The Hooker and the Hermit
Page 19
Nothing in this make-believe world comes close.
I would send you a link to an article on the subject, but that would really undermine my point. You need to actually experience it. Take your own advice and give it a chance.
-Ronan
Chapter Eight
March 17
1:14 a.m.
Dear Ronan,
I’m not ignoring your last message, but I’m writing you now because I wanted to be the one to tell you before you found out from someone else. This article (attached) hasn’t been published yet, but it will be in tomorrow’s newspaper, and shortly after that all over the gossip sites. As you read it, you’ll see that your ex-girlfriend is accusing you of domestic violence and years of emotional abuse. I have a friend at the paper who sends me celebrity stuff before it’s in print.
Please don’t react! You should probably make a few benign posts on Twitter today, maybe about your boring diet (take pictures) or about your friend Tom’s restaurant. I will also be happy to tweet back and forth with you about something related to your charity.
Just…don’t react to it. She sounds completely crazy. If you react, you’ll be playing right into her hands.
Sincerely, Secretly Miss. Lonelyheart
*Annie*
My internal debate lasted from the time I went to bed at 1:30 a.m. until I awoke from a fitful sleep at 7:13 a.m.
Then it lasted two minutes more. I could stay at home and work and ignore my worry about Ronan and his spiteful ex-girlfriend, wait to be contacted by the office once the story was printed; or I could go into work, break the news to Joan, and have him called in for a damage-control meeting.
Ultimately, I gave into the urge to seek out Ronan. I justified it to myself by recalling that he wasn’t just any client. We’d been partnered, and Joan wanted me to be more present in the office. Plus, I could use it as an opportunity to return the necklace.
When I arrived at the office Monday morning, the streets were already crowded with people setting up for New York’s St. Patrick’s Day parade. I wasn’t scheduled to be in the office until Wednesday and may have been checking both my work account and my Socialmedialite email account obsessively on the way in, hoping he would email one of us. I was also checking his Twitter feed, hoping he didn’t plan to retaliate publically.
As soon as I arrived, I went to Joan’s office. Her assistant told me she’d arrived an hour ago but was currently in a meeting. I asked that she call me as soon as she had a free moment and then I retreated to my office.
I was able to get some work done. Focusing on the beginnings of an action plan to counter Brona O’Shea’s propaganda was a good way to channel my restless energy, but I continued to check my emails.
At 9:00 a.m. on the dot, my cell phone chimed. I grabbed it and saw that the number listed was the phone line from the main conference room.
I stood as I answered it. “Uh, hello?”
“Annie, are you online yet?” Joan’s voice arrived with a slight echo; I knew I was on the speakerphone in the conference room.
“Yes, I’m online.”
“Good. Listen, the Times is running a story today on Ronan Fitzpatrick, and it’s…well, I’ll let you read it. It’ll be all over the place by this afternoon. The point is we need to come up with a plan. I’ll need you in the office today.”
“Oh, well—”
She cut me off. “You should know I’m sitting here with Rachel, Becky, Gerta, and Ian. Mr. Fitzpatrick is on his way. How soon can you get here?”
I cleared my throat, a ripple of excitement running through me at the news that Ronan was already on his way. I’d be spending time with him today. I wished it were under different circumstances, but I couldn’t deny that I was excited to see him. My hand smoothed down the length of my knee-length black dress. Like the other clothes Joan had purchased, it fit me like it was made for my body yet was completely appropriate for the office. I’d paired it with a cropped pink cardigan and black velvet heels.
“I saw the article early this morning. I’ve put together a basic action plan and can send it to the team. Basically, my take on the situation is that we need to pair him up as soon as possible. We need an appropriate and steady date for him, and we need to step up the public appearances, both with the date and without.”
“I agree.” This came from Ian. “Those were my sentiments exactly. We need to pair him with someone the media will love, someone with credibility and the opposite of Brona O’Shea, and give them plenty of romantic photo-ops. A new love interest will bury this story. We’re going to have to scrap the earlier plan for multiple partners, at least for now.”
