Yeah, so…raging bitch.

“Fine.” Joan nodded.

I immediately turned and left, assuming the “fine” was in reference to both handing over Dara Evans to Becky as well as delaying any new additions to my wardrobe.

I hurried down the hall, nodding politely to my co-workers but not stopping long enough to chat. I’d been working at Davidson & Croft Media since graduating with my master’s degree twelve months earlier; in that time, people had come to expect my behavior and very rarely tried to draw me into conversation.

Finally, I was back in the haven of my office. I shut the door and crossed to my chair, dropping into it and depositing my éclair and teacup on the desk. I tried to wrap my mind around how I’d gotten into this mess. Then I again briefly thought about how I might escape from having to spend any time with Ronan. Then I again pushed those thoughts away.

If I wanted to continue at Davidson & Croft Media—and I did want to continue at Davidson & Croft Media because no one else would pay as well and put up with my eccentricities—I would just have to suck it up and live through the next few months.

I unlocked my computer, planning my message for Becky, trying to find the words to break it to her that she would be taking over social media containment for The Starlet. I felt a measure of guilt. Becky seemed like a nice person. I wouldn’t wish Dara Evans on a dog I didn’t like.

When my screen awoke, I flinched. I’d left open The Socialmedialite’s email account, and Ronan’s odious message was mocking me. I stared at it for a moment, my fingers tapping impatiently on my desk.

Under usual circumstances, I would never respond to a message such as his. I would delete it, ignore it, and put him on my celebrity blacklist (those who are never discussed, referenced, or mentioned again). I knew the worst thing that could happen to a celebrity was to be made irrelevant. Society’s ambivalence is the death of notoriety.

But now—now that I was going to have to suffer through actual in-person interactions with Ronan—I couldn’t contain my desire to lash out at him in some way and return his insufferable message with a response worthy of my angst and aggression.

Annie might have to be nice to Ronan, but that didn’t mean The Socialmedialite had to take any of his crap. Without really thinking it through, I opened my alter ego’s email account and quickly typed out a message.

March 10

Dear Mr. Fitzpatrick,

Please accept my humblest apologies.

If I’d known my benign little blog post was going to get you all hot and bothered, I would have sent it to you directly and arranged a rendezvous to our mutual satisfaction. Despite your propensity to dress like the love child of a hobbit and a leprechaun, I can’t deny—toe-shoes notwithstanding—I wouldn’t be opposed to your dipping into my pot of gold, especially if that bulge were au naturel. Though, with your superiority complex, I suspect it was a tube sock. Let me guess, you drive a fast car…right? Maybe something with a lot of cylinders to compensate for other deficiencies?

Also, thank you for proving every Irish stereotype 100% correct. Now I know for certain your people’s predisposition for hysteria and dramatics has not been exaggerated. Well done, you. Keep up the good work.

Sincerely, The Socialmedialite

Chapter Four

Calories: 4,500.

Workout: 5 hours in total.

Steamed chicken: Starting to fantasize about frying, roasting, sautéing, grilling, braising, barbecuing...

*Ronan*

Six-thirty in the morning, and I’m staring at the screen of my laptop, pissed. The only reason I had the thing was so that I could email Lucy and Skype with her and Ma from time to time. Other than that, I wasn’t much of an Internet sort of bloke. When people asked me if I was on Facebook and I told them no, they looked at me like I was an alien from another planet.

I liked face-to-face interaction, wanted to be able to see, smell, and gauge people in the flesh. Screens to me were just flat black mirrors. They wiped out all of the most vital and exciting things about a person, giving you a bland, one-dimensional representation instead.

I made the concession of emailing Lucy because of the time difference when I was traveling. If I was somewhere like Australia, we were on opposite ends of the globe, and it was nearly impossible to find a decent hour that suited us both to talk over the phone.

Which brings us to the present and why I was looking at a highly offensive message from The Socialmedialite that had made its way to my inbox. I’d been under the assumption that the virtual pimp-slap I’d given her would be my triumphant last word. (Virtual pimp-slaps were allowed in my book; real-life ones, not so much.)

Within the space of two short paragraphs, she’d managed to squeeze in a cacophony of insults. I was yet again a hobbit/leprechaun, I stuffed my jocks with a tube sock, I drove a fast car to compensate for a small dick, and I was a fitting tribute to the short-fused, temperamental Irish stereotype.

Almost of their own accord, my hands were moving over the keyboard, clicking on “reply,” and furiously venting the anger I felt inside. Somehow I was channeling all of my hatred toward the media at this one faceless person. I didn’t think I’d ever typed so fast in my life. I’d written a long, meandering tirade of a paragraph when I looked back at it, immediately highlighted the entire thing, and then hit “delete.”

I wasn’t going to let this blogger know she was getting to me. I was going to be just as cutting as she was without conveying the fact that I gave a shit. Of course, strangely, I did give a shit, a whole lot of a shit. It wasn’t just my legendary quick temper, either, but I wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of knowing that.