No. Just Ronan Fitzpatrick.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, Fred Flintstone,” I mumbled.
The last sounds of my departing teammates were punctuated by the click of the door closing at my back, yet I didn’t look up from the table until several additional seconds had passed. I allowed myself a brief glance at Ronan and was surprised to find him reading the packet I’d placed in front of him.
Without looking up, he asked, “What does ‘ideal image sketch’ mean?”
A wave of gratefulness washed over me, and with it my heart stuttered then slowed. I didn’t know if Ronan was focusing on my work in an effort to disarm the tension caused by my near panic attack or if he was actually interested in the content of the plan. I guessed the former. Regardless, I breathed a silent sigh of relief and straightened in my chair.
Before I could respond, he continued, “Who put this together?”
“I did.”
His eyes darted to mine, a small frown creasing his brow, and then back to the packet. “I didn’t think you were all that involved so far.”
“I have been involved with the proposal, Mr. Fitzpatrick, even if I wasn’t present for the initial meeting. The preliminary details were discussed with you on Monday and Tuesday, and what Rachel and Ian reviewed today includes basic, common-sense strategies. Now, the work I do is much more focused on details, on shaping the message and creating your ideal image.”
“My ideal image?” His voice lacked inflection. He still wasn’t looking at me.
I lifted my chin, tossing my hair over my shoulder, facing him. “Yes. The version of you we want the public to see.”
“What’s wrong with my current image?” Ronan’s brown eyes met mine, and they held a challenge; he faced me, pushing his chair back a bit, placing our knees about a foot apart. His mouth curved into a slight frown as though I’d offended him.
I swallowed my nerves, fisting my hands on my lap. This was another area where I completely failed: one-on-one, tactful communication with clients. I didn’t know how to tell clients the truth—that the public doesn’t want the real Ronan Fitzpatrick, that we needed to make him a different version of himself in order to maximize the exploitation of his talents and move him forward in his career—without pissing the clients off.
“Please understand that I am not suggesting that I tell you how to live your life, your real life. I’m not at all qualified to give advice on living life, and I am in no way judging you at all.” I took a calming breath and added under my breath, “In fact, I’m the last person on earth who should ever give anyone advice about real life.”
“What was that?”
“Nothing, sorry.” I glanced at the proposal then back to his penetrating stare. “What I’m talking about here is your public image. I am an expert on perception, of how to use social media to achieve gains in public opinion. There is nothing wrong with your current image, it’s just—”
“So, you like my image?”
“Of course I do, I mean—”
“Specifically what do you like about my image?” Now the corner of his mouth tugged subtly upward, and his eyes were dancing, dark pools of amusement.
I pressed my lips together, trying to stifle my answering smile, knowing I’d walked right into that. “Well, I like that your teammates call you Mother Fitzpatrick.”
I was gratified to see his eyebrows hitch slightly at my use of his nickname, his mouth open with equal parts smile and surprise. “I see you’ve been doing your research.”
“Of course. If I’m expected to shape your image, I need to understand the raw materials with which I’m expected to work.”
“Raw materials….” His eyes were positively dancing, and his grin was growing, like he knew something about me or he suspected something and liked it. “Who did you talk to?”
“Well, to start with, Jenna McCarthy, your nutritionist.”
“Hmm….” He didn’t look pleased or displeased, obviously schooling his reaction. “Who else?”
“Your major professor at university, your coach, your physical trainer, and two of your teammates.”
He stiffened at the last mention, and his eyes narrowed. “Which teammates?”
“Mr. Flynn and Mr. Leech.”
“Ah, they’re good blokes.” He nodded and added as though as an afterthought, “They’re all good blokes, but sometimes they make shite decisions.”
I thought that was awfully generous of him, considering his fiancée had had it away his flanker, as Jenna put it.