I swallowed a sudden bitterness in my throat and tried to focus on the plan, the good of the client. “Ronan is interested in charities for disadvantaged children. I know the program director for Sports Stars, and I know she’d love to have Ronan for events.” This was mostly true. The Socialmedialite knew the program director for Sports Stars. Either way, the charity focused on pairing sports celebrities with at-risk youth, and The Socialmedialite had orchestrated several introductions in the past. The program director owed me a favor. The group was great for photo-ops and positive press.
“We need a final list of candidates by the end of the day, Ian.” Joan’s voice held an edge, and I could almost see his pained expression. “And no actresses or models or spoiled, rich brats. We don’t want any drama. Profile women in sports or a professional type who is looking for career advancement. We need someone serious, so this Brona will look frivolous in comparison. Maybe check with the district attorney’s office, see if they have any up-and-coming legal stars with an eye on politics. But she’s got to be gorgeous because no one will care if she isn’t gorgeous.”
“So a smart, serious, gorgeous professional woman who doesn’t mind pretending to date a foul-mouthed, obnoxious Irish rugby player whose trashy ex-girlfriend is accusing him of domestic violence…did I get that right?” Ian’s sarcasm was so heavy I wondered that we weren’t all crushed by the weight of it.
“Just get it done, Ian. We need someone now.” Then Joan turned her attention back to me, and her voice softened. “Listen, Annie. I really need you in the office when Mr. Fitzpatrick arrives. If you can head him off and assure him we have a plan, I think it will go a long way toward easing the Rugby League International people. The story broke last night in Ireland. It was all over the evening papers, and to say that they’re having a meltdown is an understatement.”
“Yes.” I nodded, pacing my office. “Yes, I can do that. I’ll speak with him when he arrives.”
“Thanks, Annie. Send out your action plan to the team, and Ian will fill in the blanks for the candidates,” Joan said and then clicked off the call.
I pulled the phone away from my ear and scrolled through my Socialmedialite email account again, looking for a message from Ronan. Still nothing.
My stomach growled just then, and I realized with some fascination that I’d skipped breakfast. This was highly unusual. I loved breakfast food. I especially loved waffles. I never got twisted up and distracted by client drama; but then, I’d never kissed a client before, and I’d never emailed back and forth using actual words instead of infographics.
I allowed myself to think about the kiss. My fingers drifted to my lips. I touched them, recalling the feel of his mouth against mine, his hands on my legs, my fingers fisting in his shirt, the way he smelled, how he tasted.
The kiss.
My body warmed at the memory, and I leaned against my desk because my knees felt a little wobbly and—double doughnut dammit—that man was an excellent kisser.
But more than that, we’d connected in some rudimentary way last Thursday over lunch. Hearing about his childhood, listening to him speak, how open he was, how guileless and willing to trust…he made me want to trust. I hadn’t wanted to trust anyone since I foolishly entrusted my virginity to the high school quarterback on prom night. The night had been so stereotypical in its tragedy and disappointment, thinking about it now made me both laugh and cringe.
I’d been so stupid.
People couldn’t be trusted.
Waffles, however, never let me down or dumped me the morning after. I could count on waffles.
I decided all at once that I needed waffles…or an éclair…and peppermint tea. Maybe I would message WriteALoveSong and see what she was up to…
I grabbed my black clutch wallet and bolted for the door, not really paying attention to the occupants of the hallway as I made my way to the elevators. I pressed the call button, then checked the messages on my phone again. Peripherally, I was aware of the ding of the elevator. Without glancing away from my email, I took a single step toward the lift.
“Annie.”
I stopped short, recognizing Ronan’s voice immediately, and glanced up just as he stopped directly in front of me. He was coming off the elevator and he looked…awful. He looked upset and irritated and frayed. His hair was wet, but he hadn’t shaved. The dark shadow of his stubble mirrored the worry shadows under his eyes. He was wearing a white T-shirt and jeans and his black leather jacket.
He looked just as yummy as an éclair but with an aura of dark vulnerability that made me want to cuddle him and make him tea and kiss him a lot. These feelings were alarming as I’d never done these things for someone, nor had anyone—well, since I was six—ever done them for me.
