by L.H. Cosway
“A beautiful woman like you should be dating. It’s a damn shame to waste all that pretty skin.” I leaned forward, her sweet lips too tempting; but her eyes flashed, and she flinched away.
She rolled her chair back and away from me. “I don’t see how not dating is wasting my…skin.” Annie frowned and tugged on her sleeve, sitting up straighter now and obviously trying to regain an air of professionalism. It was way too fucking late for that.
I only raised an eyebrow at her in response, at how she’d pulled away, because I knew she was playing dumb now. I stared at her, trying to figure out how we’d gone from kissing to this. I wasn’t ready to talk business again, not yet—maybe never with her. Not when we’d just been wrapped around each other and I wasn’t sure why we’d stopped.
A second later her stomach rumbled again, and her cheeks grew redder.
I saw my opening, and I took it. “You’re hungry. Let’s go get some lunch.” I stood up, holding my hand out to her.
She glanced at me and then focused on my fingers. She was looking at my hand like it might bite her. “I told you I don’t date.”
“Somebody thinks very highly of themselves,” I teased, wanting to ease the tension. “I’m not asking you on a date. This is work. We still need to finish up here, and you’re clearly too hungry to continue.” Obviously, I was full of shit given that I’d just been feeling her up, telling her I wondered what she tasted like, and kissing the hell out of her. But I wanted her to feel comfortable enough to spend time with me so that I could—well, so that I could get into her pants. And surprisingly, despite myself, I kind of wanted to get to know her better, too, but I refused to analyze why.
Self-consciously, she wrapped her arms around her middle, still flustered. “I can grab something here. I’ve got some Snickers bars in my office.”
I stared at her, frowning. She mumbled something under her breath about pricks and Pepé le Pew.
“I’m not letting you eat Snickers bars for your lunch. You need real food. I’ll take you to my mate’s restaurant. You know Tom’s Southern Kitchen?”
Her eyes widened in a weird way and lifted to mine, and there was a beat of silence. “Yes, I know it. I really like the food there,” she admitted, almost reluctantly.
“Well then, how can you refuse?” I asked, still holding my hand out to her. She looked at it again, her mouth making a firm line, and then she turned and gathered her things, standing up without my assistance. She hesitated at the door, glancing at me over her shoulder. I hurried forward and opened the door for her, and she seemed surprised by the gesture.
She gave me a little glance from under her long lashes and then continued walking. I followed, liking my view of her backside as we left the offices.
“Did you drive here, Mr. Fitzpatrick?” Annie asked as we stepped into the elevator. Unfortunately we weren’t alone; three other working professional types stepped onto the lift with us.
I noticed that Annie was still insisting on addressing me formally, but I wasn’t going to let it get to me. Truth be told, her calling me Mr. Fitzpatrick was a bit of a turn-on. I could imagine her beneath me, submitting, begging Mr. Fitzpatrick for more. Just being around this woman got me all worked up, got the dirty part of my brain working overtime.
“Because if you did, I can catch a cab and meet you at the restaurant,” she continued as the doors opened to the lobby, everyone filing out.
I rested a hand on her lower back and felt her flinch at the contact, her spine straightening. But then she relaxed and let me guide her through the lobby.
“No, I didn’t drive today. Although I’d love to take you for a ride sometime. It’ll be a real experience for you.” I put a hand on her elbow just as we went through the doors and wondered if she’d picked up on the innuendo. She stopped when we got onto the street, and I saw her throat working. When she looked back at me, her gaze was heated as it moved from my eyes to my hand on her arm, and her cheeks and neck were a delightful shade of pink.
I guessed my offer to give her a ride was putting pleasant thoughts in her head.
“In the meantime,” I said with forced nonchalance, trying to school my smile, “we’ll catch a cab together. That way, we can share the cost.” I winked, having no intention of letting her pay.
