“Oui, oui, oui,” Ronan said, dismissing me with a dramatic flutter of his hand in the intimate candlelight. “Quelle horreur. But that is exactly what I, as your all-knowing, all-wise, all-devastatingly handsome tutor, requires of you, love.”
I shook my head, getting ready to protest when Ronan interrupted me.
“You’re going to slap me in the face,” he said, swirling his champagne lazily in his glass. “Hard, if you don’t mind. We might as well both get something out of tonight, and I do love a good slap from a bad woman.”
Ronan grabbed the bottle from the bucket of ice to refill our glasses, mine till it was spilling over the edge and spreading across the fine white tablecloth. He handed me the sticky glass, wrapping my fingers around the stem as I tried to argue.
“But Ronan—”
“You’re going to slap me in the face and then—ah, our waiter!”
I watched Ronan as he ordered our meals, searching his face for any signs that this was just another one of his ridiculous jokes. How was slapping him in the face going to make anyone see me as anything more than trailer park trash arguing with my cousin over a pack of Bud Light?
The moment the waiter was out of earshot once more, Ronan leaned back in and continued right where he had left off.
“So you’re going to slap me in the face—hard, remember—and then, listen carefully, because this is the part you in particular are going to struggle with the most… you walk out silently.”
I could only stare at Ronan with an open mouth, barely noticing that my champagne was spilling. Ronan narrowed his eyes at me, though he was unable to keep that mischievous grin from his lips.
“You do know what ‘silently’ means, right?” he asked. “No talking? Zippy lippy? Mum’s the word? You know, the whole ‘throw away the key’ thing?”
I swatted Ronan’s hand away when he went to touch my lips. “Are you trying to get me arrested?” I asked, suspicion on the rise.
Ronan rolled his eyes.
“Delaney, trust me,” he said, reaching in his breast pocket for his pack of cigarettes. “There is nothing more I’d like than to see you in handcuffs. Handcuffs and a skimpy black bra. Handcuffs and a thong. Oh, oh, handcuffs and nothing at all.”
“Ronan.”
Ronan shook his head and busied himself with lighting his cigarette on the flame of the tall white candle in the centre of the table, drawing dirty looks from our neighbours.
“Right, right, what was I saying?”
I slammed my champagne glass down on the table, which rattled the china and drew even more attention. I consciously lowered my voice as I said, “Me. Jail.”
Ronan blew a long exhale of smoke into the air.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said. “I have the best attorneys in the world. If I wanted you in jail, I wouldn’t need to resort to tricking you into assaulting me.”
I buried my head in my hands and groaned. “Well, that’s reassuring.”
“I don’t see what the big deal is,” Ronan said, draining the remainder of the champagne bottle and lifting a finger for another. “Seems like slapping poor fellas would be right up your alley.”
I twisted the tablecloth in a white-knuckle grip and tried to keep the frustration from my low voice.
“Because I thought you were supposed to show me how to do things differently,” I told him. “I can’t help but think that this is all just another fun time for you. That your whole apology and shit was just another act, and you’re setting me up for a good laugh for yourself.”
I released the tablecloth by exerting every ounce of self-control I had and crossed my arms before calmly saying, “I won’t do it. I won’t fall into your childish trap.”
Ronan eyed me slowly. “No?” he asked.
“No.”
All around us was faint French music, the clink of forks and knives, and hushed conversation, but our table was devoid of noise. We sat in silence, Ronan occasionally tapping the butt of his cigarette, me staring determinedly ahead.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Ronan glance at me with that lazy smile.
“You know,” he said slowly, “the bathroom here is private.”
I rolled my eyes and gave a tired sigh. “That’s the best you’ve got?”
“Sturdy lock.”
“Nice try.”
“Big sink for, you know, a firm grip.”
I could see straight through his pathetic efforts to coax me into giving him what he wanted. It wasn’t going to happen. Ronan put out his cigarette in the ash tray and drummed his fingers against the edge of the table. Our awkward silence returned as the waiter returned with the second bottle of champagne that Ronan ordered; neither of us said anything as he poured.
Ronan swirled his finger over the top of the champagne glass, eliciting a high-pitched tone.
“I… I could… pay you,” he said softly.
Despite knowing exactly what game he was playing, I couldn’t stop the instinctual tensing of my jaw. All I could hope was that he’d missed it. Given the fact that he failed to hide his grin and noisily scooted his chair closer to mine, I was sure he hadn’t missed it.
“Do you prefer getting paid in cash or card? Or, wait, what do poor people get paid in? Food stamps?”
I shot him a glare. “Really?”
His eyes alighted as he searched mine, and I knew instantly that I’d made a mistake by reacting to his childish behaviour. I was playing right into his hand. I turned away from him and tried to regain my composure, which, admittedly, wasn’t my strong suit. But I feared he’d found the chink in my armour and had no qualms about fully exploiting it. I may not have had any self-control, but Ronan O’Hara had no fucking shame.
“I could drop you off at the public library after this,” Ronan said, lighting another cigarette. “You’ll be needing to find a job, I suppose. I can’t really help you there, since, well, I’ve never needed a job. But I could busy myself underneath the desk, lend a tongue. I mean, a penis. Shit, a hand. I could lend a hand.”
“I know what you’re doing.”
Ronan flashed me a devilish grin. “Of course you do,” he said, his cunning blue eyes bright and animated, “but does it matter?”
A flicker of a frown played across my face. “What do you mean?”
Ronan’s cigarette burned, a tendril of long smoke extending into the dim light, as he reached out to brush my cheek with the back of his hand.
“What I mean, Delaney, is do you really think you can stop yourself?” he whispered.
His words made me fall silent.
“Because I think I know you and I think you know that I know you,” he continued. “And no matter how hard you try, that isn’t going to change who you are.”
I sat petrified as he spoke because he was voicing my deepest fears. His opinion was my parents’ opinion, just simply wrapped in different packing: know your place. Know where your place is because it’s never changing. Know who you are because it’s never changing.
Ronan sighed a sad sort of sigh and then said, lowering his hand from my pale cheek, “You know that I’m petulantly trying to push your buttons, but it doesn’t matter, because you’re still going to lose control.”