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.”

I heaved a resigned sigh, swiftly gathered my tea and pastry, and followed her through the maze of hallways to her gigantic office.

She was waiting for me at her door and shut it after bellowing to her secretary, “Hold my calls, and tell everyone to go away until we’re done.” Then she turned to me and tugged on my elbow until I was sitting in one of the chairs that faced her desk. “You sit and eat. I’ll talk.”

Once I was deposited where she wanted me, she moved behind her giant desk and claimed the high-backed red leather chair. Behind her was an enormous window displaying downtown Manhattan. As ever, she was in the power position.

“Let’s get to the point, dear. Mr. Fitzpatrick gets what Mr. Fitzpatrick wants. And, having eyeballs, it took me less than three seconds to comprehend that Mr. Fitzpatrick wants you.”

If I’d been drinking my tea, I would have choked on it. As it was, I wasn’t drinking my tea; therefore, I choked on my tongue, but the effect was the same. I was coughing and sputtering; I felt my eyes widen to saucer size.

“Are you—are you suggesting—are you saying—”

Joan waved her hand in the air like she was flicking my half-formed thoughts away with her fingertips, “No, no, dear. Nothing so lascivious. Let me see how to put this….” She tented her fingers and peered at me over them. “Let’s start with the basics. Do you know who he is?”

I hesitated. I could recite all the details I’d just learned while cyberstalking him via Google news, or I could play dumb. But if I pretended to be oblivious, Joan would certainly see through my pretext of ignorance.

I decided to reveal only the most basic thread of my knowledge, so I answered, “He’s a rugby player.”

Joan nodded, “That’s right. But do you know who he is?”

I blinked slowly and gritted my teeth. “How could I? I just met him.”

“He is the brightest shining star of rugby. He has the potential to be the face of the sport all over the world—think David Beckham for soccer, just infinitely more masculine, dirtier, grittier, and with a fouler mouth. And he is on the precipice of greatness.”