Текст книги "Tough Enough"

Автор книги: M. Leighton

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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

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.

“You call your male dog ‘darlin’?”

There’s venom in my voice and I hate it. Its presence just reaffirms what I already knew—I let Rogan upset me. I care when I shouldn’t. It shouldn’t matter with whom he spends his time. Yet it does. It matters so, so much.

Rogan, too, glances down at the hyper canine. His smile widens when his eyes return to my face. “Well, would you look at that!”

Oh my God! He doesn’t even bother to know the sex of his dog? What a complete and total jerk! Just like I thought.

Before I can throw buckets of disdain his way and then excuse myself, leaving Rogan with no uncertainty about my feelings toward him, I catch him looking me over, even leaning to look around behind me. “What are you doing?” I snap.

“Looking for your wineglass. Did you bring it? Or are you the kind of girl who doesn’t bother to keep her promises?”

“To someone like you? I won’t lose any sleep over it.” My tone is frigid.

Finally, Rogan starts to catch on that I’m not playing, and his smile begins to fade. His eyes narrow the slightest bit. “Is something wrong?”

I’m further infuriated that he has the audacity to stand here and pretend that everything is fine, like it shouldn’t bother me one bit that he’s flirting with me and still seeing Victoria.

“Of course not. I’m just a little surprised that you’re here alone.” It’s my turn to lean around him, looking for something. Or someone. “Or did you leave Victoria in the car with the window cracked?”

Damn me and my sharp tongue! Damn Rogan for loosening me up and then going for the kill! Damn Calm Katie for abandoning me when I need her most!

After a few long, tense seconds during which I manage to make myself so angry that I’m huffing, Rogan’s smile reappears, bigger than ever.

“Do you see a gun to my head?” he asks, confusing me.

“What?”

“Do you see a gun to my head?” Rogan makes a show of turning to look behind him. “Because that’s the only way in hell I’m spending time with her away from work.”

“I didn’t see anyone brandishing a firearm at the diner today,” I rebut.

“I was already eating when she came in and made herself comfortable. I figured the last thing I needed to do was make a scene at the only place I can get some decent food in this town. What if the cook is like the Soup Nazi and refuses to serve me if I make Victoria cry?” he asks dramatically.

The mere image of the Soup Nazi sternly turning Rogan away from the diner—No food for you!—is enough to make the corners of my mouth twitch. That and the incredible relief I feel that he didn’t go to lunch with her willingly. On purpose. Like a date.

“Victoria cries?” is all I can think of in response.

Rogan snorts. “Only over bad head shots.”

Before I can stop myself, I’m smiling a little. Rogan has spent almost a month convincing me that he’s so much more, so much better than what I gave him credit for in the beginning and, even though I shouldn’t care what he’s like, the soft parts of my heart are elated that it seems I might still have been wrong about him. This is one instance in which I’d love to be mistaken.

“So . . . a cat,” he says, visibly holding back a laugh as he eyes Dozer in his little cat harness, cuddled up in my arms.

The hard edge is gone from my voice when I ask, “So . . . a terrier.” I have to admit that I wouldn’t have pictured Rogan as the small-dog type of guy. A Rottweiler, sure. A Doberman, absolutely. But a terrier? Not so much.

“Nah. I gave fifty bucks to some lady sitting on a bench at the park entrance to let me borrow her dog for half an hour.” Rogan’s mischievous wink makes my stomach flutter.

“And she let you?”

He shrugs and grins. “I think she might’ve recognized me. Otherwise, she’d probably have told me to go to hell. I was willing to risk it, though. And to overlook the fact that I think she’s discreetly following me through the park. Maybe she’s thinking, ‘That damn Kiefer Rogan has a sick dog fetish!’”

His laugh is an easy, sexy rumble that slips and slides along my skin. Yet still, all I can think is that he did this to see me. All this. For me.

“How did you know this is where I’d be?” I ask, assuming Mona is the guilty party.

“What makes you think I came here to see you? This is my thing—going around to parks and renting strange dogs for a few hours. I find it very relaxing,” he explains. His face is so sincere, his words so matter-of-fact that I assume he’s serious.

“Really?” I ask, not meaning to wrinkle my nose in disdain.

“No, not really,” he confesses, rubbing his index finger down my curled-up nose. “I most definitely came here to see you.”

My heart patters excitedly in my chest and I press my face into Dozer’s fur to escape the appreciative look in Rogan’s eye.

“Buuut, since you didn’t bring your glass, you’ve ruined my whole plan. Fido here is very disappointed.”

I glance down at the dog again. He’s sitting in the grass, tail wagging furiously, ears perked, staring at Dozer. “Sorry, Fido,” I whisper. “How can I make it up to you?”

The dog’s tail wags even harder.

