The Hooker and the Hermit

by L.H. Cosway

  March 18

  4:10 p.m.

  Dear Ronan,

  I agree, the truth always comes out. I’m so glad you didn’t do anything rash. She doesn’t deserve your time and attention (or energy).

  I was surprised by your questions in the last email, regarding what I’m getting out of helping you. The answer is quite simply this: I am getting the pleasure of your correspondence. I wonder if anyone has ever told you this before, but you are very charming and likable. You’re very clever; your emails make me laugh. I like you.

  -SML = Someone (who) Maybe Likes (you)

  I scanned it a few times for typos then hit “send.” The Socialmedialite was so much braver than Annie Catrel. I sorta had a girl-crush on my alter ego.

  Approximately two hours later, still a ball of stress, I was just getting ready to log off of my work profile and start working on some blog posts when I received an email from Gerta.

  March 18

  6:46 p.m.

  Hi, Annie.

  Lost and Found recovered your phone. I have it here and will send it via courier before I leave today.

  Also, Mr. Fitzpatrick stopped by. He apologized about having to cancel today and rescheduled your appointment for Thursday morning at 7:00; he indicated that you knew the address/location.

  I took the liberty of moving your phone conference with Becky and the team regarding the Starlet to Friday afternoon.

  See you tomorrow, Gerta

  I cringed. I’d sacrificed Dara Evans, aka The Starlet, on my blog on St. Patrick’s Day in an effort to draw attention away from Brona’s lies. Now I’d pay for it, and poor Becky would likely bear the brunt of the fallout from The Socialmedialite’s “baby seal” article.

  At least I could look forward to a Thursday morning date with Ronan, even if it was all pretending for the cameras. The problem was I was pretty sure my pretending to be smitten with Ronan was more honest than all my forceful denials that we couldn’t be together. Fiction had just become truer than reality.

  ***

  I was early, but Ronan was earlier. I caught sight of him when I was about twenty yards away. He was hard to miss. Though he wasn’t especially tall, he was cut like a marble statue. Presently he was wearing a white long-sleeved Under Armor running shirt that left none of his torso to the imagination, and black spandex running pants.

  At some point I would have to talk to him about the spandex, but it wouldn’t be today.

  I was too busy being grateful for the advent of spandex to bother with trying to save him from his poor fashion choices. His thick, muscular thighs—rugby thighs—made my head swim as I approached. I had to force myself to look away even as I ached to take a picture of him, something I could keep for myself and look at later when I was feeling lonely.

  …like a creeper.

  Ugh! I was gross.

  Ronan hadn’t tried to call me, and he hadn’t responded to the Socialmedialite’s email. I missed him. Add to this my latest exchange with WriteALoveSong,

  @WriteALoveSong to @Socialmedialite: THE WORLD IS ENDING!… I thought Ronan F. was the cocky jock who sent you the douchiest email ever. Why are you suddenly friendly with him on Twitter? Did he apologize? Or are you mesmerized by his… toe shoes.

  @Socialmedialite to @WriteALoveSong: I’m trying to help him navigate social media. He’s not a bad guy, he was just having a douchey moment.

  @WriteALoveSong to @Socialmedialite: Maybe he should put that on a T-shirt “Watch out for random douchey moments” You’re too nice to people, I can’t believe you’re helping him.

  @Socialmedialite to @WriteALoveSong: He’s actually really cool! You’d like him.

  @WriteALoveSong to @Socialmedialite: I think you mean, ‘He’s actually really hot!’ This is why I can’t cover mainstream showbiz, it’s the pretty people who are always forgiven.

  I wondered if she was right. I was more than physically attracted to Ronan; I was desperately in lust and infatuation. Yet it was so much more than what he looked like. If all I wanted was handsome, I would have hooked up with my neighbor Kurt the King of Moisturizers.

  As I neared, I saw that his skin was flushed and his white shirt was damp, sticking to the sweat covering his chest and back and sides. Obviously, he’d already done at least one lap around the park. My steps faltered. Soon I would be close enough to touch him…to talk to him. I thought about turning around and leaving, but I couldn’t. I really, really missed him, the way he made me feel reckless, the way he looked at me like I was the only person in the room, on the street, in the world.

