Ronan had stuck with the two beers at the restaurant, refusing to get drunk with me in public, “just in case.” And Andre was solidly on water. But once we closed the door of Ronan’s apartment behind us, I figured all bets would be off.
Andre was now off-duty, we were just three people hanging out together on a Friday night, and we could all drink our faces off in the security and privacy of Ronan’s apartment.
I was doing my best to work around his rules, any way I could.
He lived in a nice, newer condo building just off South Granville’s art gallery row. His building stood among the other newish condo developments and some commercial buildings, a few small restaurants and art galleries. The cab dropped us at the front door, and Ronan let us in through the elegant lobby.
Andre brought up the rear with our booze.
We’d stopped off at a liquor store on the way, because Andre had informed me that the liquor offerings at Ronan’s place would be “abysmal.” We bought a two-hundred-dollar bottle of tequila—my treat, because Ronan insisted on paying for dinner and drinks at the restaurant. Andre paid for the cab, and the novelty shot glasses he found at the dollar store next to the liquor store.
As soon as we were inside Ronan’s place, Andre cracked open the tequila, poured out shots and handed us each a glass.
His said: Party Animal. It had a cartoon pig on it, sitting in a puddle of mud or shit, I wasn’t sure which.
Mine said: Queen. It had a little crown on it.
Ronan’s said: Tears of my employees.
We shot the tequila back, and Andre took a photo of Ronan drinking from his Tears of my employees glass. Then he split a gut, and while he mopped tears from his eyes, he said, “Bro, that’s going on the company website.”
At which point Ronan confiscated Andre’s phone and turned it off.
Then Andre served up another round of shots, and another, while Ronan showed me around a bit. It was a one-bedroom condo, nicely furnished, bachelor style. Clean. Tasteful.
Suited him.
But it was lacking some serious soul. Obviously, he didn’t spend much time here.
“Well,” I told him, “I’m glad to see you don’t have any plants withering away here.” I cocked an eyebrow at him. “Or pets.”
“Yeah. I’d have a dog, maybe. They’re better company than plants. And more loyal than people.” His eyes met mine, and I could see he instantly regretted saying that. Not because he didn’t mean it, but because he’d said more than he wanted to say.
Revealed more about himself than he wanted to reveal.
The beers and tequila were already kicking in.
I filed it all away in my mental Mystery of Ronan Sterling dossier.
Prefers dogs to people.
Thinks people are disloyal.
Has been hurt, disappointed and/or betrayed by others in the past? Possibly repeatedly.
“Besides,” he added quickly, “then I’d have to take care of it, and who has time for that, right?”
“Mmm,” I murmured noncommittally. I was just hoping he’d keep talking. Keep revealing his naked self to me, so to speak, in lovely alcohol-stripped layers.
“Are you ever home?” I asked him as I glimpsed his sparsely furnished bedroom, suspiciously devoid of any clothes on the floor or personal effects on the dresser. The bed was even neatly made.
“Not often enough to know if I’ve left it lady friendly.” He poked his head into the bathroom, then popped back out. “All clear.”
“Uh-huh.”
Keeps himself busy with work so he doesn’t have to deal with other people’s needs. Including those of any women he might bring home.
“And how long have you owned this place?” I asked him.
“I don’t own it. I rent.”
Hmm. Doesn’t plan for the future?
Or is afraid of commitment?
He then went out of his way to move a set of hand weights in the hallway so I wouldn’t trip on them, even though they were zero-percent in my way.
Underneath the tough guy exterior, has a big heart and a deep need to protect people.
I wondered if maybe some people—the less-loyal-than-dogs people—had taken advantage of that trait.
Hard to imagine the big alpha in front of me letting anyone take advantage of him. But everyone had their vulnerabilities, whether they wanted to or not, right? Their soft spots, so to speak.
When we’d circled back to the kitchen island, where Andre was pouring out shots again, we did another round.
“That is good tequila,” Andre remarked.
It was. We were probably supposed to be sipping it rather than shooting it, but oh well. I was getting drunk and I hardly even noticed. I felt warm and fabulous all over and we hadn’t even put any music on yet.
Ronan was getting drunk, too. For sure. And as it turned out, drunk Ronan was just as no-bullshit honest as sober Ronan. He just talked more.
A lot more.
And he was nice about it.
“You’re so beautiful,” he told me, twice, while we made popcorn in a pot on his stove.
Andre was in the adjoining living room, trying to play DJ with the sad music collection on Ronan’s home computer. Dinner seemed so long ago already, I had the munchies, so snacks were first priority. After that, I’d take over the music. I’d already joined Ronan’s WiFi and connected my phone to his speakers, pretty much the moment I stepped in the door.
“Find 3 Doors Down,” I called to Andre. “I know he has them.” I grinned at Ronan.
A moment later, “Kryptonite” started playing.
“I love how you love music,” Ronan said, staring at me. “It makes me want to pay more attention to music.”
“Good. Then I’ve done my job.”
His gaze lingered on my lips. “I thought your job was to make people happy.”
“Are you happy right now?”
He was leaning into me, closer and closer. And I wondered if he’d actually throw drunken caution to the wind and kiss me in front of Andre. “Yeah…” he breathed, his lips an inch from mine.
I smelled something… off.
“Burning!” I blurted, and we both jumped into action. He grabbed the pot
