I glance down at my fingers where they fidget in my lap, clasping and unclasping, clasping and unclasping. “I’m not sure I’ll ever really
live
again. I feel like the star of a fairy tale that went wrong. So, so wrong. Like Beauty
turned into
the beast. In the blink of an eye. So much more than just my skin died in the fire that day. I lost everything.”
“Katie, look at me,” Rogan insists, his finger tipping my face up toward his. “You’re not a beast. You’re still one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen. Your scars don’t change that. The problem is, you won’t take my word for it. You don’t believe it. And unfortunately, I can’t make you see it.
You
have to find it in the mirror, and you need to. You survived, but now you need to
live.
Because when you aren’t living, you’re dying a little more every day.”
I feel my chin begin to tremble against his finger. “I’m trying. This . . .
you
are the closest I’ve come to living in a long time.”
“Then let me bring you back to life,” he whispers, brushing his lips over mine in a kiss even softer than his words. “Inch by inch, day by day, touch by touch.” I close my eyes and let him soothe away the worry, the fear, the ash that I’ve carried in a bucket where my heart used to be. “Will you? Will you let me?” My eyelashes flutter
up to find his jewel-like green eyes staring intensely down into mine. “Please,” he breathes. I more
see
the word on his mouth rather than hear it.
The Katie I’ve fashioned from the remains of who I used to be hesitates, but within seconds, the lonely shell of the girl I
was
sighs into Rogan’s descending mouth. “Okay,” I manage and then his kiss turns into fire.
• • •
Monday. It’s incredible what a difference a couple of days makes. I can’t remember a better weekend. Ever. Granted, it had a few rough patches, but the good more than made up for the bad. Even as a child, when practically every day was loaded with some kind of happy memory of my parents, I can’t remember feeling so whole and optimistic. It almost worries me, like I should be waiting for the world to cave in around me and demolish the little glimmer of hope I’m beginning to glimpse.
I don’t know what kind of future Rogan and I could have, if any, but just the prospect, just the
consideration
of a tomorrow with someone is a huge step for me. I truly thought I was going to be alone. Forever.
There’s a hitch in my step as I walk through the door to work. Nearly every morning since I’ve been here I’ve run into Ronnie first thing. We share our little ritualistic greeting and then go on with our day. Only today, things are different. And not just because of Rogan.
My carefree, happy morning just took a stressful turn as my eyes scan the hall for Ronnie. I don’t see him anywhere.
But who I
do
see is Rogan.
My lips twitch up into a small, relieved smile when I spot his tall physique. He’s clad in the rattiest jeans I’ve ever seen, along with
black boots, a black tee, and a wicked grin that makes me blush. He didn’t leave my house until almost dawn. Said he wanted to be there when his brother got up so he could fix their breakfast, as was his habit. Of course I didn’t argue, even though I was loath to see him go. Much more than I would’ve expected when we’ve only really known each other for a few weeks. That alone should be a warning sign.
His sparkling green eyes watch my every step until I stop in front of him. “Mornin’, darlin’,” he drawls.
Butterflies beat their gossamer wings against the walls of my stomach, of my chest. I forgot what this feels like—this intimate feeling of
knowing
someone, of being close to them in a way that binds you, that turns every glance, every smile, every brush of the hand to delicious innuendo. To carefully controlled passion, biding its time until it can be unleashed.
I’m reveling in the moment, in the sensation, right up until Rogan begins to lean toward me. It shakes me from my fantasy world and I take a step back, glancing left and right.
I clear my throat, meeting his frown with another smile. “Good morning.” When the wrinkle between his eyes deepens to a trench, I continue. “I’m glad you’re here.”
“You sure about that?”
I glance around again to make sure no one is watching or listening. “I’m positive. I usually run into Ronnie first thing in the morning.”
Rogan’s skeptical frown disappears in a blaze of fury that burns across his handsome features. “That asshole knows better than to get near you. He won’t look at you, talk to you, talk
about
you ever again. Hell, he’d better not even
mention your name
if he knows what’s good for him.”
