No one noticed.

After another glass of champagne, I stopped noticing, too.

Well, that’s almost the truth. I stopped noticing until I felt Ronan’s hand grip mine like a vise and his body turn rigid next to mine.

We were approaching our table near the front, and he was moving through the crowd; I was indulging myself by watching him move. He was so graceful, adroit. Being next to him made me feel more graceful. I’d managed to keep from tripping over my own feet all night, which was a huge achievement in and of itself.

So when Ronan stopped suddenly and I collided against him, I figured my luck was up. But he moved quickly, his strong arm slipping around my waist, keeping me upright. He turned toward me, but he wasn’t looking at me. His eyes were frustrated and unfocused; he was glaring at some inconsequential spot beyond my head.

“Shite,” he breathed through clenched teeth. “I was hoping they wouldn’t come.”

Unthinkingly, I placed my hand over his chest and searched his expression for a clue. “Who? Who is it?”

His gaze sliced to mine. “My grandparents.”

I frowned, not understanding why this was upsetting news for ten seconds. Then I realized he was referring to the Fitzpatricks, the family who’d never claimed him as their grandson, the family who thought of him and his sister and his mother as a stain on their good name. I finally understood why he’d been acting so anxious. I thought it was because of me, because I’d angered him. Maybe my rejection earlier had contributed to his foul mood, but the Fitzpatricks and the possibility of their presence at the ceremony was the root cause. Turning my head just slightly, I caught sight of the elderly couple, arm in arm, both well-dressed and silver-haired, graciously mingling with their peers. They were the picture of old money.

I felt sad for Ronan and wished I could take his unhappiness away. On a complete whim of instinct, I leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the mouth, cupping his cheek with my hand then smoothing it down to his neck and shoulder.

Then I whispered against his ear, “Ronan, you are worth ten thousand Fitzpatricks and their self-important douchebaggery. Their stupidity is their loss, not yours.”

I gave his shoulder a squeeze of reassurance and then leaned away so I could see his face.

He was smiling at me. It was a small, quizzical smile, like I was maybe a little weird but maybe also a little wonderful.

“You don’t have to say that kind of stuff. No one is around to hear you.”

“I know I don’t have to.” My eyes fell away under his steady stare. I was frustrated by my ingrained instinct to look away.

But soon I bested my innate desire to shrink under the weight of his penetrating gaze. Clearing my throat, I lifted my chin stubbornly and firmed my resolve, meeting his probing eyes with determination. When I continued, I did so because I wanted to bolster Ronan’s confidence with the truth. But also, I wanted to prove that I could be strong for someone, be resilient and a source of courage for someone other than myself.

“But the words are true, Ronan. They needed to be said. You needed to hear them, and I wanted to say them.”

His gaze narrowed, searched mine. “Why?” he pushed.

We were standing very close, but I felt like we were still a great distance apart.

Not having anything to lose, I told him the truth—well, part of the truth. “Because I c-care about you, Ronan. You mean s-something to me.”

He considered me, his eyes no less examining but growing a good deal less aloof and guarded.

Abruptly, he leaned forward and kissed me. He released my hand and scooped me up, moved both his arms around my waist, wrapping me in the strength of rock-solid man.

It was terribly inappropriate for a formal ballroom. I didn’t really notice. But when he finished, I did notice his smile was self-satisfied, charming, and completely genuine.

He administered a quick up-down sweep of my body then sighed. “Holy fuck, you’re gorgeous tonight. I’ve been trying not to think of how satisfying it would be to take you from behind in that dress.”

My mouth opened in shock, and I felt a flaming blush creep up my neck to my cheeks. “Ronan!”

He shrugged as though this were perfectly polite conversation. “I’ve wanted to tell you all night” —he paused just long enough to give me a small peck on my nose and then continued as he turned away and tugged me toward our table— “but I wasn’t sure if you’d punch me in the shoulder again.”

***

“How is your sister, Ro? She still coloring her hair to look like a rainbow?” Bryan Leech, one of Ronan’s teammates, asked this question from the far side of the table. He was one of the only guys present who didn’t bring a date. As such, he was one of the only guys present who didn’t have a woman on his lap.

Everything had gone swimmingly. I was Ronan’s smiling date. He’d ignored his extended family with polite indifference. Then he’d presented the award and done a great job. Everyone wanted to talk to him after dinner. He was a perfect gentleman, introducing me to each new person as his “good friend” from New York. Then, as the evening was winding down, we were waylaid by six of his teammates who insisted on buying us a round of drinks.

This was ridiculous because all the drinks at the event were free.

Ronan didn’t consult me, not even with a glance. I thought for sure he would beg off as he must’ve been exhausted.

But no, he surprised me by accepting the invitation immediately and pulling me along to a table in the corner. It was mostly hidden from the rest of the grand ballroom due to the opportune placement of three tall faux shrubberies.