The back of his fingers had brushed against my bare skin, sending really, really delicious spikes of awareness to the pit of my stomach and up my chest, neck, and the top of my head. My brain had been momentarily paralyzed.
I’d been alone, eating my feelings after my alter ego, The Socialmedialite, had received a truly heinous email. I’d read it less than an hour ago; it was from the asshat I’d mistaken for Colin Farrell last Thursday and written about on Saturday, but who was actually a disgraced Irish rugby player…named Ronan Fitzpatrick. And I’d just met him. In person.
I must’ve read the email three times.
Okay, I’m lying. I read it no less than twenty times.
Then I Googled the shit out of him. He was right. It made for colorful reading. Ronan Fitzpatrick, of the exceedingly posh and pretentious South Dublin Fitzpatricks, was Irish rugby royalty. His father had been a famous rugby player until his death in a car accident some twenty years ago.
As well, his father’s family was stinking rich. Old, old, old money rich. The kind of old money that Americans can barely comprehend. Like, hundreds of years of old money and aristocracy. My stomach hurt. I didn’t even know who my biological father was, and this guy could trace his family tree back over three hundred years.
Adding to his apparently charmed life and silver-spoon upbringing, Ronan was—if the papers were to be believed—the best hooker to come out of Ireland maybe ever. And by “hooker,” I don’t mean prostitute. Hooker is a position—a very pivotal position—on the rugby field. Based on my quick research, it appeared to be the rugby equivalent of an American football team’s quarterback.
Ronan was apparently the best hooker that ever was and ever will be, amen.
However, more recently, Ronan’s infamy stemmed from allegedly hospitalizing one of his teammates during an on-the-field brawl. Also recently were several pictures of Ronan sharing the front page of tabloids with a distressed-looking bottle blonde. She was labeled as an actress, singer, and Ronan’s ex-fiancée, Brona O’Shea. The photos were split screen style, like they’d been ripped in half.
I felt both judgey and vindicated as I took in her appearance. She’d obviously had several elective plastic surgeries. Just to be sure, I searched for pictures of her over the last five years. As I suspected, her appearance had changed dramatically over time.
At first she was a fresh-faced Irish rose: pink cheeks, sandy-blonde hair, clear blue eyes. The most recent shots made me grimace. Fake tan, fake tits, lipo, lip injections, Botox, nose job. God, what kind of hell must it have been for her to be with someone like Ronan? Had she changed herself so completely to please him? And he just dropped her after proposing marriage? I was disgusted.
After my glutinous Google-fest, I read his email once again.
At first I was shocked all over again, stunned, actually. Then I was outraged. Likely this was because his assessment of my cobwebs and cowardice struck a nerve.
He was right, of course. I was cowardice covered in cobwebs. But that didn’t make me any less pissed off by his insulting personal attack.
Most people could see the silly in my blog posts, laugh at themselves, handle it gracefully.
Mr. Ronan Fitzpatrick, it seemed, was not most people. He was obviously a privileged douchenozzle, used to getting his own way and everyone else be damned. I knew his type. His type was why I preferred to be confused with wallpaper. His type was why I was cowardice covered in cobwebs.
After receiving the email—reading it ad nauseam, working myself up into a knot of outraged and hurt fretfulness even though I knew I could never respond to it—I decided to cool off. I decided I needed food therapy.
The first thing I did was send a message to my best online pal.
@Socialmedialite to @WriteALoveSong: I just received the douchiest email of all time. Remind me to never write about male sports figures again. Their meaty heads are impervious to jokes.
I took a walk, my feet carrying me to my favorite French bakery two blocks away and then back to the offices of Davidson & Croft. I made a detour for the break room, intent on brewing my special peppermint tea; I’d never met a problem that couldn’t be fixed with pastry and tea. Just as I sat down, I read my friend’s response.
@WriteALoveSong to @Socialmedialite: Oh no! It’s just like I always tell you: jocks are cocks. Sorry. :-\
This made me smirk. I could always count on her make me smile.
But then, one minute I’d been still smirking about my friend’s joke, quietly enjoying the closest thing to an orgasm I experienced these days—éclairs from Jean Marie’s on Fifth Avenue—and the next minute he was there.
I was assaulted by the sight, smell, and sad, soulful eyes of Ronan Fitzpatrick.
The paralyzation-athon was not what discomfited me, nor was it how my heart rate skyrocketed at his proximity. The source of my discombobulating anxiety was that, even after my brain wheels started spinning again, I hadn’t pushed him away. His hand was up my shirt, his face mere inches from mine, and I didn’t push him away.
I couldn’t.
He smelled so freaking good, like clean man and soap, just the tiniest hint of aftershave and mint. I stared at him, at his lips tugging to the side in a seductive smile; at the collar of his leather jacket where it touched his neck; at his jean-clad thighs, thick and muscular and powerful; at his heavily lashed eyes, sad and soulful. Every one of my nerve endings was on fire.
Holy heathen in heaven, it wasn’t even his looks.
He was…overwhelming and magnetic. Sensual and in-your-face sexual. Also not helping matters, he had no concept of personal space.
I finally managed to remove him, but my effort was half-hearted and done with shaking hands. The rest of our conversation had been a blur, right up until Joan walked in and promptly paired us up.
I stared at the empty doorway where they’d just departed, my mind working without purchase, trying to absorb all that had just occurred. Slowly but surely, my foggy irritation gave way to the earlier outrage and hurt I’d been feeling since reading Ronan Fitzpatrick’s nasty email.
No way.
There was no way I would pair up with this guy—the epitome of a privileged and entitled beefcake. He was everything I loathed rolled up into a tight, luscious, muscular, heady, and quixotically alluring package. My social phobias aside, I needed alone time with Ronan like a car needed a swim in the ocean.
I was standing, gripping the back of the chair I’d been sitting in, my tea now tepid, my éclair half-eaten, when Joan waltzed back into the break room. I glanced behind her, searching for him, a renewed spike of panic hitting me in the chest. I noted gratefully that she was alone. I also noted that she was grinning.
Joan never grinned.
She charged toward me like she was going to mow me and my chair down, but then stopped three feet from my table. “I didn’t know you were coming in today, dear.” She said these words cheerfully, her little eyes narrowing as her grin widened.
I returned her squint but not her grin, as I was too busy trying to determine the best course of action. Maybe I could feign a brain tumor and request a six-month leave of absence. She would see through any such attempt, of course. Joan was shrewd in the way other people were tall; it was in her DNA.
“Joan,” I began, quickly clearing my throat and deciding that honesty was the best policy because I’d never be able to out-maneuver or manipulate her, “I really, really do not want to work with that man. I understand if you need to assign me to his campaign, but pairing us up would not be beneficial to anyone.” My heart hadn’t quite recovered yet from Mr. Fitzpatrick’s hand up my shirt; therefore, I tried to surreptitiously even my breathing.
“Dear, pairing you up has already been beneficial to everyone.” Her grin became a small, knowing smile, and her black eyes glittered. Abruptly, she turned and called to me over her shoulder, “Follow me.”