Ronan appeared to be lost in his thoughts, so I took the opportunity to study him. I felt my expression soften as my gaze traveled over his forehead, nose, cheeks, and lips. He had a few scars I hadn’t noticed before: one at the corner and beneath his right eye, about two inches long with a zigzag near the middle, like it had been the result of a jagged cut. He had another, much smaller and fainter, also slightly to the right under his full bottom lip.
He was so handsome, but more than that, there was an aura of feral sensuality about him, something powerful, magnetic. He wore his sexuality openly. He was so blunt and honest about his desires, about who he was. And if his friends and co-workers were to be believed, he was also intensely honorable, driven, and intelligent with a good, loyal, and generous heart.
Yeah…I’m a little infatuated.
“Why didn’t you come straight to the source?”
His question startled me, and I blinked at him, trying to make sense out of the jumble he’d just spoken. When I realized I couldn’t recall the question, I said, “I’m sorry, what was that?”
He gave me a small smile, his eyes telling me he was delighted. Leaning toward me, Ronan hooked his fingers behind my knees and pulled me forward between his legs. He then placed his hands on my thighs—resting them above the material of my skirt—and bit his lip, peering up at me like he wanted to know all my secrets, or at least borrow them.
I didn’t protest. At first I was too surprised. Then I was entirely too mesmerized by the way he was biting his lip.
“Annie….” he said.
“Yes?”
He paused until my gaze lifted from his mouth, met his eyes.
“Why didn’t you come straight to the source?” The question was a low, masculine rumble, almost a whisper, and his thumbs were moving back and forth over the silk of my skirt, sending lovely spikes of awareness and delight to my pelvis.
“The source?”
“Yes. If you wanted to know about me, why didn’t you just ask? I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”
“Uh….” I licked my lips, and his eyes flickered to my mouth, seemed to darken. I wished then that I knew what he was thinking.
Then I cursed myself for wishing because he said, “I wonder what you taste like....”
Chapter Six
Calories: 3,500
Workout: 3 hours in total.
Porridge: Cannot be redeemed by dried fruit, cinnamon, or copious amounts of honey.
*Ronan*
Her thighs felt good in my hands—too good, actually, all shapely and soft and everything I loved about a woman.
Seeing Annie in the clothes she was wearing today, I actually hadn’t recognized her for a second. The contrast between what she’d been in the last two times I’d seen her and now was striking. I kind of wished she was wearing the old clothes because seeing her like this was testing my willpower. She was all luscious curves. It was a wonder I managed to keep my hands to myself all through the meeting.
It was a relief when the others left us to talk things out alone. I knew my attention made Annie nervous, but at least now she could manage to get a few words out. Before, when her colleagues were in the room, I could tell she was having a hard time finding her voice. Her helplessness in that moment made me want to rescue her. Be her hero.
And now I was gripping her thighs, running my thumbs back and forth over the fabric of her skirt, and wishing it was her skin. In a heartbeat, I’d gone from savior to predator.
“Say again?” she asked quietly, and I repeated my previous statement.
“I said, Annie dearest, that I wonder what you taste like.”
Our mouths were only inches apart, and I felt the air move when she sucked in a soft breath like she was bracing herself. We stared at one another for a long moment, trapped in silence punctuated only by the sound of our breathing. I smiled when her body moved forward by the tiniest fraction as though she was drawn to me against her better judgment.
I could kiss her now.
Shifting in her seat, she swallowed and finally spoke. “Isn’t that kind of an intimate thing to say to a stranger?” Her tone betrayed her. I knew how to read body language, and hers was telling me that she was interested. I’d more than piqued her curiosity.
“Ah, we’re not strangers, Annie,” I whispered against her lips. “We’ve already shared a cozy elevator ride, I’ve cleaned your top, and you’ve sent me a very odd a picture of a question-mark clock. We’re practically dating.”
“I don’t date, Mr. Fitzpatrick.”
“No?” I murmured.
My thumbs were still caressing her thighs; and if she was feeling me like I was feeling her, I knew she had to be a little bit wet right now. The thought practically made me groan, and I couldn’t hold back any longer.