The first was composed early in the day on Monday, just five hours or so after I’d sent my message warning him about Brona’s claims of abuse. It read:

March 17

6:12 a.m.

Thank you for the heads-up.

You’re right. I’d like to do something crazy; I’d love to retaliate, but I won’t. Instead I’ll do something completely out of character and let my “publicity people” deal with this shite.

Just so you know, because I feel like I need to defend myself to someone (even if it’s some dude with a mermaid tat), she pissed me off any number of times; and she’d lash out during our rages and hit me all the time, but I never reciprocated. I would never hit a woman in a violent way. I would never do that. That would make me scum.

I’m used to fists against my face. You haven’t played a match of rugby if you aren’t bleeding by the end of it. When she hit me, it didn’t faze me. But her lies and dishonesty sure as fuck made a dent.

My heart constricted, and I pressed my fingers against my sternum, trying to massage away the uncomfortable, leaden heaviness that had settled in my chest. If I ever came face to face with Brona O’Shea, I was going to…well, I didn’t know what I would do. Part of me wanted to make her suffer for what she was doing to Ronan, what she was putting him through.

The other part of me really wanted her to suffer. So, if you’re keeping score, all of me was in favor of making Brona suffer.

I also thought about how sadly ironic his email was because I was, right this minute, lying to Ronan.

I wanted him but not enough to change. That was the truth…mostly.

If I could be guaranteed that he wouldn’t leave me, if I could be certain that I wouldn’t be abandoned, I would have jumped through hoops lit with fire to have a chance with him. Basically, if Ronan was a member of a boy band, say One Direction, he’d be the Harry Styles. He was far too gorgeous and lusted after to be trusted to stay faithful, not to be stolen or have his head turned by the next sexy young thing who came along. I saw it happen all the time in my line of work.

But really, it wasn’t just the lust and the intangible chemistry between us. Although, at present, the lust had a lot to do with it.

Really, it was him. His aggressive teasing and shocking suggestiveness; how assertive he was; how dedicated he was to his family; how smart and strong and capable he was; how focused he was on his profession, how driven and ambitious. I understood his drive and ambition, and I lauded him for it…even though I wanted to see him eat ice cream and lose some of his puritan control. Secretly, I wanted to be the one he broke his own rules for. I’ll admit, it made me feel special, like I mattered.

And I knew that line of thinking was twisted and wrong and unhealthy. I mattered independently of whether Ronan Fitzpatrick desired me. I mattered regardless of whether he wanted me enough to settle down and give me stability and security and ice cream.

I kept Jamie at arm’s length, and he didn’t seem to mind. Well, he didn’t mind at first. And when he did mind, when he wanted intimacy beyond the physical, I ended things. I ended things because life came without guarantees. Jamie had broken his own rules for me, but that hadn’t mattered. Yes, Jamie was smart and handsome, but he lacked some intangible spark that Ronan had in spades. Maybe it was passion that Jamie lacked. Whatever it was, I was never in any danger of falling for him.

Not like Ronan. I couldn’t stop thinking about him. Maybe Ronan would stick around long enough for me to lose myself in the promise of something concrete and lasting.

I shook my head, squeezing my eyes shut, and rubbed my forehead. Just considering this—a real relationship with Ronan Fitzpatrick—was madness. We’d known each other for such a short time. Granted, I’d let him in closer than anybody. I’d volunteered details about my past; I’d never done that with anyone before.

Ronan could no more promise me forever than my adoptive parents could. Maybe he’d last longer than the six months they’d given me before they got pregnant with their real child and returned me to the state.

I pressed my lips together, rolled them between my teeth—because my eyes were stinging, and I refused to cry about a distant memory that no longer mattered, about people who wanted me because of how adorable I was as a seven-year-old but loved me no deeper than the surface of my skin.

I cleared my throat and blinked away the moisture in my eyes, clicking on Ronan’s second email. It was sent late Monday night, after I’d gone to sleep but before my second cold shower. It read:

March 17

11:47 p.m.

Funny thing about lies, lying, and liars—the truth always has a way of coming out. I wanted to thank you again for all your help. I do wonder, why are you helping me? What’s in it for you?

-Ronan

I frowned because the message was strange. I read it back several times then read his first email again. I searched for some clue as to why his second email was so terse, his tone truncated. I knew better than to read emotion into written words, so I tried my best not to fret over the note.

I tried and failed.

The words looked angry.

I went back to my room and changed, contemplated how to answer his message as I dressed. I spent the rest of the day—between work and eating my feelings and trying not to think about Ronan—periodically clicking back to his emails and studying them, working myself up into ball of stress. In the end, I decided that honesty was the best policy.

March 18

4:10 p.m.

Dear Ronan,