“You look a little dazed,” he said, giving me a crooked grin.

The rumbly cadence of his voice called to my inner—and thus far dormant—vixen. I was surprised to find that I had one and that I liked how vulnerable and exposed I felt under the beautiful burden of Ronan’s stare.

But I hated that he was so handsome…and smart…and quick-witted…and perceptive….

Especially perceptive.

“I’m—I’m fine.”

He nodded once then bent to kiss me. I closed my eyes and moved more completely into his arms, but then the kiss was over. It had just been a simple press of his lips against mine, and it left me feeling unfulfilled and cheated.

My lashes fluttered open, and I gazed up at him; his eyes felt distant, guarded as they moved over my face. He lifted a single eyebrow.

“I think that’s a good enough show for the paps.”

“The paps?”

“Yes, the paparazzi.”

“Oh. Oh, yes.” Remembering myself, I stepped away and looked at the still-brown grass under our feet. “Right.”

I felt his eyes move over me, and I wondered if he saw the acute disappointment I felt at the impersonal nature of the kiss, meant only for show. I hoped he didn’t. I did not want to be that girl, the one who sends mixed signals. Maybe it was already too late for that. Maybe I was that girl. But I couldn’t help it. I liked him. I liked him more than I should.

This thought helped me regain my composure and focus on putting emotional distance between us, if not physical distance. Ronan reached for and held my hand in his then tugged me toward the trail.

“I’ve already gone once around the park. Do you want to run, jog, or walk?”

“I usually just walk.” I glanced at nothing—a gazebo, a bench, a tree—just as long as it wasn’t him.

In my peripheral vision, however, I discerned he was looking at me. “If we walk, then we might have to talk to each other. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather jog?”

My attention darted to him; his statement surprised me. “You don’t want to talk?”

He shrugged and gave me a small smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “What’s the point?”

I winced at his question, my heart twisting with a dull pain, and I lowered my eyes to the trail. We walked in silence for several minutes. I felt winded, my chest heavy, even though we weren’t walking very fast.

Then abruptly he said, “Unless you want to tell me why you’re doing this.”

I tried not to flinch at the hard edge in his voice. “Doing what?”

“This.” He paused then added, “This. Pretending to be my girl. I’m actually very curious. Will it help you with your career? Move up in the company?”

He sounded bitter. I gave him a sideways glance and found that his expression was clearly bitter as well, his lovely brown eyes rimmed with jaded sorrow. It reminded me of the first time I saw him, when I thought he was that Irish actor, and I wanted to embrace him and soothe away his troubles. Instinctively, I shifted so that I was walking closer, moved my hand to his elbow, and tucked myself close to his body.

“No, Ronan. It’s not going to help with my career,” I answered honestly, watching his profile. It wouldn’t help me with my career because I had no plans to move beyond my current position, and it certainly wasn’t helping my peace of mind.

His jaw ticked. “Really?”

“Yes. Really. I like what I do. I have no desire to…to be in charge of a group of people, be a manager. Right now I’m talent. I provide content, expertise, and guidance to the team. This is what I want to do. I have no ambitions to move up. If I could stay doing exactly what I’m doing forever, then I would do just that.”

“Then why don’t you explain to me what’s really going on? Why are you doing this?”

“Because….” I began then stopped. My feet also stopped which forced him to stop. I pulled on his elbow until he was facing me.

Honesty, I told myself. Be like The Socialmedialite…just be honest.

I swallowed with difficulty because he was staring at me, and I could feel myself getting caught in his gravitational field.

“Because I want to help you,” I blurted. My eyes darted away, but then I forced myself to look at him again.

He didn’t believe me. I could tell.

“I don’t get it, Annie.” He shook his head. “One minute you don’t want anything to do with me—”

“I never said that.”

“‘I don’t want you, Ronan.’” He repeated the words I’d said to him in the bakery on Monday, making me cringe. My hand on his arm tightened as he continued, “One minute you don’t want me, and the next you agree to go along with this farce that we’re a couple. Why would you do that? To save face?”

“No! You know that I was about to tell Joan the truth on Monday—you know I was about to tell everyone the truth. But then you cut in and said that we had planned the whole thing, and I saw…I saw that I could help you.”

What I didn’t say, what I didn’t admit, was that I’d jumped at the chance because it meant I would get to spend time with Ronan; I would get to talk to him, touch him, be with him without risking my feelings or growing attached. Because it was fake—or at least, I could pretend it was fake.

“You’re doing this because you want to help me.” His tone was flat, and his usually vibrant eyes were dull, guarded.