Rogan
This woman . . . Holy shit!
What
was that
? I don’t know how the hell I got lucky enough to see her drop her carefully maintained exterior for a few seconds, but I’m damn sure glad that I did! Seeing her come out of her shell for that one comment, for that one quick flash of flirtatious fun was so unexpected it was like hearing a wildcat roar come from a fluffy little kitten.
Katie . . . Jesus, she’s fascinating! Even though I’ve only spent what amounts to probably a couple of hours with her, I’m dying to know everything there is to know about her, about why she hides such a wild and sexy woman behind that shy smile and those haunted eyes.
On the outside, she’s like many of the other women I’ve dated—beautiful face, great body—only she doesn’t have to
try
like they do. Not at all. She just
is
beautiful. But on the inside, I can already tell that she’s more. She’s obviously not superficial or stupid or easy, all
of which are so common in this business. I’m getting all the
opposite
vibes from her. Just interacting with her the little that I have makes me think that I’ve never met anyone like her. I kinda like that she’s a little shy and a little hot. It’s a great mixture. It implies depth, and depth has been in short supply in my life. But now that I see it, that I
sense it
, I want it. I want it all. It’s like seeing the ocean after only playing in puddles, or tasting rich cream after only ever having candy.
“What’s your favorite kind of candy?” I ask out of the blue just as Katie starts to swirl a brush over my cheekbone. Her hand stills and her deep blue eyes fly to mine.
“Pardon?”
“Candy. What’s your favorite kind?”
“Why?”
“I was just thinking about it and wondered.”
“You were just thinking about candy?” she questions dubiously.
“Yep,” I reply with a grin. She shakes her head and resumes her swirling. When she doesn’t answer, I prompt, “Well?”
“Snickers,” she admits after a long pause. “My favorite candy is Snickers.”
“Snickers satisfies,” I mutter, loving how blood pours into her cheeks, turning the porcelain of her skin to a pale pink. “But it’s not candy.”
She slides her gaze to mine again, her finely arched brows tucking together. “Of course it is.”
“No, it’s chocolate.”
“Chocolate is candy.”
“Chocolate is
not
candy.”
“Then why is chocolate in the candy aisle at the store?”
“Because the world is deluded. I’m sorry to have to be the one to tell you that, but it’s true.”
She drops her hand and tips her head to the side, giving me a withering look that makes her even more adorable. I’ve never wanted to kiss someone so much in my whole damn life. “
You
are right and the rest of the
whole
world
is wrong?”
“Precisely. You’re one smart cookie, Beautiful Katie,” I declare, adding, “Also not a candy, by the way.”
Her lips twitch, but she refuses to smile. I have no idea why. Five minutes ago, she was playful, and now she’s . . . guarded. Maybe that’s what makes her so intriguing to me—the inconsistencies, the contrasts. They fill me with the desire to see how deep the ocean really goes, to taste how rich the cream actually is. I want to know what makes this woman tick and then I want to touch every cog, stroke every wheel. I want to be inside her head when I’m inside her body.
Christ Almighty! I really
am
starting to sound like a woman!
“Were you disappointed a lot as a child?” she asks.
“More than you know,” I reply too honestly, immediately regretting it when her eyes get all puzzled. I recover quickly, though. Something else I’ve learned over the course of a life spent blocking fists. “But never about candy. I was an authority then and I’m an authority now.”
“Is that right?” Her expression is comically doubtful. “Well do tell, Mr. Authority. What, in your infinite wisdom, qualifies as candy?”
“Anything that has an ingredient list consisting mainly of sugar and has an assortment of additives that I can’t pronounce that are numbered or include the word ‘lake.’”
“So anything that contains words you can’t pronounce is considered candy?”
“Precisely,” I repeat.
Her eyes go all wide and innocent, belying the sarcasm to come. “Wow! The dictionary must be the mother lode of candy.”
Katie’s expression doesn’t change, her face straight and serious,
which makes me want to kiss her again. Kiss her until all I see is a reflection of my desire for her. If she ever lets me get that far, I’ll close the door and keep kissing her until I’m all she can see or think about or feel. All over. Inside and out.
“See? You learned something new today. Impressed yet?”
“You’re certainly making
an
impression,” she says dryly, still not giving in to her urge to smile.