She stared at me mutely but seemed to approve of splitting the bill. I made a note of that. Despite her apparent timidity, Annie struck me as the fiercely independent type. I thought it might be a matter of pride to her never to let a man (or anyone for that matter) carry her.
Christ, I knew how to pick them.
She flagged down a taxi quickly enough and didn’t protest when I slid my hand into hers to help her into the car. I sat beside her, spreading my legs wide and taking up as much room as possible. Her brow was furrowed all the while, and I rattled off the address to the driver. Gathering herself, she opened one of the folders she was carrying and began to flick through some pages.
“It’ll take us a couple of minutes to reach the restaurant. We should use the time to cover some things before we get there.”
I leaned closer, my arm brushing hers. “I’m all ears.”
Swallowing, she ran a finger down the bullet points on the page. “So, I think we should start you off with a Twitter account. It’s straightforward enough and will give you a feel for connecting with people online, engaging your audience. We can connect the Twitter to both Instagram and Tumblr.”
“No, thanks. I’m not a Twatter sort of bloke.”
Her lips twitched like she was trying not to smile, but then she flattened them into a stiff line. “It’s Twitter. Please don’t discount every idea before I’ve even had the chance to explain it to you, Mr. Fitzpatrick. I’m only trying to make life easier for the both of us.”
The exasperated way in which she spoke made me feel bad, so I replied, “Fine. Go ahead. Tell me all about this Twatter.”
“It’s not….”
“I know,” I interrupted, smiling warmly. “I’m only pulling your leg, hon.”
She shook her head and settled her eyes back on her papers, though I had a feeling she was using them as a safety blanket as opposed to actually needing them. After all, I’d been intentionally trying to get into her personal space as much as I could since we first met.
“In a nutshell, Twitter entails sending little nuggets of information about what’s going on in your life out into the world in the form of ‘tweets.’ Each tweet can be no longer than 140 characters. I suggest checking out the profiles of some other famous sportsmen to see how it works. It’s easier to learn the ropes as you go rather than my giving you a lesson because I’ll just bore you.”
“Oh, Annie, you could never bore me.”
Our eyes met, and she went quiet then, her lips parting like she wanted to say something but couldn’t. A couple of minutes later, the taxi came to a stop.
“That’ll be twelve-ninety,” said the driver, and I quickly pulled out a twenty, telling him to keep the change, while Annie rummaged in her little pocket bag. I put my hand on hers to stop her, and her body went still.
“I’ve got this. Next round’s on you.”
She glanced at me, frowned, nodded, and then made her way out of the vehicle. The lunchtime rush was in full swing when we stepped inside Tom’s restaurant. It wasn’t a fancy place, but it was always busy; and given that it had only been open for two years, it was doing pretty well. Tom and I had gone to school together, and even back then he’d been obsessed with becoming a chef and opening his own restaurant. I don’t think either of us ever expected him to end up running one of the most popular kitchens in New York, but then again, neither did we expect I’d become rugby’s reluctant bad boy.
And yes, I do cringe every time I have to say that.
Placing my hand at the base of Annie’s spine—this time without her flinching—I ushered her in as a waitress led us to a table and handed us two menus. Annie took the seat across from mine and didn’t even open her menu to take a
look.
“Not hungry anymore?” I asked, lifting a brow.
She pulled out her phone and ran her finger down the screen, her attention on her messages or whatever she was checking. “I am. I just know what I want already. I’ve been here before a few times.”
I grinned. “Ah, I knew there was a reason I liked you.”
Her new blush was minuscule, but it was definitely there. I heard Tom approach before I saw him. “Well, would you look who it is, Mr. Muscles. I hope you don’t think you’re getting any of that steamed broccoli bullshit again. I refuse to cook food without a taste.”
I stood and patted my auburn-haired friend on the shoulder. “You’ll make what I ask for.”
He only snorted in response before his attention fell on Annie. “And who’s this fine young lady?”
“Annie, Tom, Tom, Annie,” I said, making the introductions.
