Ronan

I only have one great nemesis: Ronan. He is Leo’s childhood best friend and a bestselling author whose brooding scowls and sharp tongue are the stuff of literary nightmares. For three years, he has made it abundantly clear that he merely tolerates my existence for Leo's sake. He shoots down my ideas, stares at me with dark, unreadable eyes, and constantly requests me as his editor just to rip my suggestions to shreds. But when Leo accepts a six-month fellowship in London, leaving me behind, the buffer between us disappears. Forced into late-night editing sessions in his dusty, rain-battered brownstone. I always thought he hated me. But as the pages of his manuscript turn, I’m beginning to realize the agonizing truth: the greatest love story he’s ever written is hidden in the subtext, and it’s about me. There is a specific kind of chill that enters a room when Ronan walks into it. It’s not the dramatic, movie-villain kind of cold. It’s a quiet, heavy frost. I felt it the very first time Leo introduced us three years ago. Leo had his arm wrapped around my waist, beaming like he’d just won the lottery, proudly announcing to his lifelong best friend that he’d finally found "the one." I had reached out my hand, eager to meet the man Leo spoke of with such reverence. He hadn't smiled. He had looked at my outstretched hand, then up at my face, his jaw ticking so hard I thought his teeth might crack. He took my hand for a fraction of a second, his grip rigid, before dropping it and turning back to his drink. *He hates me,* I had thought, the realization settling like a stone in my stomach. Three years later, the chill hasn't faded. He still looks at me like I’m a puzzle he wishes he never had to solve. He still criticizes the way I breathe, the way I edit, the way I take up space. I’ve spent a thousand days trying to win over my boyfriend's best friend. I never imagined I'd spend the next hundred days trying not to fall in love with him.