Ronan’s affection for me wasn’t just skin deep. He’d admitted as much to The Socialmedialite. Additionally, if I’d been experiencing any lingering doubts, they were erased when he made his impassioned speech during lunch several days ago, when he offered to leave rugby so we could be together.

After gaining distance “from the breakfast of spite,” as I’d started calling it, and his mother’s detestable statements (and doing some digging into her past), I realized her claims about Ronan’s fidelity were all lies, misleading half-truths at best, clearly meant to drive a wedge between us.

Part of me hated that I’d rolled over and given up so easily. But my need for self-preservation endured above all else.

Ultimately, Ronan’s mother provided the wake-up call I’d needed. I knew it was for the best. Self-preservation demanded that I stay ignorant regarding the workings of a real loving relationship, one based on mutual admiration, respect, and a potentially soul-deep connection.

I had to be strong. I had to redouble my efforts. I couldn’t bend or yield.

But first I let myself hold and be held. I’d shared too much. I’d trusted too much. I’d given too much. I’d let him in and allowed myself to think about Ronan and Annie in terms of a “we” and an “us.”

And I was very afraid that I’d already fallen in love with him.

***

The hotel was beyond swanky, but I was only peripherally aware of its opulence. My eyes were on the marble floor and ornate Kashmir carpets. I was tucked under Ronan’s arm, held close to his chest as he navigated the lobby; I followed him blindly. This was for several reasons.

First, I was jetlagged.

After the bathroom hug that lasted well beyond ten wordless minutes, Ronan led me back to our seats, holding my hand. Again he gave me the window seat. However, this time he also spent the rest of the flight touching me, but it was nothing overtly sexual, just affectionate. The touches warmed me, made my blood simmer, and went a long way toward melting my resolve. He brushed my hair away from my cheek, and his hand lingered on my neck; or he’d place his hand on my knee to get my attention and keep it there for several minutes, his thumb drawing light, slow circles on my kneecap.

At one point he picked up my hand and massaged it. He didn’t ask permission; he did it absentmindedly while staring at my fingers.

“Go to sleep,” he said. So I did, feeling both safe and at risk of falling deeper but too weary to care.

The plane touched down at 7:30 a.m. Dublin time, which made it 2:30 a.m. New York time. Ronan woke me with a soft kiss, first on my lips then on my forehead. My brain felt stuffed with cotton and cobwebs and maybe maple syrup. I just wanted to sleep.

The other reason I was following Ronan blindly was because of the photographers. As soon as we passed through customs, we were basically accosted. I’d been stunned by the sheer number; I tried to estimate but quit counting when I got to twenty.

I thought the paparazzi in the States were aggressive, hiding behind bushes and trailing us around the city. I’d been so wrong. So very, very wrong. The “paps” in Ireland didn’t seem to understand the concept of personal space, nor did they see anything amiss about touching me or telling me how much they appreciated the size of my breasts.

It was at this comment that Ronan wrapped his arm around me possessively and pressed me against him, caging me within his strong arms. He said something to the photographers, but I didn’t understand the words—either because I was too stunned or because Ronan was speaking another language, I had no idea. Then he navigated us both to the relative safety of the first-class lounge.

When we got to the lounge, he looked like he was ten seconds away from murdering someone. He was so angry. He kept asking me if I was okay; meanwhile, he was grinding his teeth, his heart beating a hundred miles a minute, and his grip on my shoulders was just shy of painful.

Without letting me go, Ronan walked to the bar, flipped open his phone, and placed a brief call. At the bar he ordered me a Bloody Mary and a soda water for himself, all the while administering “fuck off” glares to anyone who dared make eye contact. He waited until our drinks arrived before moving us away. Still under his arm, I stumbled where he led, which was to a corner behind a floor-to-ceiling panel, hiding us from the glass windows facing the rest of the airport.

A big, leather couch sprawled under dimmed lights; he settled himself on one end and then situated me so I was next to him. He told me to drink the Bloody Mary. So I did. Then he told me to put my head on his lap and sleep for a bit. So I did. His arm rested along my body, his hand on my hip.

Some indeterminate time later, Ronan woke me with another kiss, framing my face with his big palms. I was informed that his security team had arrived and they would make sure that we made it to the car unmolested.

He added under his breath, “And they’ll keep me from killing those fuckers….”

The security team did more than that.

They took us out of the airport through a series of tunnels, thereby avoiding the paparazzi all together.

Yet Ronan kept me tucked against him the entire time—when we walked through the tunnels, when we finally made it to the car, during the ride to the hotel, when we walked from the car to the hotel through another sea of photographers, and finally when we checked into the fancy schmancy Merrion Hotel.

Once we boarded the elevator, Ronan barred the way, letting no one else on, and instructed the bellhop to take the next lift. No one argued. I glanced at Ronan’s face as the doors slid shut and found that I would not have argued, either.