“I’ve already gone once around the park. Do you want to run, jog, or walk?”
“I usually just walk.” I glanced at nothing—a gazebo, a bench, a tree—just as long as it wasn’t him.
In my peripheral vision, however, I discerned he was looking at me. “If we walk, then we might have to talk to each other. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather jog?”
My attention darted to him; his statement surprised me. “You don’t want to talk?”
He shrugged and gave me a small smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “What’s the point?”
I winced at his question, my heart twisting with a dull pain, and I lowered my eyes to the trail. We walked in silence for several minutes. I felt winded, my chest heavy, even though we weren’t walking very fast.
Then abruptly he said, “Unless you want to tell me why you’re doing this.”
I tried not to flinch at the hard edge in his voice. “Doing what?”
“This.” He paused then added, “This. Pretending to be my girl. I’m actually very curious. Will it help you with your career? Move up in the company?”
He sounded bitter. I gave him a sideways glance and found that his expression was clearly bitter as well, his lovely brown eyes rimmed with jaded sorrow. It reminded me of the first time I saw him, when I thought he was that Irish actor, and I wanted to embrace him and soothe away his troubles. Instinctively, I shifted so that I was walking closer, moved my hand to his elbow, and tucked myself close to his body.
“No, Ronan. It’s not going to help with my career,” I answered honestly, watching his profile. It wouldn’t help me with my career because I had no plans to move beyond my current position, and it certainly wasn’t helping my peace of mind.
His jaw ticked. “Really?”
“Yes. Really. I like what I do. I have no desire to…to be in charge of a group of people, be a manager. Right now I’m talent. I provide content, expertise, and guidance to the team. This is what I want to do. I have no ambitions to move up. If I could stay doing exactly what I’m doing forever, then I would do just that.”
“Then why don’t you explain to me what’s really going on? Why are you doing this?”
“Because….” I began then stopped. My feet also stopped which forced him to stop. I pulled on his elbow until he was facing me.
Honesty, I told myself. Be like The Socialmedialite…just be honest.
I swallowed with difficulty because he was staring at me, and I could feel myself getting caught in his gravitational field.
“Because I want to help you,” I blurted. My eyes darted away, but then I forced myself to look at him again.
He didn’t believe me. I could tell.
“I don’t get it, Annie.” He shook his head. “One minute you don’t want anything to do with me—”
“I never said that.”
“‘I don’t want you, Ronan.’” He repeated the words I’d said to him in the bakery on Monday, making me cringe. My hand on his arm tightened as he continued, “One minute you don’t want me, and the next you agree to go along with this farce that we’re a couple. Why would you do that? To save face?”
“No! You know that I was about to tell Joan the truth on Monday—you know I was about to tell everyone the truth. But then you cut in and said that we had planned the whole thing, and I saw…I saw that I could help you.”
What I didn’t say, what I didn’t admit, was that I’d jumped at the chance because it meant I would get to spend time with Ronan; I would get to talk to him, touch him, be with him without risking my feelings or growing attached. Because it was fake—or at least, I could pretend it was fake.
“You’re doing this because you want to help me.” His tone was flat, and his usually vibrant eyes were dull, guarded.
“Yes. I did…I do. I think what she did—what Brona is doing—is unfair to you. And if I can help, then I want to help. If I can make her lies go away….” I glanced over his shoulder, frustrated by my lack of ability to communicate. My tongue felt heavy in my mouth, and I gathered a deep breath, tried to ease some of my frustration, and closed my eyes as I continued, “I saw how that hurt you. I don’t want you to be hurt—I’m not making sense.”
He was quiet for several seconds, and I felt my face flush. I’d said too much, admitted too much, and my words were clumsy. This was precisely why I should only interact with the world via infographics.
“You’re making some sense,” he said, his gentle tone catching me off guard.
I opened my eyes and peeked at him. His gaze had softened, and I saw that he was studying me. I met his probing stare, relieved that the bitterness had been replaced by speculative warmth.
At length he shifted a step forward, entering my space. I lifted my chin to maintain eye contact and successfully fought the urge to back away.
Once he was basically crowding me, Ronan whispered, “Why do you care if I’m hurt?”
“Because….” I began, stopped, closed my eyes again, and gathered a deep breath.
“Look at me, Annie.”
I didn’t. Instead, I bit my lip and shook my head.
I felt one of his hands cup my cheek; his thumb pulled the flesh from my teeth then swept over my bottom lip.
“Look at me.” This time it sounded a bit more like a command.
I opened my eyes. I looked at him. I told him the truth. “I lied to you.”
I saw a flash of something behind his gaze, and he appeared to be holding his breath. “I don’t like liars.”
“I know, I know, I’m sorry.”
“What did you lie about?”
“I want permanence,” I said stupidly. “I want guarantees and stability.”
“What? What does—”
I interrupted him, my words tumbling from my mouth. “I like you. And more than just in the biblical sense. I like you. I like that you’re Mother Fitzpatrick with your team, but you flirt dirty with me. I like how you take care of your family and how h-h-honorable you are. And I want….” I tried to shift my gaze from his, but he wouldn’t let me. Ronan lifted his other hand so that he held my face between his palms, forcing me to maintain eye contact.
“What do you want?”
“When I first saw you, do you know what I thought? I thought you looked sad. And even though I didn’t know you, I wanted to do something to make that go away.”
His gaze narrowed. “You mean in the break room? You thought I was sad?”
My eyes widened as I realized my mistake. As far as Ronan knew, the first time I’d laid eyes on him was at the office in the break room. “Y-yes, I mean, no—of course, I mean that—listen, it doesn’t matter. What matters is that I saw you, I saw sadness. I wanted to help.”
“But you don’t want me?”
My frustration doubled. I gripped his wrists, steadying myself. I stared at his neck, irritated that I was so bad at this, and blurted on an exhalation, “I do want you, for some crazy reason I want to trust you; but I am so afraid.” The last part of my sentence came out as a whisper.
He seemed to release the breath he was holding, and with it, I felt his relief like a tangible thing. The weight I hadn’t precisely realized he’d been shouldering fell away. Ronan pressed a quick kiss to my forehead before saying, “Don’t be. You don’t need to be afraid of me.”
“I can’t not be. You don’t know. You don’t know what I’m like.”
“I know you’re gorgeous.”
My eyes cut to his, and I frowned, fear making my throat tight. “See, that’s it. That right there. That’s the problem.”
“What? It’s a problem that I think you’re beautiful?” He was truly perplexed.
“You’ll change your mind. You’ll find someone else.”
Ronan stared at me like I’d grown wings and horns and eight legs. “What are you talking about?”
“I’ve worked really hard for stability, for security. Things are good now. I’m safe.”