by M. Leighton
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?
He smiles. A full smile that makes his eyes shimmer and my knees weak. “You’re a terrible liar.”
My insides feel twitchy, like I’m fighting the urge to laugh. “Better than a great one.”
Rogan reaches up and brushes the back of one finger over my bottom lip. A bolt of electricity rockets straight through me, lighting up every nerve along the way. “That it is.”
We stand like this for seconds. Minutes. Hours, it seems. And then, without another word, he turns to resume his seat in my makeup chair, leaving me alone in a bubble of my own mixed emotions.
TWELVE
Rogan
I’ve managed to avoid Victoria almost entirely for nearly a month. I knew my luck had come to an end when I saw her come through the door at the diner today. I was right. Damn it. She made a beeline for me, so now here I am, making nice with my ex, playing stupid as she throws every hint in the book about us getting back together.
I think I’ve done an admirable job of paying her just enough attention not to be rude.
That lasts right up until Katie and Mona walk in. Even though this is pretty much the only place to eat in town (other than the deli at the grocery store and the pseudo-meat gas-station fare across the street), this is the first time I’ve run into Katie here. It didn’t take me long to realize that she eats at different times, probably based on what kind of need there is to do retouches or specialty makeup.
My gut twists when I look at her. God, she’s . . . Hell, I don’t even know. Yeah, she’s beautiful in a clean and wholesome way, and yeah she’s sexy as hell on Sunday, but there’s just something about her that gets to me. Maybe it’s the shy way she keeps her chin down when she walks in, like if she doesn’t look up no one will notice her. Or maybe it’s the small smile that plays with her lips, like she wears this polite mask all the time. Or maybe it’s the glimpses I’ve been getting at what she’s really like, when the walls are down and she’s not quite so guarded. Damned if I know, but this girl is under my skin. In a big way.
I sneak glances at her as she and her friend are seated. I watch her laugh, albeit quietly, and I watch her lips move as she orders. She hasn’t seen me. She makes a point not to look around. God forbid someone notice her.
When her food comes, I find it even harder to pretend that I’m listening to Victoria. I’m not surprised when Katie orders real food in the form of a burger, fries and a milk shake. For some reason it fits. And watching her eat . . . Jesus H. Christ! She takes voracious bites, bites that make me want to strip her down, stretch her out up on the table, and enjoy eating her the way she’s ravenously enjoying her meal. Right in front of everyone. I wouldn’t care who was watching. She captivates me that much, dominates my thoughts to that degree.
And, evidently, it shows.
“What’s so interesting?” Victoria asks, a little ice in her tone.
“Huh?”
“You’re staring. What’s so interesting that you can’t even listen to what I’m saying?”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “Oh, nothing. I was just thinking about, uh, something I saw on television last night.”
Lie. Big, fat lie, but I’m not getting into this with Victoria of all people. Katie doesn’t deserve that kind of negative attention.
Her expression says she believes me Not. One. Bit.
But considering the level of her vanity, my distraction does absolutely nothing to dissuade her from continuing her one-sided conversation.
I try to pull myself back to the table a few times, but mostly I continue to watch the little witch across the room. I figure I’m about thirty percent successful until the waitress delivers a piece of pie to Katie’s table. That’s when I lose the battle.
Her eyes get wide and a real smile spreads across her face as the waitress sets it in front of her. She grabs her fork without even taking her eyes off the cream-covered triangle.
And then she digs in.
I can’t take my eyes off her when she brings a heap of pale green custard to her mouth. She slides it onto her tongue and then closes her lips around the fork, pulling it slowly from between them. She doesn’t chew for a few seconds; she just lets the pie sit in her mouth. Her eyes close in ecstasy and I can all but hear her moan of delight.
Blood rushes to my cock as that imaginary moan accompanies my previous thought of her lying naked beneath me.
Holy hell!
I’ve never thought food, or watching someone eat it for that matter, to be a particularly erotic activity, but I stand corrected.
I’m watching, waiting for Katie to take another bite, when I’m brought back to my own table by a loud, waspish, “Rogan!”
Irritated at the interruption, I bark at Victoria, “What?”
I manage to pull my eyes away from Katie long enough to focus on my ex’s furious expression. “What the hell are you so interested in over there?” She turns in her seat and scans the diner before swiveling back to me. “What? Did you spot Elvis or something? I don’t see what you find so fascinating.”
Even though she had to have seen her, Victoria obviously doesn’t find Katie a noteworthy sight and can’t imagine that I’d find her noteworthy either. I guess Katie has become so adept at being a wallflower that she has others overlooking her, too. I don’t see how. I don’t see how anyone can overlook her wavy auburn hair, her flawless skin, her perfectly round tits, tucked away under a shirt that screams TOUCH ME NOT and makes me want to touch so, so much.