I would send you a link to an article on the subject, but that would really undermine my point. You need to actually experience it. Take your own advice and give it a chance.
-Ronan
Chapter Eight
March 17
1:14 a.m.
Dear Ronan,
I’m not ignoring your last message, but I’m writing you now because I wanted to be the one to tell you before you found out from someone else. This article (attached) hasn’t been published yet, but it will be in tomorrow’s newspaper, and shortly after that all over the gossip sites. As you read it, you’ll see that your ex-girlfriend is accusing you of domestic violence and years of emotional abuse. I have a friend at the paper who sends me celebrity stuff before it’s in print.
Please don’t react! You should probably make a few benign posts on Twitter today, maybe about your boring diet (take pictures) or about your friend Tom’s restaurant. I will also be happy to tweet back and forth with you about something related to your charity.
Just…don’t react to it. She sounds completely crazy. If you react, you’ll be playing right into her hands.
Sincerely, Secretly Miss. Lonelyheart
*Annie*
My internal debate lasted from the time I went to bed at 1:30 a.m. until I awoke from a fitful sleep at 7:13 a.m.
Then it lasted two minutes more. I could stay at home and work and ignore my worry about Ronan and his spiteful ex-girlfriend, wait to be contacted by the office once the story was printed; or I could go into work, break the news to Joan, and have him called in for a damage-control meeting.
Ultimately, I gave into the urge to seek out Ronan. I justified it to myself by recalling that he wasn’t just any client. We’d been partnered, and Joan wanted me to be more present in the office. Plus, I could use it as an opportunity to return the necklace.
When I arrived at the office Monday morning, the streets were already crowded with people setting up for New York’s St. Patrick’s Day parade. I wasn’t scheduled to be in the office until Wednesday and may have been checking both my work account and my Socialmedialite email account obsessively on the way in, hoping he would email one of us. I was also checking his Twitter feed, hoping he didn’t plan to retaliate publically.
As soon as I arrived, I went to Joan’s office. Her assistant told me she’d arrived an hour ago but was currently in a meeting. I asked that she call me as soon as she had a free moment and then I retreated to my office.
I was able to get some work done. Focusing on the beginnings of an action plan to counter Brona O’Shea’s propaganda was a good way to channel my restless energy, but I continued to check my emails.
At 9:00 a.m. on the dot, my cell phone chimed. I grabbed it and saw that the number listed was the phone line from the main conference room.
I stood as I answered it. “Uh, hello?”
“Annie, are you online yet?” Joan’s voice arrived with a slight echo; I knew I was on the speakerphone in the conference room.
“Yes, I’m online.”
“Good. Listen, the Times is running a story today on Ronan Fitzpatrick, and it’s…well, I’ll let you read it. It’ll be all over the place by this afternoon. The point is we need to come up with a plan. I’ll need you in the office today.”
“Oh, well—”
She cut me off. “You should know I’m sitting here with Rachel, Becky, Gerta, and Ian. Mr. Fitzpatrick is on his way. How soon can you get here?”
I cleared my throat, a ripple of excitement running through me at the news that Ronan was already on his way. I’d be spending time with him today. I wished it were under different circumstances, but I couldn’t deny that I was excited to see him. My hand smoothed down the length of my knee-length black dress. Like the other clothes Joan had purchased, it fit me like it was made for my body yet was completely appropriate for the office. I’d paired it with a cropped pink cardigan and black velvet heels.
“I saw the article early this morning. I’ve put together a basic action plan and can send it to the team. Basically, my take on the situation is that we need to pair him up as soon as possible. We need an appropriate and steady date for him, and we need to step up the public appearances, both with the date and without.”
“I agree.” This came from Ian. “Those were my sentiments exactly. We need to pair him with someone the media will love, someone with credibility and the opposite of Brona O’Shea, and give them plenty of romantic photo-ops. A new love interest will bury this story. We’re going to have to scrap the earlier plan for multiple partners, at least for now.”