My grin widens. God, I love that he’s protective. It’s so nice to
feel like someone cares, like someone
is caring for
me. I haven’t felt like that since the accident when my parents died. “Even though I couldn’t let you do anything to him, I love the sentiment.”
“I love that you think you could stop me.”
That gives me pause. “It would make things hard for me here. At work. You
do
understand that, don’t you?”
I can see that he does, but he doesn’t like it. “Yeah. I get it. But still, he’d better be very careful.” As his anger dissipates, I see his eyes narrow. “Is that why you’re keeping your distance? Because of work?” Reluctantly, I nod. He drops his voice in response. “Because it seems that just a few hours ago, we were about as close as two people are able to get. Chest to chest, belly to belly, my co—”
I clear my throat very loudly, interrupting him even as my cheeks blaze with color and heat. “So, you’re early again,
Mr. Rogan.
You must be a morning person.” I feel all flustered now. In the best possible, albeit most disconcerting, way.
“Oh, I’m very much a morning person.” His wink reminds me of how he left me in the wee hours—sated, boneless, with the imprint of his body still fresh and warm on mine. Yes, he’s definitely a morning person. And a night person. And a noon person.
I widen my eyes, a silent plea for him to stop his suggestive teasing, but all the while my lips are trembling. It’s a struggle to suppress the girlishly delighted giggle dying to get out.
“What’s the matter, Beautiful Katie?” he murmurs just loud enough for me to hear. “You look flushed. Dirty mind?”
Oh God!
Dirty mind, indeed.
With a slight shake of my head and a tightly controlled smile, I make my way around Rogan, who falls into step beside me. I can feel his masculine gloat hitting me like waves of heat, causing my skin to feel dewy and hot from head to toe.
Rogan starts to whistle. It’s a happy sound from a happy man.
Or at least he seems to be happy. There’s a glimmer to his eyes, and they want to crinkle at the corners, like he has a secret. Or maybe a wink on deck. And
that
makes
me
happy. I shouldn’t care about his state of contentment. But I do.
I
feel so good that it would seem far less “good” if
he
weren’t good, too. But he seems good. We both seem good. And
that
is very good.
Although I keep my attention focused straight ahead, I’m aware of the sidelong glances we are getting as we make our way along the hall to my little cubby. I’m not at all surprised when I walk through the door to find Mona standing in the center of the room, arms crossed over her ample chest, toe tapping in agitation. She looks like a stripper dressed in school-teacher attire. She’s wearing a pencil-slim black skirt and a white blouse that’s at least two sizes too small. Her long legs are encased in fishnets and her feet in stilettos. All she needs is a riding crop, some smart glasses and hair that’s piled messily on top of her head so she can whip it down dramatically.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, taking in her petulant expression and rigid posture.
“I’m feeling very disenfranchised,” she explains.
I glance over at Rogan, who’s already smiling and shaking his head.
“Word of the day?”
She cracks a grin. “Yeah, why? Did I use it wrong?”
“Depends on what you were trying to say,” I tell her as I walk past her to lay my purse on the counter. I turn back to her, feeling both pleased and nervous when Rogan comes to stand beside me, leaning his tall body against the counter next to me and crossing his arms and ankles. I can literally feel the warmth from his body. It teases me, beckoning me closer. I plant my feet and make a point to stand up straight, not giving in.
Mona’s eyes are narrow now as she looks back and forth between Rogan and me. I can see the wheels of her romance book–polluted mind going a mile a minute. Finally, her posture eases and her face lights up with glee. She taps the tips of her fingers together in a tiny clap.
“Eeeeeee,” she squeals in a hushed voice. “Okay, I’m not mad anymore.”
She knows. I don’t even have to ask about her reaction. I know how to interpret it. It’s nothing that I really want to talk about with her, though, especially not in front of Rogan, so I steer the conversation elsewhere. “If that’s what you were trying to say, then yes, you used the word wrong.”
Mona waves me off, her expression saying she couldn’t care less now. She’s got something else to think about. And the thing is, Mona is like a dog with a bone. She won’t be letting this go until she can talk to me about it. In great detail, I’m sure. “I don’t care. Today is a good day. We should celebrate.”
Before I can respond, Rogan speaks up beside me. “Maybe tomorrow. She owes me a lunch and I’m collecting today.”
