Annie’s eyes met mine, and I saw her pupils dilate. A little breath escaped her, and her throat moved as she swallowed. Our gazes remained locked for a long moment before she drew away and tried to compose herself. I could practically feel her withdrawing.

“Please know this, Mr. Fitzpatrick, the only reason I’m not walking away right now is because there are photographers watching.”

“Don’t like the idea of my penetrating those walls you’ve built?”

She swallowed thickly, her hands balling into fists. “You like to make things hard, don’t you?”

“No. You make things hard, Annie.”

Her face flamed red and hot, and her breathing was uneven. “Please stop.” Annie’s eyes lifted to mine, and they held a desperate edge. “You think you’re being cute, that you can be aggressive and flirt shamelessly and that it doesn’t mean anything, that your words don’t…affect me. But they do. You need to stop pushing—you need to be respectful of my wishes.”

Shit, she was kind of sexy when she was scolding me.

With that, she stood and gestured for me to follow her. I did. But I also grabbed her hand and held it as we walked. We made our way back to my car in silence, and the return drive to the city was similarly conversation-free. I should have been pissed off at myself for ruining things, but I wasn’t.

What I’d said had more than interested her. I’d seen it in her face and the way she’d clenched her thighs together. She’d even admitted that I affected her. She’d practically been humming with arousal. Yeah, she wanted me bad, and the challenge would be respectfully encouraging her to let go of her inhibitions.

I was determined to make it happen. I could be respectful…and still aggressive.

When we reached her apartment building, Annie was all business as she organized for us to go running together in the morning. It would save us both time, she said, as it meant we could be seen together and also get our daily exercise in. She barely gave me a second glance as she exited the car. I was back at my building, parking the car, when I noticed she’d forgotten her phone. It must have fallen from her handbag because it was lying on the floor.

Picking it up, I was about to tuck it in my pocket when it buzzed.

Yeah, I could have ignored the buzz, but I didn’t. Instead I glanced at the screen and saw that it was a notification from her Twitter account. Except it wasn’t her Twitter account. And I nearly dropped the phone because the handle in the notification wasn’t @AnnieCat.

The handle was @Socialmedialite.

Chapter Eleven

New York’s Finest

Blogging as *The Socialmedialite*

March 17

It’s always sad when someone forgets to wear green on St. Patrick’s Day. So, imagine how depressing it was for me to see Dara Evans this morning wearing a ghastly gray trench coat. I’m not sure who told her Disney was holding auditions for Cruella De Vil in the East Village, but a memo must’ve gotten lost someplace (or maybe she doesn’t know how to read…?). Why else would she be wearing an ankle-length, baby seal fur coat on a warm March day? She might as well take out a billboard in Times Square to announce her supervillain status.

At this point, I think I’d be surprised if she allowed one of her henchmen to club the baby seals. You know how much she loathes those ostentatious baby animals, spreading joy and happiness everywhere they go. The little cute bastards. Who do they think they are???

Hide your puppies and kittens, New York. Cruella, aka Dara Evans, is looking for a new sweater, and your little Fido is the perfect shade of innocent to match her baby koala mittens.

<3 The Socialmedialite

*Annie*

I took a cold shower when I got home. Then I took another cold shower in the middle of the night after having a wonderful and frustrating dream about éclairs and fellatio and Ronan and a bed with a mirrored ceiling.

I would never look at an éclair the same way again.

I was losing my mind, and it was all because I wanted him. I wanted him very, very badly. My desire felt like a vise around my heart, a ball and chain around my ankle. It weighed me down, made it hard to breathe. I was having hot flashes.

Hot flashes!

I was a mess.

Things went from bad to worse when Gerta emailed me early in the morning to tell me that Ronan had canceled our appointment to go running in the park. He’d emailed Gerta, not me. He didn’t even cc me on the message.

Nor had he texted me; at least, I hadn’t heard my phone chime. Feeling adrift and depressed that I wouldn’t be seeing Ronan at all that day and, therefore, disoriented by my disappointment, I searched for my phone—just to make sure he hadn’t texted me.

I couldn’t find my phone. It wasn’t in my bag, in the basket by the front door, or next to my workstation. I couldn’t find it anywhere. After a half hour of frantic searching, I forced myself to stop, pause, and think.

The last place I remembered checking my phone was in my office, after the meeting, before Ronan had come to find me. Just that realization was enough to throw me for a loop. I’d gone over twelve hours without looking at my phone, checking in with my Socialmedialite blog. It had to be a new record.

Deciding that the phone must be at the office, I emailed Gerta back and asked her to check my desk for the cell.

Then I took another cold shower.

When I was finished but before I was dressed, I checked my Socialmedialite email account from my desktop PC, hopeful that Ronan had sent The Socialmedialite a message. I wasn’t disappointed. He’d sent two.