The Hooker and the Hermit, Page 6

  I saved the file and then forwarded it to Mr. Fitzpatrick.

  Inexplicably, my heart thudded in my chest, and I pressed my palm against my ribs. I also found I had a lump in my throat when I hit “send.” This acute anxiety was likely attributable to the fact that the last time I saw Ronan, he was touching me, telling me he liked me, and suggesting we engage in unprofessional behavior.

  And I kind of really, really liked it.

  Ronan—that is, Mr. Fitzpatrick—had the uncanny ability to get under my skin and steal into my thoughts. I hadn’t stopped thinking about him since rushing out of the elevator less than twenty-four hours ago. Granted, I’d been thinking about him quite a lot since The Socialmedialite had received his first angry email.

  Since our first in-person encounter and our initial virtual email exchange, I’d done a significant amount of research on him. Usually I would leave this type of task to a junior staff member and review a summary report. But not this time. This time, I wanted to make the calls myself.

  I contacted his university, where he’d studied physiotherapy, and spoke with his major professor, and then I requested a transcript. I’d also chatted with his agent, coach, the team’s offensive coordinator, two of his teammates, his physical trainer, and his nutritionist back in Ireland.

  They all had similar thoughts regarding my Mr. Fitzpatrick.

  First, he had a temper, but not like it had been portrayed in the media. They’d all credited his short fuse to passion—for his mother and sister and the people he cared about—and not mindless or childish temper tantrums (like the media suggested).

  Second, Ronan was dedicated and honorable, if a tad overly serious and a bit of a wet blanket. This description of him—provided by his teammates and confirmed by his university coach—made me laugh, mostly because it was so completely unexpected and at odds with the flirtatious man who’d cornered me in the elevator.

  It seemed Mr. Fitzpatrick took his physical health and competition readiness to the level of near obsession. When the rest of the team gathered after a match to drink at a nearby pub, Ronan was always the designated driver. His nickname was Mother Fitzpatrick.

  Third, everyone in Ireland—according to my contacts—knew the reason Ronan had lost it on the field and pummeled his teammate, and her name was Brona O’Shea. There was a YouTube video of the fight that had garnered millions of views. Even though he was the one doing the damage—and boy, did he know how to throw a punch—I felt bad for Ronan as I watched it. There was a sort of pain in his eyes that struck a chord with me. When I spoke to his nutritionist (Jenna McCarthy) about Ronan and Brona, she made it sound like they were the popular celeb golden couple, and all of Ireland followed their every move. As well, no one in the whole of Ireland (all five million people) understood why Ronan Fitzpatrick put up with Brona O’Shea.

  “Why, I was just talking to my husband about it last night,” Jenna had said, sounding far too invested in Ronan’s relationship status. “I said I hoped Ronan doesn’t take her back this time. She’s a snake, an absolute snake, and she’s holding him back.”

  “This time? Have they split before?” I’d pushed, telling myself I needed to understand the history of Ronan’s relationship with Brona in order to craft a comprehensive image profile for our social media team.

  “Ah, yes, but it hasn’t been quite so public before. This time she crossed a line. Instead of dallying about with some rock star, this time she slept with his teammate, his flanker—Sean Cassidy.”

  “She—” My mouth moved, but I struggled to find words. I was shocked. “Ms. O’Shea cheated on Mr. Fitzpatrick?” I made a mental note to Google image search Sean Cassidy. In fact, I did it surreptitiously as I spoke to Jenna. He was hot in a blond, pretty boy sort of way.

  “Of course! What do you think we’re talking about? She’s a woman of easy virtue, that Brona. Ask anyone. Ronan’s the most loyal person I know, oh!” Jenna made a sad sound, and I heard her sigh before she continued, “I think Brona having it away with his flanker was the last straw. He put up with her changing the way she looked, helped her with her joke of a music career, and all of her other garbage. If you ask me, the man deserves a medal.”

  “So….” I’d paused, mulling this information over before asking, “So Mr. Fitzpatrick isn’t responsible for Ms. O’Shea’s altered appearance?”

