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“Water?”
“A proper drink, like.”
In the credenza behind my desk there was a pretty stocked bar. Justin thought of everything. “What would you like?”
“Is Jameson’s too much to ask for?” he asked.
I opened the cabinet and checked inside. “Apparently not. Though . . . there’s no ice or anything.”
“That’s fine. Will you join me?”
Who the fuck was this guy? “In straight whiskey? No.” I pulled out a bottle of fizzy water. The last time I had a drink in front of this guy things went off the rails real fast. Of course, they went off the rails the second time when I was sober-ish. Nope. I was going to keep my wits about me.
“I swear to you, Poppy. I will not touch you,” he said, like he could read my mind.
But, I thought, did I want him to touch me?
“Here,” I said and handed him the bottle and the glass from the credenza, and I sat down in my chair and twisted off the top of the water.
“So,” I said. “You were about to explain why you’ve been such an asshole.”
“Well.” He sat with his drink in the chair across from my desk. He looked so dark in this bright room. But oddly right, like he gave this space contrast and balance. “Let’s not get confused. Part of me being an asshole, you liked well enough.”
Was this . . . was he teasing me? All his danger was turned down to some flirty comradery. Like we were at a reunion, “remember when I called you pathetic and made you come so hard your brain broke? Good times.”
Except I wasn’t going to give him that. I wasn’t going to give him anything.
“I don’t like anything about you, Ronan.”
“Well, it’s easier to surrender when you can hate the person forcing you to do it,” he said, looking out the windows at the city.
“There is not one situation I can imagine where you give up control,” I said.
“I don’t know,” he said, his eyes still on the clouds, birds making their way across town. “The priests were fond of my surrender.”
Oh. Right. Now I felt foolish. “I’m sorry,” I felt compelled to say.
“Being hurt by people who were supposed to care for us is something we have in common,” he said. When he finally turned to look at me, I was startled to be caught staring at him.
“You’re talking about my husband?” I said. “I don’t know if he was ever supposed to care for me.”
“Millennia of married people would say otherwise.”
“I think a millennia of married people probably prove my point.”
“My god, Poppy, are you trying to convince me that you’re jaded?”
“Are you trying to convince me you’re a romantic?”
“No chance of that,” he said with a laugh and another sip of his whiskey. “You were so young when I met you at that party. And when I found out who you were and what—” he licked his lips, and my stomach coiled with some intense emotion, “—was happening to you. I was angry, and there was nothing I could do about it. So, it was easier to be angry with you.”
I opened my mouth. Shut it. No one had been so honest with me in years. Not even my sister. Not even Caroline.
“That’s awful,” I said for the lack of anything better to say.
“I know.”
There was a knock at the door and a stranger’s voice saying “hello.”
“Food,” Ronan said. He set his whiskey down and went to go answer the delivery guy, while I sat there reeling. Was this true? I wondered. Was this version of him real? Why would he lie? Why would he feign kindness? Or vulnerability?
All those questions did was convince me further that I should leave. Grab my coat. Lock up and let him have his dinner alone. I was at the very start of something exciting in this office, and he’d already changed the whole dynamic of the place with his honesty and his dark good looks.
If I wanted something to be mine, then I had to make it. I had to make choices. Hard ones. I put my coat on. Put the bottle of whiskey back in the credenza. Shoved files into my briefcase. I’d call Theo and tell him to pull—
Ronan came back into the room carrying two plastic bags, surrounded by the most delicious smells of garlic and fresh herbs. Butter. My stomach growled. My resolve weakened.
“You’re leaving?” he said.
“I think it’s best,” I said.
“It’s just food,” he said, and I realized my face must register my distrust. “It’s here and you’re hungry. I’ll leave.”
“That’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me,” I told him.
“That’s not true. But I will leave you to eat in peace.” He set the bags down on the edge of the desk, and the smells were even more delicious.
“What is it?” I asked.