Shiiit!
The strain of my hard-on against my zipper is a better wake-up call than ten pissed-off Victorias. I’m in a public place, for God’s sake. With my vicious ex. Not at all the time to let lurid thoughts of a hot-and-shy little makeup artist get to me. I can wait until tonight. Maybe then I’ll be able to taste what’s been keeping me awake at night.
Shaking my head, I clear my throat and nod toward Victoria’s half-eaten salad. “You done?”
I suppress my sneer. I’d much rather Victoria eat like an actual person than like a starving bird. I’d much rather she eat like Katie. But she’s no Katie. Not by a long shot.
“Yes,” Victoria replies in one petulant syllable.
I throw some bills onto the table. “Good. Let’s get out of here.”
I follow Victoria to the door, sparing one last glance in Katie’s direction. When I find her, her mouth is open and her fork is raised, but she’s not sliding the bite of pie onto her tongue. She’s stopped dead, mid-bite. Frozen. When I see her eyes, I don’t have to ask why she stopped. The wide, hurt orbs are burning right through me.
THIRTEEN
Katie
All afternoon I thought if I could just get home I’d feel better. I thought once I got away from work, away from where it seems I’m surrounded by thoughts and memories of Rogan, that I’d find a little peace. But I was wrong. Now that I’m here, I’m too restless to sit still.
So is that why he didn’t invite me to lunch today? He gave up and decided to go back to more . . . fruitful orchards? Because I feel sure Victoria is as fruitful as they come.
What an asshole!
I pace the living room floor, Dozer’s head moving back and forth with me, like he’s watching a ping-pong tournament. “I knew better, Dozer. I knew better than to believe that he might actually like me. What was I thinking?”
He lets out a short purr at his name, his big yellow eyes riveted to mine.
“You wanna get out of here? How ’bout a walk? We haven’t been to the park in three days. That’s a travesty!” Normally, I walk Dozer every evening if it’s not raining.
Dozer jumps down off the arm of the couch and trots over to me, as though in answer to my question. It seems he’s in favor of a trip to the park. No doubt he’s missed it, too.
I get his leash and my purse and head for the door, hoping that maybe the distraction of a public place will help my poor brain find some rest.
I scoop up Dozer and turn to lock the knob. My eyes fall on the empty wineglass sitting on the table just inside the door. With a rebellious sniff, I slam the door shut, leaving it right where I left it when I got home. Rogan can kiss our little game and any promises I might’ve made him good-bye. He doesn’t need the attentions of a simple girl like me when he’s still getting more than enough from Victoria.
I both seethe and ache just thinking about seeing him at the diner with her. And then I feel just stupid. Stupid for believing that he could be interested in me. Stupid for letting him charm me out of my good sense. And to think that I was actually starting to feel excited about him, about going to work and getting to spend some time with him each morning.
What an idiot! I chastise, wishing that I hadn’t let down my guard with him at all. I guess I just didn’t give him enough credit. He’s a more talented actor than I suspected. He almost had me convinced.
Ten minutes later, Dozer is hooked up to his leash, darting happily from bush to tree, eyes wide and ears alert for any dogs in the vicinity. I pay little attention to the odd looks that get thrown my way when people see me walking
my cat on a leash. I’m used to them. I realize it’s far from conventional to walk a cat in a dog park (or anywhere else for that matter), but I’d seen it done before, so I thought I’d try it. Turns out it’s the perfect fix for a cat like Dozer, one who grew up indoors, but likes the outdoors.
Despite the much-needed break of the dog park, though, I can’t seem to shake the grip of this . . . funk that’s had a hold on me all afternoon. I’m trailing along behind my cat, my mind wandering everywhere but here, when a small terrier of some sort zooms past me. Dozer jumps up and whirls around, ears flat, teeth bared, hissing and ready to defend himself. I gasp, but just before the little dog can get a chunk of his nose clawed, he reaches the end of his leash. He comes to an unwilling stop with a strangled yelp. Heavy footsteps race up behind me, and I wonder briefly what kind of owner can’t control a forty-pound terrier.
Then I hear a disturbingly familiar voice. It brings chills to the nape of my neck before I can remind myself that I’m not affected, that I’m done with him.
I maneuver myself in front of the now-stopped dog to sweep Dozer up into my arms, my hackles as prickly as his, and I spin to face Rogan.
“Whoa, darlin’!” he cautions amicably.
“Don’t you ‘darlin’’ me. You need to keep your dog under control.”
Rogan’s lopsided grin appears. He’s unflappable, as always.
“I was talkin’ to the dog,” he says with a wink.
With a small frown, I glance down at the terrier. It’s standing on its hind legs, trying to get to my cat, proudly displaying its furry dog parts. It’s furry boy dog parts.