  “Eh? What’s that? You mean her plastic surgeries and the fake tits and the rest of it? No, no. Those were all her doing.”

  “What about his family? What do they think about his relationship with Brona O’Shea and her behavior?” I’d asked this question to everyone, and they all gave me more or less the same answer.

  “Oh, the high and mighty Fitzpatricks? They won’t even talk to Ronan, never have. His ma raised him and his sister by herself. The Fitzpatricks won’t even acknowledge him. He’s better off without them, in my opinion. They’re the posh society types. They think everything they do is brilliant and everything he does is shite. But he won’t speak a harsh word against them. He’s too good for them, if you ask me.”

  Going to the source certainly had given me a lot to think about, such as the unfair assumptions I’d made.

  I knew better than anyone that information found on the Internet was suspect at best, and I reprimanded myself for believing—even for a short time—the rumor magazines’ depiction of Ronan. It certainly did explain his anger and overreaction to my article on New York’s Finest last Saturday and his emails to The Socialmedialite; he’d been exploited by money-hungry gossipmongers. He hated the media.

  I’d decided to put off responding to his latest email, where he’d called The Socialmedialite xenophobic. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t want to fight with him or add to his aggravation. But I also didn’t like that he’d lumped New York’s Finest in with the trashy, infotainment garbage that had been tearing him down.

  No person is ever truly their online or media persona. For better or for worse, the human condition, desires, and faults are so much more robust than pixels on a screen or words beneath a caption.

  Nevertheless, robust isn’t my job nor is reality.

  My job is shortcuts and sound bites and manipulation of perception. But it’s so much nicer when the image I create is representative of the real person. I never enjoy putting the shine of perfection on a piece of shit, à la It’s not poop, it’s chocolate…just don’t try to eat it because it’s full of E. coli.

  I couldn’t decide if I felt better or worse after talking to Jenna and the others. In addition to my inconvenient and forceful physical attraction to Ronan Fitzpatrick, I also found myself liking him—specifically the him painted by my calls to his acquaintances and teammates—which was possibly even more inconvenient.

  As I waited for Ronan—I mean, Mr. Fitzpatrick—to respond to my infographic email and meeting request, my mind drifted and then landed on the memory of being trapped in the elevator with him. I wasn’t surprised. I had difficulty thinking about anything else.

  He was so…present.

  When he looked at me, I felt so entirely seen. But it was more than that because I got the impression he wasn’t just looking at me when we were together. Yes, he watched me, but he also touched me and felt me. He listened to me and not just my words; he listened to the sounds my body made as it moved, as though searching for a clue or a tell.

  I wondered if this—this being present and focused on more than just the superficial—was a learned skill, part of what made him a world-class athlete.

  I also had the distinct impression that, when he’d leaned into my space, he’d tried to smell me, and he’d managed to do it without coming across as a creepy creeper.

  Admittedly, if he were less epically good-looking, he might have come across as a creepy creeper. But, as he had the body of a gladiator and the face of a movie star, I felt flustered, flattered, and turned on. The fact that I felt flattered made me feel like an idiot. I hated this about myself. I hated that, even though I knew better, good
looks negated odd behavior.

  His odd behavior being that he was attempting to use all five of his senses to experience me while trapping us in an elevator; I didn’t doubt that, if I’d given him any indication that I was in favor of his advances, he would have tried to taste me as well.

  I shivered at the thought, a wave of warmth spreading from my chest to the pit of my stomach, stinging and sudden, like a hot flash. I lost my breath a little, imagining what it would be like to kiss him. He was so confident in real life, in a way that was a complete conundrum to me, and appeared to excel at everything he attempted. If he tried to use all five senses when speaking with me in an elevator, I expected his kisses would also be of the world-class variety.

  I got up from my computer, took a lap around my apartment, then opted to run some cold water over my wrists to cool down. As I was working from home, I was still in my yoga pants and the Shark Week long-sleeved T-shirt from my workout earlier in the day.

  Inside the bathroom, I glanced at my reflection in the mirror, finding my eyes bright and excited, my skin flushed. I grimaced. This was not good. I was going to have to interact with Ronan—ack! Mr. Fitzpatrick! His name is Mr. Fitzpatrick, and I will call him Mr. Fitzpatrick—over the coming months.