“Since you are otherwise engaged today, how about lunch tomorrow? I feel like if I’m gonna impress you, I’m going to need more than a few minutes in the mornings.”
“As . . . interesting as that sounds, I think I’ll pass, but thank you.”
“You leave me no choice then,” I tell her vaguely.
“No choice but to what?”
I pause for effect and then let it drag on for a little longer, just to crank up her curiosity. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” I ask, throwing her own words back at her.
I laugh when she narrows her eyes threateningly. I’m going to do much more than kiss her before this is over.
Katie
On the fourth morning, I don’t even expect to see Mona until I reach my office. I think she’s as taken with Rogan as everyone else seems to be. I’m trying desperately not to fall into that trap, but it’s getting a little harder each day. Especially when I walk in to find him sitting in my makeup chair, early as always, patiently holding a cup of coffee that I know will be mine.
I try to enter quietly so as not to interrupt whatever Rogan is telling Mona that has her complete, undivided attention. She looks mesmerized, like the cobra in front of the snake charmer. As I look at her, leaning sexily against the counter all tall and blond and beautiful in front of one of Hollywood’s newest obsessions, I wonder why Rogan isn’t bringing
her
coffee and torturing
her
with his knee-buckling grin.
I don’t know the answer to that, I only know that when he turns to find me standing in the doorway and his eyes light up, I’m kinda
glad that he’s not. Not that I ever
wanted
to feel this way again—giddy, flushed, excited over a guy—but if I’m honest, I have to admit that I missed feeling this . . .
alive.
There’s a few seconds of silence, during which his sparkling green eyes just roam over me from head to toe. Then he stands to his full tall, lean height and carries my coffee and something else across the room to me. He holds me captive in his gaze, a hold that’s getting harder and harder to break the more he does it. In my peripheral vision, I see Mona’s blinding smile before she slips out the door, virtually unnoticed.
“Good morning, Beautiful Katie.” He says this so softly that I
feel
the words as much as I hear them. They’re like a warm breeze on my skin, a tender kiss on my lips. A velvety touch to my soul.
“Why do you call me that?” I ask, struggling to hang on to my resistance. Even to my ears, though, my question sounds weak. It wasn’t supposed to be. It was supposed to be defiant, maybe a little aggravated. Instead, it sounds like a futile effort. And it might very well be. At this point, I can be sure of nothing.
“Because that’s your name. And because it’s true.”
“I wish you wouldn’t call me that.” Some tiny voice inside me argues,
No! Never, ever
stop
calling me that!
“Well, it’s that or darlin’. You pick.”
Hearing him call me darlin’ in his rough-yet-soft Texas twang is enough to twist my stomach into a knot. I’m not sure which is worse.
I clear my throat and try to maintain my composure in the face of his assault. Because that’s what it is. It’s a full-on assault of my senses, of my better judgment, of the person that I’ve constructed to keep everyone away from the real me.
“Maybe you should let me pick something else.”
“Nope. Those are your only choices.”
I sigh. “Well, since both are inappropriate, I’ll leave it up to you, then. I get the feeling it won’t do me any good to argue with you anyway.”
Half of his mouth quirks up into a grin. “You’re a quick study. And now that we got that out of the way, I’ve got something for you.”
“Let me guess. Coffee,” I say with a wry grin, my insides secretly bubbling over his continued interest in me, in this game. I genuinely figured he’d tire of it within hours, especially after spending his days on set with all the beautiful people.
“You’re half right,” he admits, handing me my cup of coffee, no doubt exactly the way I like it. I take a sip and watch him over the rim of the pseudo-Styrofoam. “I brought you
fake
candy,” he says, reaching into a box that I hadn’t even seen to produce a cute bouquet of miniature Snickers made to look like a spray of flowers in a short, red vase.
“But I also brought you
real
candy,” he continues, pulling a package of Skittles from inside the box, “and finally, smart-ass candy.”
I have to laugh when he removes the last item from the box. It’s a pocket-sized
Webster’s Dictionary
.
“What an . . . interesting assortment of gifts,” I say, my lips still curved. How is it possible that he’s made candy and a dictionary feel like diamonds and roses?
Because you’re stupid
, my inner bitter girl snaps.
No, it’s the thought that he put into these things that makes them special. It’s no wonder women can’t resist him.
