***
The hotel was beyond swanky, but I was only peripherally aware of its opulence. My eyes were on the marble floor and ornate Kashmir carpets. I was tucked under Ronan’s arm, held close to his chest as he navigated the lobby; I followed him blindly. This was for several reasons.
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.”