  Keeping my distance had always been easy for me because the alternative held no allure. Or rather, since high school I’d never met someone alluring enough to make me question keeping my distance.

  My phone dinged, alerting me to a message. I glanced at the screen and saw it was from my online BFF, @WriteALoveSong.

  In truth, I didn’t know much about her. I was pretty sure she lived in New York and worked in some field related to the music industry. Her blog, Irony For Beginners, focused more on the indie scene, whereas my posts were more mainstream. She seemed to enjoy her anonymity almost as much as I did.

  Yet, we checked in with each other every few days, if not every day. She shared news stories with me, and I’d send her pictures of independent artists or anything that might be related to her content focus. As well, we’d message back and forth about our days or the blogs or life in general—always careful to never reveal too much.

  I had several other online friends, but she was my closest friend. I looked forward to her messages. In this one she wrote,

  @WriteALoveSong to @Socialmedialite: Is the cocky jock still giving you shit? I’ll beat him up for you.

  I quickly responded,

  @Socialmedialite to @WriteALoveSong: I’m ignoring him. I’m hoping he’ll disappear if he thinks I’m indifferent.

  @WriteALoveSong to @Socialmedialite: Good luck with that. Hey, why did the hipster leave the ocean?

  I braced myself as I typed,

  @Socialmedialite to @WriteALoveSong: Why?

  WriteALoveSong (how I thought of her in my head) sometimes liked to send me hipster jokes. They were always cheesy and silly. I kind of loved them.

  @WriteALoveSong to @Socialmedialite: Because it’s too current… ba-da-da-dum.

  @Socialmedialite to @WriteALoveSong: I sea…

  @WriteALoveSong to @Socialmedialite: Oh no! Not an ocean pun! Now you’re just being shellfish.

  I laughed and clicked off my phone. I loved that WriteALoveSong and I could have so much fun yet never have met in person. We worked, our friendship worked, because we didn’t push each other for more. We didn’t need to see each other to know each other. We were happy in our shadows of anonymity.

  Whereas Mr. Fitzpatrick might be a nice guy, a serious guy, a loyal, generous, wet blanket of a man, but he also lived his life in the spotlight. He was always pushing. I took great pains to fly under the radar and blend in with furniture. I’d been born introverted, and life experience proved my natural instincts were actually a blessing.

  In real life, I could count on me. I could rely on me. I would never abandon myself. I would never go back on my word or lie to myself or let myself down. The way I saw it, everyone else was a wild card, and that included Mr. Fitzpatrick.

  I also didn’t like how disordered and reckless he made me feel, how aware of my body and the beating of my heart. He made me want…things, things that I’d learned to bury and forego. My life was about control—over my thoughts, emotions, environment, and therefore—over my destiny.

  My pulse had calmed to a nice, steady beat; I took one more calming breath then returned to my computer, intent on ignoring these clamoring feelings and desires. Instead, I would focus on preparing my portion of Mr. Fitzpatrick’s proposal and then write a new blog post that had nothing to do with cocky jocks.

  The chime of my email pulled my attention to a new message waiting in my work mailbox. It was from Mr. Fitzpatrick, and it was a response to my infographic meeting request. I held my breath, intent on controlling my body’s alarming insta-reaction to anything related to the gorgeous rugby player.

  Despite my best intentions, I clicked the message and devoured its contents.

  It read:

  March 12

  Annie dearest,

  If you insist on sending me images, I’d prefer they be of you.

  See you tomorrow at 8.

  Affectionately, Ronan

  P.S. I can’t eat any of that stuff you sent. Again, if you’d sent a picture of yourself, then it would be a completely different story…

  Unsurprisingly, my pulse quickened at the double meaning in his last line. He couldn’t eat any of the food, but if I’d sent a picture of myself, he’d…he’d….

  I groaned.

  Then I ran back to the bathroom. This time I opted for a cold shower.

