Page 22 of Dearest Ronan

So, to hear Ronan use Steele in relation to me, I venture towards the name suggesting we’re married instead of related. That’s my ultimate dream for Ronan and I—for him to claim me as his in every way possible.

“Right this way, sir,” the hostess says before leading us through the restaurant and stopping at an intimate table for two. “Here we are.”

“Thank you.” I smile, trying my best to appear friendly rather than territorial. Once she leaves, we each take a seat. “This place is so nice. Have you been here before?” I hope he says no. I’d rather not imagine him and Carolyn making past kissy faces at one another across the table. It’d be nice if this could be Ronan and my place.

“No,” he smoothly says. “Found this place on the internet.” I’m not surprised. We find everything on the internet these days.

For a second, I think about asking why he didn’t pick a restaurant closer to home but quickly dismiss it. He’s trying and I don’t want to criticize his efforts. Instead, I thank him for taking me out.

His sexy smirk lights up the room. How did I get so lucky? Ronan and I share aligned goals. He’s settled into his career and happy with the life he’s cultivated. I need to build my career, too.

For the next several minutes, we jump from topic to topic. I tell him stories of my parents, about his retired mom in Arizona, and his dad who passed away when he was ten. I haven’t met his mom, but when he describes how hard she worked, I feel like I understand him better.

“For the longest time I wanted to be an EMT, too,” he says after telling me that his mom retired after thirty-plus years working as an emergency services technician. “But I realized in high school I was mistaking my appreciation for aspiration.” He lifts the glass of water our waitress dropped off.

“Aw, that’s sweet.” His cheeks turn a subtle shade of pink. Blink and I’ll miss it. “Did your mom always want to be an EMT?”

“Nah, I don’t believe so. She always talked about going to medical school to be a physician’s assistant, but after my dad died, she never had the time to go back.”

“But she was happy?”

He pauses to take a sip. “Oh, yes, she loved her job. I think she was disappointed that she couldn’t move on, but she never complained.”

“Plus,” I slyly begin, “she had you.”

He laughs. “I was a handful.”

“Probably, but you had each other.”

Smiling fondly, he traces the top of his water glass with the tip of his index finger. “It was all we needed.”

I love when he opens up to me like this. He trusts me, not as a former ward, but as a partner. Listening to him talk about his mother, it’s obvious how much he cares for her. Getting to see a peek into what Ronan loves is a gift I’ll always remember.

Ronan and I could be more. Much more. We’re so compatible. Does he see it, too? Does he feel the invisible tug between us, demanding that we stop running to dance in the glitter rain?

After all, we value the same things. He’s a minimalist, and I’m building my career on effective designs that dual as storage. He’s happy at his long-term job, and all I want is to open my business. We value time.

He hardly works over forty-five hours a week, and I’m building the same. Not because of him, but because there is more to life than money and sweat.

Lastly, we’re sexually compatible. How sex isn’t even at the top of mywe belong together, and this is how I know, list must mean something. Right?

Right.

Together, we’re so much more than our exchanging moans.

We’re having a lovely time until my phone dings with a text message. Expecting it to be Mrs. Archenhood, I reach inside my clutch to send her a quick text that I’m at dinner and will contact her later. All of my attention is on Ronan, and I mean it when I say that relationships are more important than money. However, Mrs. Archenhood is my first professional job, so I also want to respect my clients and at least promise to contact her later.

Unluckily for me though, my fingers fumble with the sleek surface of my phone as I extract it from my pocket. It crashes to the unforgiving floor.

Ronan, ever the gentleman, leans down to grab it for me. His fingers brush against the toughened glass, reminding me just how amazing his long, slender fingers are. Just as he’s straightening back up to give me my phone, his jaw clenches while he stares past my shoulder.

“Ronan?” I whisper. “What’s wrong?” We’re having such a good time and I want nothing to ruin it.

As I begin to turn in my seat to survey what is upsetting my date, Ronan loudly hums at the back of his throat. The noise is so sudden and gravelly that I immediately turn back around and face him. His jaw remains clenched.

“Don’t turn around,” he mutters. In the history of history, has no one listened when someone utters that phrase.

Naturally, I peek over my shoulder. A subtle but persistent unease settles in the pit of my stomach when I spot Maury. Not because he’s here, but because Ronan appears way too anxious over nothing. Maury hasn’t seen us yet, but Ronan promised that if our relationship is discovered, we won’t have to hide anymore.

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