He looked distracted.

He’d never looked at me that way before. Never. I was anyone and everyone. I didn’t matter.

I nodded, tearing my eyes from his and closing the programs on my computer, hiding the shaking of my hand by gripping the mouse tighter.

I was being stupid.

We weren’t together.

How many times of my pushing him away did I think it would take before he’d stop pursuing me? This was what I wanted.

I closed my laptop and stood carefully in the stilettos. Patricia had helped me practice walking once she realized I was a high-heel novice. I felt almost proficient, except for the fact that my stomach was a mass of tangled unhappiness knots. I didn’t want to see the ambivalence in his eyes, so I kept mine averted—to the floor, to my bag on the table by the door, to my coat as I took it from him and shrugged it on.

I lifted my hair out from the collar and preceded him out the door without further instruction or discussion. I felt him behind me, heard his steps echo mine as we neared the elevator. Silence and melancholy were my companions on the ride down.

As we neared the lobby, Ronan fit his hand in mine and pulled me closer. I glanced at our joined hands then at his profile. He was watching the display count down the floors. He almost looked nervous.

“There will be photographers in the lobby and on the street. Stay close, okay?”

I nodded and actively held his hand rather than passively allowing my hand to be held.

He misinterpreted the tightness of my grip and slid his eyes to mine; they flickered over my face. “Don’t worry—they won’t get close this time. I’ll keep you safe.”

“I know.” I gave him a little smile, nodded again. “I trust you.”

His gaze hardened, and he flinched; it was almost imperceptible, but I saw it.

I frowned at his reaction to my words and blurted, “Ronan, I am so sorry.”

He glared at me until the doors opened, his jaw ticking as he withdrew inside himself, and I heard him mutter as we left the elevator, “So am I.”

***

He was right.

There were photographers in the lobby and on the street. Everyone knew my name and called to me. It was disconcerting, but he shielded me with his body until we were in the limo. We sat on the two sides of the bench, Ronan putting the length of the back seat between us.

He spent the entire time on his phone, his knee bobbing up and down in an uncharacteristic display of nerves, and I stared out the window, thinking about the irony of the situation. The first time we’d gone out to lunch together—which felt like a lifetime ago but was really just over month—he’d scolded me for checking my phone.

When we arrived at the event, there were even more photographers. But this bunch was more professional and obviously present to document the comings and goings of the sporting elite.

Ronan exited first then held his hand out to help me from the car. He then tucked my hand in the crook of his elbow and led me to the red carpet.

Once we were clear of the limo—flashes going off in every direction—Ronan leaned down and whispered in my ear, “If you can manage a smile, that would be great. Also, we’re about to meet a few of my mates. You’ll want to look them in the eye as you shake their hands, say hello—you know, talk to people. Otherwise, they’ll think you’re a stuck-up American bitch.”

I glanced at him as he retreated, and he held my gaze, smiling at me like he’d just said something charming and expected me either to laugh or blush.

His words were nasty, mean, unlike him. He seemed…off.

And again, the irony of the situation struck me. Ronan was giving me advice on how to behave, what to do, what to say. This was the real world, his world of beautiful people and fame. My world was the virtual world of avatars and words. My currency wasn’t traded in this forum. Nevertheless, his words were condescending and unnecessary, and his aim was perfect.

I smiled at him, as big and brilliant as I could manage. Then I punched him in the shoulder with all my might, hoping it looked like a love tap.

His grin doubled, and he laughed, though it sounded a bit sinister. “Ouch, darling. Trying to hurt me?”

“Of course not.” I shook my head in a playful manner, my smile plastered on my face. “I would never assume hurting you was within my power.”

I didn’t know why I said it, but I felt a surge of bitter satisfaction when his grin waned and fiery anger flashed behind his eyes. Hopefully the photographers mistook it for passion.

I tore my gaze from his and smiled at the flashing bulbs. I smiled at the attendants who met us and showed us where to stand. I smiled as Ronan was interviewed—both at Ronan and the interviewers. I smiled as he skirted questions about our relationship and told everyone I was here as his friend with practiced smoothness. I smiled as we entered the event.

And I smiled as I was introduced to his mates.

My cheeks hurt like a bitch, and yet I still smiled.

Strangely, I found the smiling helped. It helped a lot. It felt like a mask for me to hide behind. No one expected me to actually speak, only to smile and nod and drink champagne and look pretty and laugh at the appropriate times. It was the opposite of my comfort zone—behind the computer, sharing my thoughts with the world and being valued for what I did and wrote, not what I looked like—and yet…and yet it was fine.

I was fine.

I’d been so twisted up about Ronan and my feelings for him that I’d forgotten to obsess about the event, or freak out about the plunging neckline and high hem of my dress, or wallow in my social phobia. Now that I was here, surrounded by the conversation of strangers and on the arm of the man I’d stupidly fallen in love with, it was my fake-as-fuck smile that won the day.