  ***

  New York’s Finest

  Blogging as *The Socialmedialite*

  March 13

  Have you noticed that the ratio of supermodels in Jason Carter’s entourage to number of Jason Carters has been steadily declining over the last twenty-four months? The number of Jason Carters has remained constant at one (or two, if you count his custom-made Louis Vuitton fanny pack as a separate sentient being), whereas the number of supermodels has decreased from seventeen to six in just two short years.

  Exhibit A (picture 1) was taken nearly twenty months ago as he and his harem of seventeen left Tiffany’s.

  Now look to Exhibit B (picture 2). This picture was taken nine months ago. Here he is down to twelve.

  Now look at Exhibit C (picture 3). This was taken last week. Again, we have Jason Carter and his fanny pack, but an entourage of only six.

  WHAT IS GOING ON, PEOPLE?!?!?!

  Why the diminishing number of models?

  Doesn’t he know he is the primary source of fame for these women? Doesn’t he care we’re going to have poorly dressed supermodels if he and his fanny pack don’t step up and foot the bill for their Jimmy Choos and Louis Vuitton handbags??

  I thought I could count on three things to never change in life: death, taxes, and Jason Carter’s (and his fanny pack’s) entourage.

  Is nothing sacred? What’s next? Will George Clooney date someone his own age?!?!?

  Feeling a tad out of sorts today….

  <3 The Socialmedialite

  ***

  I was uncomfortable.

  And that was putting it mildly.

  I tried to cross my legs, but the sky-blue silk skirt—which fell just above my knees—felt too short; I opted for crossing them at the ankle instead. I also tugged, I hoped surreptitiously, at the V-neck of my long-sleeved, cream-colored shirt because it showed cleavage. It showed my cleavage. My cleavage was showing. As well, the shirt was formfitting and plainly exhibited the shape of my stomach, back, shoulders, and chest.

  It was a nightmare.

  I wanted to run to my office, grab my Snuggie (which is basically a blanket with armholes), and cover myself up.

  Unfortunately, Joan was sitting across from me, watching me like a hawk. I was a mouse, and she was a peregrine falcon. Resistance was futile. I’d arrived at the building and found her in my office at 7:15 a.m., five garment bags full of clothes lying on my couch.
She was drinking a cappuccino from my machine and smiling at me like she’d just won something.

  “I know you’re busy, so I had one of the shoppers buy you a new wardrobe,” she’d said, holding up an outfit. “Change into this one now.”

  When I opened my mouth to object, she added, “Looking professional is no more than I would ask of any of my employees.”

  Objectively, I knew the clothes the shopper had handpicked were lovely. They were stylish, well made, very expensive, and undoubtedly professional looking. It’s just they weren’t brown or navy or gray. They weren’t baggy. They fit, and they fit too well, like they’d been made to highlight my curves and…assets. I looked pretty in them, like a girl. Like a feminine girl. And, adding to my horror, there were shoes! Little kitten heels and spiky stilettos and everything in between, one pair for each outfit.

  People had stared at me when I walked down the hall. I could feel their eyes following me, though I kept mine on the hallway carpet. I distinctly overheard one of the associates from Printed Media say, “Is she new? Who is that?”

  When I walked into the conference room, all conversation stopped. My team gaped. Rachel gasped. Ian stared. And Joan smiled. I felt like a sideshow act at the circus, the kind where people stare and point.

  Again, it was a nightmare.

  I shuffled and thumbed through my stack of papers. I turned to Gerta, attempting to ignore her stunned perusal, and asked whether she’d made enough copies for the team. I purposefully sat near the door just in case I needed to make a quick escape. Worst-case scenario, I could pretend I had gastrointestinal distress.

  I was still forming my escape plan and trying to fight my blush of intense discomfort when Mr. Fitzpatrick arrived.

  He was five minutes early.

  “Bollocks, bitches, and Battlestar Galactica,” I mumbled.

  I have a bad habit of mumbling curse words when I’m aggravated; honestly, I think I might have a mild case of Tourette’s. To soften the string of foul language and make me feel like less of a freak, I try to throw in a pop culture reference at the end. It usually works, but not today.