  “Shelly sells shitty sea shells by the shitty sea shore….” I mumbled nervously, letting my anxiety get the better of me and giving into my compulsion to curse. I ground my teeth and continued forward.

  Ronan was stretching, using a bench for balance. His gorgeous back was to me, and therefore he didn’t see me approach. I cleared my throat loudly when I was about six feet away. This caused him to still and glance over his shoulder; I lost my breath a little when our eyes connected.

  He wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t frowning, either. He was just looking at me. Then he wasn’t just looking at me, he was smoldering at me.

  Two days without my Ronan fix and now I was seized, caught in the web of his…Ronan-ness.

  I had the distinct sensation that I was falling into his eyes; they seemed to have their own gravitational field. Without my intending to do so, my feet carried me forward as he straightened and turned completely around. I stumbled over nothing, and he stepped closer, his hands coming to my waist even though I was in no danger of falling to the ground.

  “You look a little dazed,” he said, giving me a crooked grin.

  The rumbly cadence of his voice called to my inner—and thus far dormant—vixen. I was surprised to find that I had one and that I liked how vulnerable and exposed I felt under the beautiful burden of Ronan’s stare.

  But I hated that he was so handsome…and smart…and quick-witted…and perceptive….

  Especially perceptive.

  “I’m—I’m fine.”

  He nodded once then bent to kiss me. I closed my eyes and moved more completely into his arms, but then the kiss was over. It had just been a simple press of his lips against mine, and it left me feeling unfulfilled and cheated.

  My lashes fluttered open, and I gazed up at him; his eyes felt distant, guarded as they moved over my face. He lifted a single eyebrow.

  “I think that’s a good enough show for the paps.”

  “The paps?”

  “Yes, the paparazzi.”

  “Oh. Oh, yes.” Remembering myself, I stepped away and looked at the still-brown grass under our feet. “Right.”

  I felt his eyes move over me, and I wondered if he saw the acute disappointment I felt at the impersonal nature of the kiss, meant only for show. I hoped he didn’t. I did not want to be that girl, the one who sends mixed signals. Maybe it was already too late for that. Maybe I was that girl. But I couldn’t help it. I liked him. I liked him more than I should.

  This thought helped me regain my composure and focus on putting emotional distance between us, if not physical distance. Ronan reached for and held my hand in his then tugged me toward the trail.

  “I’ve already gone once around the park. Do you want to run, jog, or walk?”

  “I usually just walk.” I glanced at nothing—a gazebo, a bench, a tree—just as long as it wasn’t him.

  In my peripheral vision, however, I discerned he was looking at me. “If we walk, then we might have to talk to each other. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather jog?”

  My attention darted to him; his statement surprised me. “You don’t want to talk?”

  He shrugged and gave me a small smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “What’s the point?”

  I winced at his question, my heart twisting with a dull pain, and I lowered my eyes to the trail. We walked in silence for several minutes. I felt winded, my chest heavy, even though we weren’t walking very fast.
<
br />   Then abruptly he said, “Unless you want to tell me why you’re doing this.”

  I tried not to flinch at the hard edge in his voice. “Doing what?”

  “This.” He paused then added, “This. Pretending to be my girl. I’m actually very curious. Will it help you with your career? Move up in the company?”

  He sounded bitter. I gave him a sideways glance and found that his expression was clearly bitter as well, his lovely brown eyes rimmed with jaded sorrow. It reminded me of the first time I saw him, when I thought he was that Irish actor, and I wanted to embrace him and soothe away his troubles. Instinctively, I shifted so that I was walking closer, moved my hand to his elbow, and tucked myself close to his body.

  “No, Ronan. It’s not going to help with my career,” I answered honestly, watching his profile. It wouldn’t help me with my career because I had no plans to move beyond my current position, and it certainly wasn’t helping my peace of mind.

  His jaw ticked. “Really?”

