by M. Leighton
Or do I even have a choice?
Before I can offer a greeting, Mona chirps from beside Rogan, “Good morning! Look who has your coffee. Again.”
She’s glowing. Again. I think she’s getting a bigger kick out of this than I am. Of course, I’m making a concerted effort not to. It’s not bad for Mona’s health to enjoy Rogan, but I can’t say the same for me.
“Impressed yet?” Rogan asks, standing and walking toward me to hand over the tall white cup. His wink says that he’s teasing me. His grin says that he’s pleased with himself. He’s like a proud little boy, sporting his first blue ribbon.
I stare up at him, so handsome in his charm, and I wish I could look away. But I can’t. “Impressed? You mean that you don’t suffer from short-term memory loss after being punched in the head too many times?” I say, garnering my defenses, defenses that I worry are crumbling even as I speak.
“Hey, in my line of work, that’s a distinct possibility.”
I smile politely up at him, determined not to let him see that he affects me. “Well, it takes more than a cup of coffee to impress me.”
He isn’t the least bit put off. “Even perfect coffee?”
“Too easy.”
“Too easy?” he asks in mock offense. I arch one brow at him and he gives in. “Maybe you’re right, but I’m giving you fair warning,” he declares, his voice dropping to a low, seductive timbre.
“Fair warning?” I ask.
He nods, all playfulness gone now. “Fair warning. I’ve got six weeks to impress you. And impress you I shall, Beautiful Katie.”
As I look into those captivating eyes, I remember his words. Makes me want to see you smile, I guess. I can’t help asking my one burning question again, only softly this time. “Why me?”
He doesn’t hesitate with his answer. “Something tells me you’re worth the effort.”
Air stops moving in and out of my concrete lungs, and all I can do is gaze up into Rogan’s incredibly handsome face as he reaches out to brush the pad of his thumb over my cheekbone. Through the fog of his considerable charisma, though, alarm bells start to ring inside my head.
“You’re wasting your time,” I manage to breathe out, trying desperately to hold on to my indifference.
“For the first time in a lot of years, I feel like I’m not.”
We stand like that—nose to nose, the backs of Rogan’s fingers against my cheek—staring at each other for who knows how long before I see a familiar smiling face peek over his shoulder. Only Mona, Amazon that she is, with the added help of her stilettos, could accomplish such a feat.
Her appearance and my subsequent blush break the spell. I glance back to Rogan, who is still watching me, paying Mona no attention whatsoever. “I guess I’d better drink some of this coffee before my client gets here. He’s always late. Unruly. Mean as anything. Just an impossible bear of a guy,” I tease lightly, anything to diffuse the tension that’s suddenly vibrating between us.
“Maybe I could give you a few tips on how to turn him into a pussy cat.”
“Oh, I don’t think he has any problems with pussy,” Mona murmurs snidely from behind Rogan.
My mouth drops open and it takes all my effort not to laugh, but when Rogan’s emerald eyes crinkle at the corners and his smile returns, full blast, I can’t seem to help myself.
“Mona!” I chastise around my chuckle and burning cheeks.
“What?” she asks. Her face is the picture of innocence as she rounds Rogan and stands beside us. “It’s the truth.”
Rogan clears his throat. “On that note, I think I’ll go have a seat and wait for my makeup artist. This conversation isn’t gonna do me any favors.”
As he walks back to the chair in front of the mirrors, Mona and I have an entire conversation in absolute silence.
I widen my eyes at her. Mona! She raises her brows at me. What? I shake my head once. Don’t do that! She gives me a little nod and a roll of her eyes. Fine. I take a deep breath. Calm, calm, calm. She reaches out and squeezes my hand. You’ve got this.
“Well, I guess I need to take myself upstairs and let you get to work. White won’t know how to act when I walk in this early. I usually bring my best friend some coffee, but since someone else has taken over my duties . . .”
She grins again and I peek around her to the broad-shouldered god sitting in my makeup chair. He doesn’t appear to be paying us any attention, but I know better than to assume that’s the case. He’s obviously much more observant than what I’ve given him credit for.
“Lunch?” I ask before Mona leaves.
“Lunch,” she replies, giving my hand a final squeeze before she dances out of the room, calling over her shoulder, “See ya later, Rogue.”
I grin when Rogan’s head whips around toward the door. “Did she just call me ‘Rogue’?”
“She did. She must’ve decided she likes you. She only gives nicknames to people she likes.”
I take a sip of my coffee, letting it warm what little bit of my insides aren’t already toasty, as I make my way to my station.
“And what do you do once you decide you like somebody?”
I turn to look at Rogan over my shoulder. He raises guilty eyes to mine, eyes that I caught staring at my butt. My prim reply dies on my lips and another bubbles up in response, a response that’s reminiscent of the old me. Because, for some reason, for just a heartbeat, I feel like my old self again. The self who had confidence and hope for a bright future. The self who was able to hold her own with guys no matter what they looked like. The self who was worth so much more than what I’ve become.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” I taunt pluckily, letting a touch of a grin play with the corners of my mouth. It’s both liberating and terrifying to get a glimpse of Kat, the old me, rising through the ash that people know as Katie.
“Hell yeah, I would,” Rogan returns with unadulterated enthusiasm.
I turn away with my grin, but just as soon as my attention is back on my wide array of cosmetics, Kat disappears, leaving only Katie behind.
I feel the pinch of sadness grip my heart. My smile suffers a slow death when I realize that little glimpses are all I’ll ever get of the old me. Kat is dead. She died in a fire a long time ago and she’s never coming back.
TEN
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.
ELEVEN
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.