I was also avoiding my phone. Ronan’s sister, Lucy, had called and left a message; she wanted to go shopping and out to lunch. I didn’t know what to do. Since the rugby match, I’d gone out for coffee with a few of the team member’s wives and girlfriends. It was like a club, and I had automatic membership as long as Ronan and I were together. There was camaraderie, but it also felt like a no-pressure group. They were happy to let me be the quiet one.

But with Lucy…Ronan loved Lucy. And I wouldn’t be able to blend in when it was just the two of us. I wanted her to like me; I wanted us to be friends—really, really good friends—but I had no experience with real-life friendship.

I didn’t want to fuck it up.

I was startled by the sound of the suite door slamming shut, followed by Ronan’s loud footsteps approaching. Just his footfalls alerted me to the fact that he was upset, and this flustered me; so I quickly shut my laptop just as he stormed into the bedroom. My attention snapped to his as he entered.

“Annie….” he said, like he intended to add something more but didn’t quite know what to say. Though he looked angry, he also looked aggravated about his anger.

I stood, watched him with wide eyes, and then prompted, “Is there something wrong?”

“No! Of course not! Everything is just cunting wonderful!” he thundered and then turned away and stomped out of the room.

I stared at the spot he’d just vacated for a few seconds, wracking my brain for what I might have done to upset him. I wondered if the source of his fury was my lack of verbal reciprocation of his feelings. My heart tugged painfully at the thought because I did love him.

Bracing myself, I hurried out of the room, found him splashing Scotch into a glass at the wet bar. It was only 10:00 a.m.

“Hey…so, I think I know why you’re upset.” I twisted my fingers in front of me, stopping just four feet from where he gulped his drink.

He set the empty glass back on the bar, his eyes cutting to mine as he refilled the glass.

“I doubt that,” he said, shaking his head once.

“Is it because of… When you said—when you told me—”

“Nope. And I don’t regret telling you, either, so you can stop fretting I’m going to take it back.”

I shifted on my feet, feeling a little unsteady. “Is it because I haven’t…I haven’t said—”

“Nope. I figure you’ll tell me when you’re ready.” He studied the liquid in the cut-crystal tumbler then took another swig.

“Oh,” I breathed, feeling equal parts relief and confusion. “Then what did I do? Because you’re obviously upset with me about something.”

Ronan set the tumbler back on the bar and shut his eyes, exhaling a laugh that wasn’t completely devoid of humor. We stood there for several moments, so long I thought he might not respond.

Then he said in a rush, “I’m the jealous sort. I know that, and I think you do, too. I don’t like sharing what’s mine.”

I frowned at his words, not understanding and saying the only thing that made any semblance of sense, “Ronan, I would never cheat on you.”

His brown eyes opened, but they remained on his empty glass. “I know that. But I don’t even like you looking at other guys.”

This statement only served to deepen my frown. “I honestly don’t understand where this is coming from. Of course I’m not going to ogle other guys in front of you. That would be completely disrespectful. Just like I wouldn’t want you to do that in front of me with other women. But….”

“But,” he echoed, a small smile tugging his lips to the side.

“Yes, there is a ‘but.’ But of course I’m not blind, and neither are you. Of course we’re both going to continue to notice other people, even if we don’t act on it.”

He sighed then laughed again; this time it sounded self-deprecating.

Ronan said to himself, “Ah, I am so screwed,” as he turned toward me, abandoning his glass on the bar and wrapping me in his arms. “You’re going to force me to grow up, aren’t you, Annie? I’m going to have to stop picking fights with all the boys who give you a second look. You’re going to make me mature.”

I smiled against his neck, snuggled closer as I returned his embrace. “I hope not too much. I kind of like your dirty mind.”

“I’m beginning to think I’m not the one with the dirty mind,” he mumbled, somewhat cryptically.

Before I could question this remark, he bent forward and captured my mouth. Soon all thought—or ability to think coherently—was driven from my aforementioned mind and replaced with a delightful series of completely dirty thoughts.

***

I was waiting for Joan. We were set to have a call about the progress of my projects, not just Ronan’s.

If Ronan were my only project, then I would deserve five stars, a big bonus, and a standing ovation. He had entirely ingratiated himself to the public. Not quite a reformed bad boy, he continued to be something edgier, more elusive.

Really, he was the ideal image sketch I’d drafted plus something entirely his own, something I never could have designed or defined, and people loved him. They loved that he was a blue blood with white-collar mannerisms. They loved how unrepentantly ambivalent he was about fame yet how much he obviously loved his sport. They loved his raw talent and his dedication to excellence.

He did nothing by halves.