“Alright, alright,” he said after skidding to a stop in front of me once more. “I’m sorry, alright? I want to help you.”
I eyed him with more than just a little suspicion.
“Really,” Ronan insisted, sounding the closest he ever had to honest. “I was messing around before, but I’ve gotten it out of my system.”
I blew out my cheeks and exhaled noisily. “And why exactly should I believe you?”
Ronan tucked his hands underneath his chin and smiled widely. “Because I’m devilishly handsome. And you like me.”
My head fell back in laughter. “I do not like you,” I protested maybe a little too emphatically.
“You didn’t say anything about me not being devilishly handsome though,” Ronan said with a sly wink.
I rolled my eyes.
“Get in,” he said, still grinning that stupid smile. “Come on.”
“I don’t know…”
Ronan rested his arm against the passenger side seat and shrugged, adding, “I’m a bored billionaire; I have all day to do this, love.” He patted the passenger side seat. “Get in,” he said. “Get in, get in, get—”
“Really?” I asked. “Really?”
“Get in, get in, get in, get—”
“Alright!”
“Get in, get in, get—”
“I am!” I shouted as I yanked the door open. “God-fucking-dammit, you can be annoying.”
Ronan pushed his sunglasses back up as I lifted a pile of neatly folded clothes that had been sitting on the seat.
“Some say it’s one of my most redeeming qualities,” he said as I closed the door and buckled in.
I turned to stare at him. “What does that say about your other qualities?”
“Exactly,” Ronan said, shifting into gear. “This is going to be fun, eh?”
Before I could respond he revved the gas. I was flung back against the seat as we accelerated down the gravel lane, fishtailing and kicking up a long cloud of dust behind us.
“Do you have to go so fast?” I shouted over the loud whine of the engine.
“You made us late messing around like that back there!” Ronan shouted back, pushing his foot down even further on the accelerator.
I managed to corral my whipping hair into a quick bun and then asked, “Late for what?”
Ronan’s only answer was to nod at the pile of clothes in my lap. “Put those on!”
“What are these?” I asked.
“Clothes.”
I clenched my jaw to keep myself from cursing. As Ronan slung the coupe around a tight corner, I carded through the stack, finding a cream cashmere cardigan, a white linen pencil skirt, and a sheer lace camisole of an antique eggshell colour. I turned to look at Ronan, tucking a strand of hair that had slipped loose behind my ear.
“How’d you know my size?” I asked. “You never measured me.”
Ronan dismissed me with a wave of his hand. “Please, I knew your measurements the second I laid eyes on you at The White Room.”
I brushed my fingers against the fine, luxurious materials. They were from the kind of designer labels where you had to have a credit check before entering the store. I was lifting the camisole when I paused suddenly and frowned.
“Wait,” I shouted over the rushing hot wind. “Where am I supposed to change?”
Ronan laughed. “Lesson three,” he yelled, “for the rich, the world is your dressing room.”
I hesitated, glancing around at the mansions whirling past behind tall poplar trees. I fingered the top button of my pale pink silk pyjama top, pausing to see where Ronan’s eyes were in the rear-view mirror.
“I won’t look,” he said, drawing an “x” over his chest. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”
I slunk down in my seat and kept a guarded eye on him as I undid my shirt.
“I’m fucking watching you,” I warned as the sun kissed my bare shoulders.
Ronan grinned. “You better.”
Ronan
I pulled into the valet outside an intimate five-star French restaurant in Dublin and tossed the valet the keys. I dragged my fingers through my wind-whipped hair and brushed some dust from the shoulders of my tan suit as I took the stairs to the ivy-covered stone entrance two at a time. A throat clearing stopped me short of wrenching open the front door.
I turned around to see Delaney still in the coupe convertible, pouting. I frowned down at her as her eyes bounced pointedly from me to the car door, from me to the car door.
“What?” I asked, throwing out my hands.
“Aren’t you supposed to be teaching me?” Delaney hissed, eyeing the valet standing awkwardly beside the driver side door.
I rolled my eyes and hopped back down the stairs. “I have to teach you how to open a door?” I asked, pulling her door open.
“I know how to open a goddamn door,” she replied. “But don’t ladies have gentlemen open their doors for them? Help them up? Take their purse and shit?”
I considered this, tapping my sunglasses against my palm. “I’m not sure,” I finally said, adding a little grin. “I don’t usually go out with ladies.”
Delaney huffed irritably and shoved herself up, struggling gracelessly to get out of my very low car. She shoved the pearl-encrusted clutch I’d brought for her against my chest before slipping on the cream suede pumps. She straightened her figure-hugging pencil skirt as she stood.
“How do I look?” she asked, smoothing down her hair which she’d twisted in a low chignon at the base of her long, elegant neck.
I stepped back to get a good look at her, hand tucked under my chin as I held my elbow. I whistled and shook my head, eliciting a crack of a grin from Delaney.
“I look good, huh?” she asked, running her hands along her hips.
“You?” I replied with an incredulous laugh. “I was whistling for me; I absolutely nailed your measurements. You, you look terrible.”
Delaney was too busy reeling from my insult to stop me from reaching forward and pinching hard each of her cheeks.
“Ow!” she shrieked. “That fucking hurt like shit, asshole!”
She raised her fingers to touch tenderly at the blossom of colour spreading across her face, and with her hands effectively out of the way, I flicked open her cashmere cardigan, managing three buttons at once. It was like skipping stones except the stones were tiny mother-of-pearl buttons and the water was Delaney’s bare skin.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Delaney hissed, holding her cardigan over her see-through lace camisole and eyeing a lady passing in a conservative tweed suit. “With it unbuttoned like that you can practically see everything. Maybe I’m wrong, but nip-slips don’t exactly scream classy to me.”
I rolled my eyes and grabbed her arms, stretching one around my waist. I draped an arm over her shoulder and steered her toward the front door of the restaurant, holding her tighter as she squirmed petulantly against me. Her skin smelled like hot, dry winds and long empty highways as I pressed my lips close to her ear.
“You need to get these old-fashioned notions of class out of your thick, stubborn-ass head,” I whispered. “We’re about to walk through the finest, most expensive restaurant in Dublin and the worst thing in the world you can do is to dress like you’re intimidated, all buttoned up like your rich grandmother dragged you in your Sunday school clothes to tea at some old palace.”