“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.
“Spanish food. From a place down the corner.”
“You like Spanish food?”
“There are a lot of things about me you don’t know,” he said.
Oh, for fuck’s sake. How dramatic could I be.
“Sit,” I said. “You’re hungry, too.”
His smile was a flash, and in that flash I saw what he must have been like when he was younger. When there was something grateful and happy left in him. “I’m not going to lie,” he said. “I’m starving.”
He started to take out the boxes, opening them to reveal paella with juicy black-shelled mussels, grilled octopus, flaky manchego cheese, and roasted red peppers. Pale almonds and bright green olives. He set out napkins and plastic utensils. There were bottles of water. And what looked like a to-go cup of coffee.
“Here,” he said, handing me a paper plate while I stood there staring at the feast he made happen. For me. I mean, for us, sure. But... for me. “What’s wrong? You don’t like Spanish?”
“No,” I said. “I love it.” My mouth was actually watering. “I’m just grateful. Thank you.”
Again, that half smile from him. That sparkle in the corner of his eye, the way he ducked his head as he scooped up the rice and seafood covered in aioli and fresh bright green herbs.
I sat down and took some cheese, olives, and bread.
“So, you’re going to be the executive director of the foundation,” he said, sitting back with octopus and a mound of saffron yellow rice, flecked with fresh green peas. “Are you excited?”