“They’re actually dessert. For after you have lunch with me today.”
I glance back up at him, feeling my resolve weaken like the rest of me. But I can’t let it go. I can’t give up on it yet. The risk is too great.
“I really appreciate the offer. All of this,” I say, indicating my
armful of goodies, “but I’m just . . . You’re not . . . I just don’t think it’s a good idea.”
For the first time, I see his unflappable good humor flag. “What’s it gonna take to win you over?” he asks. His tone is a vague mixture of irritation and exasperation.
“I’m not sure it can be done.”
I hate the sadness in my voice. Somewhere deep down, there’s still a girl in me who
wants
to love, who
wants
to trust, but she’s afraid. She’s afraid to risk it. But she’s also afraid that no one will ever try hard enough to dig her out, to unearth her from the rubble and debris that have kept her buried for so long. Because if no one does, she’ll die alone. Old and alone.
I thought I’d heard the last of that girl—her voice had gone so quiet—but Rogan has shown me that she’s still very much alive. And that men like him are still a danger to her.
Rogan tips his head to one side to study me. I resist the urge to tug my hair over my shoulder more securely, terrified that he’ll see too much, that he’ll ask too much.
“I’ve never lost a fight,” he says after so long that I almost startle when he speaks. “And I don’t intend to start now.”
With those words left hanging in the air between us, Rogan shakes off his seriousness, gives me that irresistible wink-and-grin combo, then turns to lope back to his chair.
When he’s seated, he kicks his ankle up onto his knee and starts to whistle. That’s when I realize that I might’ve found the one person who can outlast me.
• • •
I’ve never really loved
or
hated work. It’s just . . . work. I liked it less when I had to prepare Victoria Musser and a couple of her really nasty
co-stars my first year here, but even then, I didn’t really hate it. Hate—or love for that matter—implies some active emotion, which requires being fully involved in one’s life. I don’t feel that I’ve been fully involved in my life since the accident. Maybe it’s a side effect of having everything you’ve ever known, wanted and loved taken from you in a single night. Maybe it’s depression when left untreated. Or maybe it’s just a symptom of being . . . me. Weird, abnormal, slightly less-than-average
me
. Whatever the reason, I haven’t experienced many strong emotions—positive
or
negative—in roughly five years.
Until today.
It’s been almost three weeks since that first morning when I stumbled upon Kiefer Rogan sitting, big as life, in my makeup chair. I didn’t have a clue at the time what a force to be reckoned with he could be.
But I do now.
Each day that I’ve seen him, he’s battered away at whatever kind of emotional stone castle I’ve ensconced myself within. Now I feel weaknesses all around me. Part of me is alarmed by that, but it’s been such a pleasant battering, I’ve barely noticed him doing it. All of a sudden, I’m just . . . different. Different than I was yesterday, even more different than I was the day before, and
even
more
different than I was a week ago. I doubt anyone other than me notices, but I can feel it. And I know who’s to blame.
Each morning, Rogan has presented me with some kooky gift that relates to whatever little tidbit he managed to glean about me the day before—a package of Fireballs (when he found out I love cinnamon), a stuffed teddy bear (when he found out that was my favorite childhood toy), a polka-dot umbrella (when he found out it was the one thing I asked for on my sixteenth birthday and never got). And those are just a few things. I have no idea how he comes
across half this stuff in a town like Enchantment, but he does. Maybe he orders it, I don’t know. But try as I might, it’s getting harder and harder not to love his thoughtful determination.
I’m not sure what to expect from today. Yesterday, he asked me a wide range of questions, so it’s hard to say what he might’ve focused on. I’m already smiling in anticipation, though. He always seems to surprise me. And very pleasantly so.
“There she is!” Mona exclaims boisterously when I walk through the door. “Looking mighty . . .” She pauses to flip to a random page of the pocket dictionary that now occupies a spot on my countertop, courtesy of Rogan. Mona’s new morning routine is to pick a word from its pages and use it as often as possible throughout the day. “Magnanimous.” Her smile is proud and delighted.
I grin. “And just how does one
look
magnanimous?”
“Well,” she begins, glancing back into the dictionary for the meaning of the word. She slaps it shut, straightens her snug button-up blouse and pulls at the very short hem of her black satin shorts. “It’s your hair. It makes you look very . . . generous.”