  “Yes. Really. I like what I do. I have no desire to…to be in charge of a group of people, be a manager. Right now I’m talent. I provide content, expertise, and guidance to the team. This is what I want to do. I have no ambitions to move up. If I could stay doing exactly what I’m doing forever, then I would do just that.”

  “Then why don’t you explain to me what’s really going on? Why are you doing this?”

  “Because….” I began then stopped. My feet also stopped which forced him to stop. I pulled on his elbow until he was facing me.

  Honesty, I told myself. Be like The Socialmedialite…just be honest.

  I swallowed with difficulty because he was staring at me, and I could feel myself getting caught in his gravitational field.

  “Because I want to help you,” I blurted. My eyes darted away, but then I forced myself to look at him again.

  He didn’t believe me. I could tell.

  “I don’t get it, Annie.” He shook his head. “One minute you don’t want anything to do with me—”

  “I never said that.”

  “‘I don’t want you, Ronan.’” He repeated the words I’d said to him in the bakery on Monday, making me cringe. My hand on his arm tightened as he continued, “One minute you don’t want me, and the next you agree to go along with this farce that we’re a couple. Why would you do that? To save face?”

  “No! You know that I was about to tell Joan the truth on Monday—you know I was about to tell everyone the truth. But then you cut in and said that we had planned the whole thing, and I saw…I saw that I could help you.”

  What I didn’t say, what I didn’t admit, was that I’d jumped at the chance because it meant I would get to spend time with Ronan; I would get to talk to him, touch him, be with him without risking my feelings or growing attached. Because it was fake—or at least, I could pretend it was fake.

  “You’re doing this because you want to help me.” His tone was flat, and his usually vibrant eyes were dull, guarded.

  “Yes. I did…I do. I think what she did—what Brona is doing—is unfair to you. And if I can help, then I want to help. If I can make her lies go away….” I glanced over his shoulder, frustrated by my lack of ability to communicate. My tongue felt heavy in my mouth, and I gathered a deep breath, tried to ease some of my frustration, and closed my eyes as I continued, “I saw how that hurt you. I don’t want you to be hurt—I’m not making sense.”

  He was quiet for several seconds, and I felt my face flush. I’d said too much, admitted too much, and my words were clumsy. This was precisely why I should only interact with the world via infographics.

  “You’re making some sense,” he said, his gentle tone catching me off guard.

  I opened my eyes and peeked at him. His gaze had softened, and I saw that he was studying me. I met his probing stare, relieved that the bitterness had been replaced by speculative warmth.

  At length he shifted a step forward, entering my space. I lifted my chin to maintain eye contact and successfully fought the urge to back away.

  Once he was basically crowding me, Ronan whispered, “Why do you care if I’m hurt?”

  “Because….” I began, stopped, closed my eyes again, and gathered a deep breath.

  “Look at me, Annie.”

  I didn’t. Instead, I bit my lip and shook my head.

  I felt one of his hands cup my cheek; his thumb pulled the flesh from my teeth then swept over my bottom lip.

  “Look at me.” This time it sounded a bit more like a command.

  I opened my eyes. I looked at him. I told him the truth. “I lied to you.”

  I saw a flash of something behind his gaze, and he appeared to be holding his breath. “I don’t like liars.”

  “I know, I know, I’m sorry.”

  “What did you lie about?”

  “I want permanence,” I said stupidly. “I want guarantees and stability.”

  “What? What does—”

  I interrupted him, my words tumbling from my mouth. “I like you. And more than just in the biblical sense. I like you. I like that you’re Mother Fitzpatrick with your team, but you flirt dirty with me. I like how you take care of your family and how h-h-honorable you are. And I want….” I tried to shift my gaze from his, but he wouldn’t let me. Ronan lifted his other hand so that he held my face between his palms, forcing me to maintain eye contact.

  “What do you want?”

  “When I first saw you, do you know what I thought? I thought you looked sad. And even though I didn’t know you, I wanted to do something to make that go away.”

  His gaze narrowed. “You mean in the break room? You thought I was sad?”