My insides beam with happiness and I try not to smile. “I guess that takes care of my lunch plans,” I tell Mona casually.
“I want to buy her a piece of pie,” he adds, a bit too softly. I want to look over at him, but I don’t. I’m afraid I’ll see something naughty in his eyes and I’ll get all flummoxed.
Her face splits in the world’s biggest smile and her eyes bounce back and forth between us. “Well, in that case, I’ll just make other arrangements. Maybe tomorrow,” she offers as she starts to back out of the room.
“I’ll arm wrestle you for it,” Rogan says, making Mona giggle delightedly.
“God, you two are
too cute
.” And then she’s gone, her excited squeal trailing behind her.
Rogan waits for a few seconds and then walks to the door. He closes and leans against it. His eyes meet mine and electricity lights up my stomach. I know perfectly well that if we were any number of other places, he’d start undressing me. And I’d let him.
He holds my gaze as he walks his sexy walk back toward me, not stopping until his hands are gripping the counter on either side of me and his face is about two inches from mine.
“What are you thinking?” he asks in his low, velvety bedroom voice.
I can’t think past honesty. “That you make my stomach feel like the fourth of July.”
He grins and laughs, an evil, satisfied laugh. Moisture rushes into my panties. God, this man!
“What are
you
thinking?”
“That I didn’t realize how hard this is gonna be,” he admits.
“How hard what’s going to be?” I play dumb, but I know
exactly
what he means. I just want to hear him say it.
“Seeing you, being so close to you yet not being able to touch you.” As he speaks, he leans in to rub his cheek against mine, his lips brushing my ear and causing chills to spread down my arm.
I clear my throat and swallow so that I can speak through the desert sand that has filled my mouth. “Well, you’ll just have to make do, won’t you?”
“Mmmm,” he responds noncommittally as he presses his lips to the space beneath my ear and then drags them down the side of my throat to nip my collarbone with his blunt teeth. “Or maybe I’ll just have to think of something else.”
“Like what?” My voice is already breathless.
“Like where I can find you alone, for just a few minutes, so I can reach up under your skirt and find out if your panties are wet.”
Before I can think to reply, Rogan reaches up under the knee-length edge of my skirt and slides his hand up between my legs, cupping my damp skin through my underwear.
“Oh
shit
, that’s hot,” he moans just before he covers my mouth with his own.
His kiss is meant to incinerate. And it does. My limbs burn with the need to wrap themselves around him, to hold him close as he buries his body inside mine. My back arches, an unconscious admission of my inner turmoil.
All of a sudden, Rogan backs away. My eyelids flutter open reluctantly and I focus on his handsome, passion-filled face. He looks flustered.
“Damn,” he breathes, running a hand through his short, sandy hair. “Just . . .
damn
.”
I grin. I can’t help it. This big, gorgeous man wants me.
Me.
The shy one. The short one. The dark one. The scarred one. In a sea of tall, thin, beautiful people, he wants me. I might never get over that. This
is
the land of make-believe, though. Within the walls of this studio, the unlikely happens every day. On film. So maybe, just maybe, it can happen for me, too.
Rogan reaches down to smooth my skirt. It’s such a sweet, familiar . . . intimate gesture, my heart gives a great heave of contentedness, like a sigh. “So, I guess you gathered that I’m taking you to lunch today. Do you think you’ll have time to come and watch me film?”
I want to. God, how I want to! “Probably not this morning. Mornings are always busier because everyone has to be in makeup. But maybe this afternoon. If there aren’t a lot of touch-ups and specialties . . .”
He grins, that sexy, lopsided one I love. “Then I’ll look for you.”
“Are you sure you won’t be too . . . distracted?” I ask, running my finger along the placket of my shirt and looking up at him from beneath my lashes. I feel gratified when I hear the air hiss through his gritted teeth. It’s been a long time since I felt the power of my sexuality, my femininity. It’s hard to feel feminine and beautiful and powerful when you’re hiding such ugliness. But somehow, Rogan makes me feel beautiful. Almost like my scars didn’t happen. Almost.
“You’re evil,” he says softly.