest of the day—between work and eating my feelings and trying not to think about Ronan—periodically clicking back to his emails and studying them, working myself up into ball of stress. In the end, I decided that honesty was the best policy.
March 18
4:10 p.m.
Dear Ronan,
I agree, the truth always comes out. I’m so glad you didn’t do anything rash. She doesn’t deserve your time and attention (or energy).
I was surprised by your questions in the last email, regarding what I’m getting out of helping you. The answer is quite simply this: I am getting the pleasure of your correspondence. I wonder if anyone has ever told you this before, but you are very charming and likable. You’re very clever; your emails make me laugh. I like you.
-SML = Someone (who) Maybe Likes (you)
I scanned it a few times for typos then hit “send.” The Socialmedialite was so much braver than Annie Catrel. I sorta had a girl-crush on my alter ego.
Approximately two hours later, still a ball of stress, I was just getting ready to log off of my work profile and start working on some blog posts when I received an email from Gerta.
March 18
6:46 p.m.
Hi, Annie.
Lost and Found recovered your phone. I have it here and will send it via courier before I leave today.
Also, Mr. Fitzpatrick stopped by. He apologized about having to cancel today and rescheduled your appointment for Thursday morning at 7:00; he indicated that you knew the address/location.
I took the liberty of moving your phone conference with Becky and the team regarding the Starlet to Friday afternoon.
See you tomorrow, Gerta
I cringed. I’d sacrificed Dara Evans, aka The Starlet, on my blog on St. Patrick’s Day in an effort to draw attention away from Brona’s lies. Now I’d pay for it, and poor Becky would likely bear the brunt of the fallout from The Socialmedialite’s “baby seal” article.
At least I could look forward to a Thursday morning date with Ronan, even if it was all pretending for the cameras. The problem was I was pretty sure my pretending to be smitten with Ronan was more honest than all my forceful denials that we couldn’t be together. Fiction had just become truer than reality.
***
I was early, but Ronan was earlier. I caught sight of him when I was about twenty yards away. He was hard to miss. Though he wasn’t especially tall, he was cut like a marble statue. Presently he was wearing a white long-sleeved Under Armor running shirt that left none of his torso to the imagination, and black spandex running pants.
At some point I would have to talk to him about the spandex, but it wouldn’t be today.
I was too busy being grateful for the advent of spandex to bother with trying to save him from his poor fashion choices. His thick, muscular thighs—rugby thighs—made my head swim as I approached. I had to force myself to look away even as I ached to take a picture of him, something I could keep for myself and look at later when I was feeling lonely.
…like a creeper.
Ugh! I was gross.
Ronan hadn’t tried to call me, and he hadn’t responded to the Socialmedialite’s email. I missed him. Add to this my latest exchange with WriteALoveSong,
@WriteALoveSong to @Socialmedialite: THE WORLD IS ENDING!… I thought Ronan F. was the cocky jock who sent you the douchiest email ever. Why are you suddenly friendly with him on Twitter? Did he apologize? Or are you mesmerized by his… toe shoes.
@Socialmedialite to @WriteALoveSong: I’m trying to help him navigate social media. He’s not a bad guy, he was just having a douchey moment.
@WriteALoveSong to @Socialmedialite: Maybe he should put that on a T-shirt “Watch out for random douchey moments” You’re too nice to people, I can’t believe you’re helping him.
@Socialmedialite to @WriteALoveSong: He’s actually really cool! You’d like him.
@WriteALoveSong to @Socialmedialite: I think you mean, ‘He’s actually really hot!’ This is why I can’t cover mainstream showbiz, it’s the pretty people who are always forgiven.
I wondered if she was right. I was more than physically attracted to Ronan; I was desperately in lust and infatuation. Yet it was so much more than what he looked like. If all I wanted was handsome, I would have hooked up with my neighbor Kurt the King of Moisturizers.
As I neared, I saw that his skin was flushed and his white shirt was damp, sticking to the sweat covering his chest and back and sides. Obviously, he’d already done at least one lap around the park. My steps faltered. Soon I would be close enough to touch him…to talk to him. I thought about turning around and leaving, but I couldn’t. I really, really missed him, the way he made me feel reckless, the way he looked at me like I was the only person in the room, on the street, in the world.
“Shelly sells shitty sea shells by the shitty sea shore….” I mumbled nervously, letting my anxiety get the better of me and giving into my compulsion to curse. I ground my teeth and continued forward.
Ronan was stretching, using a bench for balance. His gorgeous back was to me, and therefore he didn’t see me approach. I cleared my throat loudly when I was about six feet away. This caused him to still and glance over his shoulder; I lost my breath a little when our eyes connected.
He wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t frowning, either. He was just looking at me. Then he wasn’t just looking at me, he was smoldering at me.
Two days without my Ronan fix and now I was seized, caught in the web of his…Ronan-ness.
I had the distinct sensation that I was falling into his eyes; they seemed to have their own gravitational field. Without my intending to do so, my feet carried me forward as he straightened and turned completely around. I stumbled over nothing, and he stepped closer, his hands coming to my waist even though I was in no danger of falling to the ground.
“You look a little dazed,” he said, giving me a crooked grin.
The rumbly cadence of his voice called to my inner—and thus far dormant—vixen. I was surprised to find that I had one and that I liked how vulnerable and exposed I felt under the beautiful burden of Ronan’s stare.
But I hated that he was so handsome…and smart…and quick-witted…and perceptive….
Especially perceptive.
“I’m—I’m fine.”
He nodded once then bent to kiss me. I closed my eyes and moved more completely into his arms, but then the kiss was over. It had just been a simple press of his lips against mine, and it left me feeling unfulfilled and cheated.
My lashes fluttered open, and I gazed up at him; his eyes felt distant, guarded as they moved over my face. He lifted a single eyebrow.
“I think that’s a good enough show for the paps.”
“The paps?”
“Yes, the paparazzi.”
“Oh. Oh, yes.” Remembering myself, I stepped away and looked at the still-brown grass under our feet. “Right.”
I felt his eyes move over me, and I wondered if he saw the acute disappointment I felt at the impersonal nature of the kiss, meant only for show. I hoped he didn’t. I did not want to be that girl, the one who sends mixed signals. Maybe it was already too late for that. Maybe I was that girl. But I couldn’t help it. I liked him. I liked him more than I should.
This thought helped me regain my composure and focus on putting emotional distance between us, if not physical distance. Ronan reached for and held my hand in his then tugged me toward the trail.