She cleared her throat, which I noticed was still red with embarrassment, and spoke up. “I’m very busy at the moment, Joan. Perhaps somebody else could help.”

Joan waved away her protestations. “Nonsense. Tell Rachel to take some of your workload, free up your schedule. I think you two will work well together. I just have a feeling.”

There was something in Joan’s expression that brooked no further argument, and Annie seemed resigned as she nodded her acquiescence, her big brown eyes flickering to mine and then to her teacup.

Joan clapped her hands together. “Wonderful! Come with me, Ronan, and we’ll figure out a schedule.” As the tiny woman led me from the room, I gave Annie one final heated smile.

This day was looking up already.

Chapter Three

The Kinnear: When one surreptitiously takes a picture of another person (usually a celebrity) without anyone else realizing the photographer is using his/her phone. Typically, the phone is completely hidden.

Best for: In crowds, e.g. airports, restaurants, while shopping.

Do not use: In quiet areas or in situations where movement is restricted.

*Annie*

Ronan Fitzpatrick.

His name was Ronan Fitzpatrick, and his hand had just been up my shirt.

The back of his fingers had brushed against my bare skin, sending really, really delicious spikes of awareness to the pit of my stomach and up my chest, neck, and the top of my head. My brain had been momentarily paralyzed.

I’d been alone, eating my feelings after my alter ego, The Socialmedialite, had received a truly heinous email. I’d read it less than an hour ago; it was from the asshat I’d mistaken for Colin Farrell last Thursday and written about on Saturday, but who was actually a disgraced Irish rugby player…named Ronan Fitzpatrick. And I’d just met him. In person.

I must’ve read the email three times.

Okay, I’m lying. I read it no less than twenty times.

Then I Googled the shit out of him. He was right. It made for colorful reading. Ronan Fitzpatrick, of the exceedingly posh and pretentious South Dublin Fitzpatricks, was Irish rugby royalty. His father had been a famous rugby player until his death in a car accident some twenty years ago.

As well, his father’s family was stinking rich. Old, old, old money rich. The kind of old money that Americans can barely comprehend. Like, hundreds of years of old money and aristocracy. My stomach hurt. I didn’t even know who my biological father was, and this guy could trace his family tree back over three hundred years.

Adding to his apparently charmed life and silver-spoon upbringing, Ronan was—if the papers were to be believed—the best hooker to come out of Ireland maybe ever. And by “hooker,” I don’t mean prostitute. Hooker is a position—a very pivotal position—on the rugby field. Based on my quick research, it appeared to be the rugby equivalent of an American football team’s quarterback.

Ronan was apparently the best hooker that ever was and ever will be, amen.

However, more recently, Ronan’s infamy stemmed from allegedly hospitalizing one of his teammates during an on-the-field brawl. Also recently were several pictures of Ronan sharing the front page of tabloids with a distressed-looking bottle blonde. She was labeled as an actress, singer, and Ronan’s ex-fiancée, Brona O’Shea. The photos were split screen style, like they’d been ripped in half.

I felt both judgey and vindicated as I took in her appearance. She’d obviously had several elective plastic surgeries. Just to be sure, I searched for pictures of her over the last five years. As I suspected, her appearance had changed dramatically over time.

At first she was a fresh-faced Irish rose: pink cheeks, sandy-blonde hair, clear blue eyes. The most recent shots made me grimace. Fake tan, fake tits, lipo, lip injections, Botox, nose job. God, what kind of hell must it have been for her to be with someone like Ronan? Had she changed herself so completely to please him? And he just dropped her after proposing marriage? I was disgusted.

After my glutinous Google-fest, I read his email once again.

At first I was shocked all over again, stunned, actually. Then I was outraged. Likely this was because his assessment of my cobwebs and cowardice struck a nerve.

He was right, of course. I was cowardice covered in cobwebs. But that didn’t make me any less pissed off by his insulting personal attack.

Most people could see the silly in my blog posts, laugh at themselves, handle it gracefully.

Mr. Ronan Fitzpatrick, it seemed, was not most people. He was obviously a privileged douchenozzle, used to getting his own way and everyone else be damned. I knew his type. His type was why I preferred to be confused with wallpaper. His type was why I was cowardice covered in cobwebs.

After receiving the email—reading it ad nauseam, working myself up into a knot of outraged and hurt fretfulness even though I knew I could never respond to it—I decided to cool off. I decided I needed food therapy.

The first thing I did was send a message to my best online pal.

@Socialmedialite to @WriteALoveSong: I just received the douchiest email of all time. Remind me to never write about male sports figures again. Their meaty heads are impervious to jokes.

I took a walk, my feet carrying me to my favorite French bakery two blocks away and then back to the offices of Davidson & Croft. I made a detour for the break room, intent on brewing my special peppermint tea; I’d never met a problem that couldn’t be fixed with pastry and tea. Just as I sat down, I read my friend’s response.

@WriteALoveSong to @Socialmedialite: Oh no! It’s just like I always tell you: jocks are cocks. Sorry. :-\