Annie smiled widely, her attention no longer on her phone. In fact, she seemed overjoyed to be making Tom’s acquaintance. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Tom. I eat here all the time. You’re an amazing chef.”
Fuck me. Was she fangirling him?
He winked, took her hand, and brought it to his mouth for a kiss, the chancer. “The pleasure is all mine.” Then he turned back to me and shook his head.
“Look at you, dressed up to the 4 ½’s. Couldn’t you have made more of an effort for beautiful Annie here?”
I glanced down at the jeans and T-shirt I was wearing.
“Oh, we’re not on a date. I’m….”
“She’s teaching me how to twatter,” I interrupted.
“Sounds dirty,” Tom chuckled. “Well, I’d better be getting back to the kitchen. The world can’t wait any longer for my culinary genius.”
He left, and Annie was still smiling at his retreating form.
“You little flirt,” I declared, leaning my elbows on the table and grinning. “So, is that what it takes to bring out your coquettish side, a chef?”
Her expression quickly sobered. “I was being polite to your friend.”
“Uh-huh.”
The waitress returned to take our orders, and Annie asked for the jambalaya. I made a special request for mashed potatoes without the butter and cream, two steamed chicken breasts, and a raw spinach salad. Tom always liked to slag me off about my OCD meal plans; but if I wanted to reach my physical goals, then I couldn’t afford to slack. Yeah, sometimes the food was boring as hell, but my nutritionist tailored my diet to fit my lifestyle perfectly.
Annie was on her phone again, so I reached across the table and touched her wrist. “Hey, I don’t know about you, but in my book, it’s rude to ignore someone when you’re having a meal together.”
Her eyes were on my hand rather than my face when she replied, “Our food hasn’t arrived yet.”
“That’s beside the point, Annie. Put down the electronic tit for half a second, and talk to me. That’s what we’re here to do, isn’t it?”
She set her phone down on the table, and I withdrew my hand. “I apologize, Mr. Fitzpatrick. I was emailing my assistant, Gerta—I believe you two have made one another’s acquaintance via phone and email—about your Twitter account. She’s going to forward you the login information alongside a tutorial on how to use the site.”
“I bet that’ll be riveting stuff.”
She ignored my sarcastic comment and continued to detail the ins and outs of social networking. The topic bored me, but fortunately I was mesmerized by the way her mouth moved when she spoke and the soft, melodic quality of her voice. Plus, it definitely wasn’t a hardship to look at her.
She’d gotten a good ten minutes of talking in when our food arrived, and then she was quiet as she ate. I found myself sitting back and watching her. Similar to when I’d spotted her with the éclair that first time, she was so completely into her food, and it was too fucking sexy. I had no idea why I found it sexy, but there you had it.
Before I met Annie, I’d never really noticed much about female eating habits—probably because my ex, Brona, ate a diet of black coffee and garden salads.
Yeah, that’s right; she took her coffee black to match her heart, I mused bitterly.
“So, what’s with the wardrobe change?” I asked. “Let me guess—those first two times I saw you were laundry days?”
She suppressed a smile, and I was pleased that I’d amused her.
“My boss, Joan, is trying to get me to dress more appropriately at the office. Apparently, my lack of style isn’t good when dealing with…clients.” She seemed a little bit distressed by this which made me think she wasn’t too happy with the idea.
It irritated me because Annie was clearly a beautiful woman, and I thought Joan might be trying to capitalize on that appeal by sexing her up. Despite the fact that I wanted her in my bed, the thought of other male clients being more amenable to working with the firm because of Annie made me clench my fists under the table. My angry protectiveness was a little unexpected, but then again, I’d always hated when people who were too timid to stick up for themselves got taken advantage of.
“Don’t let Joan bully you. You should only ever wear what you feel comfortable in.”
My words seemed to surprise her. “It’s fine. Joan’s just, well, Joan.”