I swallowed a sudden bitterness in my throat and tried to focus on the plan, the good of the client. “Ronan is interested in charities for disadvantaged children. I know the program director for Sports Stars, and I know she’d love to have Ronan for events.” This was mostly true. The Socialmedialite knew the program director for Sports Stars. Either way, the charity focused on pairing sports celebrities with at-risk youth, and The Socialmedialite had orchestrated several introductions in the past. The program director owed me a favor. The group was great for photo-ops and positive press.
“We need a final list of candidates by the end of the day, Ian.” Joan’s voice held an edge, and I could almost see his pained expression. “And no actresses or models or spoiled, rich brats. We don’t want any drama. Profile women in sports or a professional type who is looking for career advancement. We need someone serious, so this Brona will look frivolous in comparison. Maybe check with the district attorney’s office, see if they have any up-and-coming legal stars with an eye on politics. But she’s got to be gorgeous because no one will care if she isn’t gorgeous.”
“So a smart, serious, gorgeous professional woman who doesn’t mind pretending to date a foul-mouthed, obnoxious Irish rugby player whose trashy ex-girlfriend is accusing him of domestic violence…did I get that right?” Ian’s sarcasm was so heavy I wondered that we weren’t all crushed by the weight of it.
“Just get it done, Ian. We need someone now.” Then Joan turned her attention back to me, and her voice softened. “Listen, Annie. I really need you in the office when Mr. Fitzpatrick arrives. If you can head him off and assure him we have a plan, I think it will go a long way toward easing the Rugby League International people. The story broke last night in Ireland. It was all over the evening papers, and to say that they’re having a meltdown is an understatement.”
“Yes.” I nodded, pacing my office. “Yes, I can do that. I’ll speak with him when he arrives.”
“Thanks, Annie. Send out your action plan to the team, and Ian will fill in the blanks for the candidates,” Joan said and then clicked off the call.
I pulled the phone away from my ear and scrolled through my Socialmedialite email account again, looking for a message from Ronan. Still nothing.
My stomach growled just then, and I realized with some fascination that I’d skipped breakfast. This was highly unusual. I loved breakfast food. I especially loved waffles. I never got twisted up and distracted by client drama; but then, I’d never kissed a client before, and I’d never emailed back and forth using actual words instead of infographics.
I allowed myself to think about the kiss. My fingers drifted to my lips. I touched them, recalling the feel of his mouth against mine, his hands on my legs, my fingers fisting in his shirt, the way he smelled, how he tasted.
The kiss.
My body warmed at the memory, and I leaned against my desk because my knees felt a little wobbly and—double doughnut dammit—that man was an excellent kisser.
But more than that, we’d connected in some rudimentary way last Thursday over lunch. Hearing about his childhood, listening to him speak, how open he was, how guileless and willing to trust…he made me want to trust. I hadn’t wanted to trust anyone since I foolishly entrusted my virginity to the high school quarterback on prom night. The night had been so stereotypical in its tragedy and disappointment, thinking about it now made me both laugh and cringe.
I’d been so stupid.
People couldn’t be trusted.
Waffles, however, never let me down or dumped me the morning after. I could count on waffles.
I decided all at once that I needed waffles…or an éclair…and peppermint tea. Maybe I would message WriteALoveSong and see what she was up to…
I grabbed my black clutch wallet and bolted for the door, not really paying attention to the occupants of the hallway as I made my way to the elevators. I pressed the call button, then checked the messages on my phone again. Peripherally, I was aware of the ding of the elevator. Without glancing away from my email, I took a single step toward the lift.
“Annie.”
I stopped short, recognizing Ronan’s voice immediately, and glanced up just as he stopped directly in front of me. He was coming off the elevator and he looked…awful. He looked upset and irritated and frayed. His hair was wet, but he hadn’t shaved. The dark shadow of his stubble mirrored the worry shadows under his eyes. He was wearing a white T-shirt and jeans and his black leather jacket.
He looked just as yummy as an éclair but with an aura of dark vulnerability that made me want to cuddle him and make him tea and kiss him a lot. These feelings were alarming as I’d never done these things for someone, nor had anyone—well, since I was six—ever done them for me.
