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?”