  My eyes widened as I realized my mistake. As far as Ronan knew, the first time I’d laid eyes on him was at the office in the break room. “Y-yes, I mean, no—of course, I mean that—listen, it doesn’t matter. What matters is that I saw you, I saw sadness. I wanted to help.”

  “But you don’t want me?”

  My frustration doubled. I gripped his wrists, steadying myself. I stared at his neck, irritated that I was so bad at this, and blurted on an exhalation, “I do want you, for some crazy reason I want to trust you; but I am so afraid.” The last part of my sentence came out as a whisper.

  He seemed to release the breath he was holding, and with it, I felt his relief like a tangible thing. The weight I hadn’t precisely realized he’d been shouldering fell away. Ronan pressed a quick kiss to my forehead before saying, “Don’t be. You don’t need to be afraid of me.”

  “I can’t not be. You don’t know. You don’t know what I’m like.”

  “I know you’re gorgeous.”

  My eyes cut to his, and I frowned, fear making my throat tight. “See, that’s it. That right there. That’s the problem.”

  “What? It’s a problem that I think you’re beautiful?” He was truly perplexed.

  “You’ll change your mind. You’ll find someone else.”

  Ronan stared at me like I’d grown wings and horns and eight legs. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’ve worked really hard for stability, for security. Things are good now. I’m safe.”

  His thumbs caressed my cheeks and jaw, his eyes growing fiery and fierce. “You don’t think you’re safe with me? You think I’d hurt you?”

  I sighed, knew my eyebrows were moving in all sorts of directions on my forehead as I struggled for the right words. In the end, I didn’t make a conscious decision to tell him about it; I was speaking, and before I knew it, I was halfway through the story.

  “Let me explain it this way—and I’m not using my background to gain sympathy. I don’t want sympathy. Let me just tell you what happened. It will…it will make more sense, I think.”

  Ronan nodded his encouragement.

  “When I was six, my mother left me. I told you this. But what I didn’t tell you was that when I was seven, I was adopted by a family. They thought I was so cute. And, um…they liked how quiet I was, how sweet. It took
me a while to come around, like, four months before I started to open up and be myself.” I lowered my gaze to his neck, not wanting to see his expression when I told him the rest.

  “Then she got pregnant, and they didn’t want—they didn’t want me anymore. So they gave me back to the state. And then my caseworker put me back in those adoption picnics again, where potential parents come to pick out kids, because I was still considered a good candidate. But I wouldn’t talk to anybody, and I wouldn’t look at anybody because, even at seven, I would rather be alone than be left again.” I exhaled, closing my eyes briefly then returning them to his face.

  He looked horrified, and there was no mistaking the pity in his eyes.

  “Don’t. Don’t feel sorry for me. I didn’t tell you this so that you would feel sorry for me.”

  “Screw that. Of course I feel sorry for you. How could I not? That’s a shite story, and those people were arseholes; and if they were here right now, I’d fuck them up—well, I’d fuck him up. But I’d give her a stern talking-to.”

  I exhaled a little laugh and shook my head, trying to refocus on the reason I’d started telling him the story to begin with. “My point is I can’t date. I can’t be someone’s girl. I can’t be yours; I can’t—”

  I didn’t get to tell him what else I couldn’t do because he kissed me, and this time it wasn’t a staged and chaste press of his lips to mine. This time he was ferocious. His hands dropped from my face, and he wrapped me in his arms, crushing me to his chest. His tongue invaded my mouth, stroked me, demanded that I respond.

  I did.

  I melted against him and grabbed fistfuls of his shirt, not caring that he was damp with sweat. Despite his earlier run, he smelled like sweetness and spicy cologne and something uniquely Ronan.

  When it ended and my mouth was thoroughly loved, I was a lot dizzy.

  “Now, you listen to me.” Ronan nipped my jaw, still holding me close. He whispered hotly against my ear, tickling me and making me shiver, “This is happening. You and I are happening, and this is real. I like you—and more than just in the biblical sense, whatever the hell that means. I love that you’re brilliant and generous and gorgeous and real. I like you.”