“My
hair
makes me look
generous
?”
“Yep. I’ve always told you that you have great hair. That’s why. It makes you look magnanimous.” She nods as if to say that explains it all.
I hear Rogan snort from behind her, drawing my attention to him. As usual, once my gaze is there, I can’t pull it away until he chooses to let me. His eyes have a kind of magnetism, like a lush forest of higher gravity that draws me inexplicably toward it and then it refuses to let me go.
“I could say many things about her hair, about the way it shines like a dark penny in the light, or the way it frames her breathtaking face, but I have to say that it has
never once
brought to mind the word
‘magnanimous,’” Rogan teases, his gaze still trained on me even though he’s addressing Mona.
“Of course
you’d
say that. You’re infatuated with her. I can view her more
objectively
,” she says, winking at me as she uses yet another of her pocket dictionary treasures.
“
That
I am,” Rogan confesses quietly, one corner of his sculpted mouth dipping in to reveal the dimple in his cheek that I haven’t seen since that first day. It’s enchanting, just like the rest of him. And he didn’t need any more help.
Mona pats his shoulder. “Hang in there. You’ve got Mona on your side. You’ll crack that nut before too long.”
Her comment makes me wonder what all they discuss before my arrival each morning. Up to now, Rogan seems to be uncovering enough of me
without
her help. God help me if she gets involved.
I make a mental note to give Mona a good talking-to about Rogan and how he doesn’t need her help to get under my skin. Damn the man, he seems to be doing just fine on his own.
“Well, I gotta go. White’s got me making arrangements for some sort of . . .
thing
involving his boat and an island at the lake.” With a deep sigh and a roll of her eyes, Mona breezes past me, brushing my cheek with her lips and swatting me on the butt as she goes. “See ya, Rogue.”
“Lunch?” I ask before she disappears.
Mona turns, her eyes flickering to Rogan for a second before returning to mine. “Lunch.”
When I turn around, Rogan has gotten up and moved in right behind me. His face is straight and serious, which is unusual for him.
“I won’t bother with asking you to lunch today,” he says, bringing a stab of disappointment to my gut. It’s been a bit of a game between us—he asks me to lunch every day and every day I turn
him down. I guess he’s officially reached his limit. He gave up the fight. Even though he said he wouldn’t.
“I brought you this,” he says, handing me my coffee and today’s special gift. “All I ask is that you take it with you wherever you go until you go to sleep tonight.”
I take the delicate wineglass from his fingers, marveling at the exquisite cut of the crystal around its stem and the etching that bleeds from there up into the goblet. Although it’s just an empty glass, my heart stutters. It seems like . . . more. Like a promise.
He asked me yesterday what my favorite kind of wine was. I told him I liked sweet reds. Maybe this means nothing. Or maybe it means he plans to show up at some point and pour something into it. It’s hard to say knowing Rogan, but it still fills me with anticipation to think that he
might
have plans to show up in my life later. I should be stern. I should tell him right now that if that’s his plan, he need not bother. But I can’t. I can’t because, with every day that passes, I
want
him to bother. I want him to show up somewhere else in my life. I want more of Rogan. As unhealthy and inadvisable as it is, I want more.
“Will you do that for me?”
His voice is low again, serious. I look up into his eyes and see more of the same. I wonder if he really is tiring of our little game. It would be a shame if he was.
A pang of loss shoots through me at the mere suggestion that I might not get to enjoy this every day. That I might not get to enjoy
him.
“Yes, I’ll do that for you.” I can’t even consider
not
doing it.
His smile is slow and more subtle than usual. He stands, towering over me, looking down at me, for longer than usual today, too. His eyes flicker over my face, stopping on my mouth. My lungs seize and I wonder if he’s going to kiss me. Much to my surprise, I
want him to. I
really
want him to. As stupid as it is, I want to feel his lips on mine, feel the warmth of his chest against mine, feel the strength of his arms around me.
“Don’t do that,” Rogan whispers hoarsely.
My eyes fly to his, puzzled. “Don’t do what?”
“Don’t stand there and think about me kissing you. It’s hard enough as it is.”
My mouth drops open a little. “I . . . I, uh . . . I wasn’t . . .” I feel my face burn. How the hell did he know?