I reached forward and took her hand in mine, and she let me. “I can have a word with her if you want, tell her to back off. Just because she’s a woman doesn’t mean she can’t be accused of sexism in the workplace. I doubt she’s ever told Ian to stop wearing those shapeless brown slacks to work just because they aren’t stylish.”
“That’s not necessary, Ronan. I can handle Joan.”
I tried not to show my surprise when she used my first name. She pulled her hand out of mine and held her chin high. I didn’t push further, sensing she didn’t want to talk about it anymore. Still, I was going to say something to Joan, with or without Annie’s consent. Making the girl wear things she didn’t want to was fucked up.
I finished my food, and the next time I looked up, I found Annie staring at me. It was unexpected because usually she went out of her way to avoid eye contact. A slow smile spread across my face.
“Having a good look, are you?” I said and ran a hand down my chest. “This is what you’re missing out on, Annie. I bet you wish you’d said yes to dinner now.” I put extra emphasis on the word to convey that, by “dinner,” I did not mean dinner.
“How did you get your scars?” she blurted, completely changing the subject, and it sounded like she hadn’t meant to ask the question.
I raised a brow and pointed to the one below my eye. “This one I got from falling off a horse when I was a teenager, believe it or not. The family who lived next door to me would have horses every now and again, and like the stupid shit that I was, I thought I’d have a go. Could’ve broken my neck.”
“Ouch.” She winced and then continued, “That must have been a pretty fancy place, to have horses.”
Immediately, I burst out laughing.
She frowned at me. “What’s so funny?”
“There’s nothing fancy about where I grew up. Where I come from, horses in the countryside are fancy; whereas horses on a housing estate are there because some scumbag bought them illegally from some other scumbag, and they thought it’d be fun to go galloping around for a while.”
“Oh.” Her brow furrowed. “I didn’t pick up on any of that from my research. From what I could gather, you come from a….” She hesitated as though she were choosing her words. “Your family was privileged.”
Now it was my turn to frown. “You really need to start coming to the source for your information, Annie. That’s the only way you’re going to get a clear picture.”
She leaned forward and clasped her hands together. “Okay then, I’m coming to the source now. Tell me about how you grew up.”
“First of all, my family wasn’t privileged. My ma worked her arse off to send me to school.”
“But your father’s family, are
n’t they the well-to-do type?”
I could tell she was fishing, looking for something in particular. I had no desire to talk about my father’s family because they were all fucking bastards, the lot of them. And when I spoke about them, about how they’d left my ma and sister and me to starve, I typically lost my shit.
I scratched the back of my neck, a nervous gesture, and shook my head. “I don’t talk about the Fitzpatricks,” I said, knowing my voice was cold and steely.
Her eyebrows lifted a notch, and her gaze searched mine. I could see her curiosity, her interest, but was relieved when she let the topic drop. “Then, if you don’t mind, tell me more about your childhood.”
And so I did. We sat there for next half an hour, and I told her about my strange background of contrasts, attending a school for posh boys and then going home to a shithole council estate every evening. How I used to wish Ma wouldn’t push me to emulate Dad’s education because walking through the estate wearing that uniform every evening meant I quickly had to learn how to fight. Annie was rapt by my story, hanging on every word.
“The local kids would accuse me of thinking I was better than them, and then at school most of the students thought they were better than me. It was a joke.” I shook my head at the memory.
“I’m sorry you had to go through that.” Her expression had gone soft, concerned.
“Nah. Fighting is good practice on and off the field. In a match, you can’t hesitate to get rough.”
“It sounds violent.”
“Maybe,” I conceded, trying to see my childhood and the sport of rugby from her point of view. “But it’s real, you know? When you fight with your fists, it’s real; it’s not mind games and manipulation. I don’t mind the violence so much. It’s insincerity, lack of honesty I have a problem with.”
She nodded fervently. “Yes. Yes, precisely. Trusting people is impossible because you never know, you can never know, what their intentions truly are. Sometimes they don’t even know.”