“Now you’re on the right track,” Rogan exclaims with a suggestive half-grin. “I think if you invite us over to your house for a glass of wine, he might find it in his heart to forgive you.”

“Oh, is that what it’ll take?”

“Jump if you want Katie to take me home with her, Fido,” Rogan says, snapping his fingers. Fido’s ears twitch and he leaps straight up into the air.

“Wow! You’re great with rented dogs.”

“Thank you, but the real question is: How am I with beautiful makeup artists who walk their cats in the park?”

I look up into twinkling eyes, now the color of moss, and I answer honestly before I can think twice. “Better than most, dog whisperer. Better than most.”

I carry a still-shaken Dozer back to the park entrance, where Rogan drops off his rented dog. I can see the bedazzled look on Fido’s owner’s face when Rogan smiles his thanks. I know just how she feels. That smile is a showstopper for sure!

“So,” he says, putting his hand on the small of my back as we resume our walk to the parking lot, “which one is you?”

“Right there, but I don’t have any wine at my house,” I admit as I point to my blue convertible.

“What?” he exclaims, his expression stricken. “It’s a good thing I got here when I did. This could’ve ended badly. Luckily, I have just the thing. A sweet, aromatic red that will make your wineglass very happy.”

I stop before I step off the curb, sliding my eyes up to Rogan’s. He’s so close I can see the flecks of silver around his pupils, spraying out into the deep green of his irises like spilled mercury. The sparkling orbs drop to my lips and stay there for several seconds, forcing me to lick their dry surface. Almost without meaning to, he mirrors my action, the tip of his tongue trailing just along his bottom lip.

“I’ll follow you,” he rumbles quietly. I nod, tucking my chin as I start off across the lot. “And yes, I’ll be watching your ass as you walk away.”

I neither turn nor comment, but my butt feels suddenly warm and I smile all the way to my car.

FOURTEEN

Rogan

I’m not the least bit surprised by the little house that Katie pulls up in front of. It suits her perfectly. It’s cute and pretty in a quiet, understated way. It looks calm and soothing, a place I can easily picture Katie unwinding each night.

I pull to a stop behind her convertible. When she gets out, she casts an odd look my way. I know what she’s thinking. It’s about my form of transportation.

I grab the bottle of wine and extra glass that I brought and get out to follow her up the neat sidewalk, through a wrought-iron gate and onto an even neater walk that leads to her front door. I bet Katie pulls every weed that comes up within sight of her house. She strikes me as the type who likes things tidy and in order, but that’s not what makes me smile. What makes me smile is the image of her in some tiny shorts and a tiny tank top, hair piled up on top of her head, pulling weeds.

Down on her hands and knees.

Mother of hell!

“What are you smiling at?” she asks as she shifts her cat to finagle her key into the lock.

I don’t tell her exactly what I was thinking, of course. I go back a thought or two until I find something that wouldn’t send her running like a frightened deer. “Just wondering if I was right about what you were thinking.”

When she misses the hole the second time, I take her keys from her and let us in. She pauses in the doorway, blocking my entrance with her small body. “And just what do you think I was thinking?”

“That you wouldn’t have pictured a guy like me driving a minivan.”

She looks sheepish and I know I was right. “I guess I am a little surprised.”

“I figured,” I admit as she finally moves inside, allowing me to follow. The instant I close the door behind me, the cat jumps out of her arms, walks about ten steps into the living room, flops down on its side and goes straight to sleep.

“Damn, does the cat always do that?”

Katie catches my eye and follows it back to the cat. She grins. “Yep. That’s how he got his name. I call him Dozer because he dozes off in four seconds or less.”

My laugh is a short bark. “I love the way your mind works,” I confess impulsively.

She turns her big blue eyes back to me, pink infusing the apples of her cheeks. I love that she gets all shy and flustered over something so simple. She tucks her chin, just like she does at work, like by doing so she can hide. I reach forward and hook my finger under it to lift her face back to mine.

“And I love that me telling you that embarrasses you.”

“So you do that on purpose?” she asks, mildly accusing.

“Maybe. Those blushes are awfully addictive.” She smiles, a hesitant spread of her lips, prompting me to add, “Almost as much as your smiles.”

She gets all fidgety and nervous and adorable under my scrutiny, so I release her. Albeit reluctantly.

“So, a minivan,” she says, dropping her eyes and clearing her throat. I love that I put her off balance. I doubt much gets under this girl’s skin and I’m happy as hell that I appear to be making my way in, slowly but surely.

“A minivan,” I confirm, raising the wine bottle and glass questioningly.

“Oh, sorry. Kitchen’s through there.” Katie points to the most obvious doorway and I head in that direction. She follows after a few seconds. When I stop at the small island, she breezes past me, setting down the glass that I brought her and keeping her face averted. Makes me think she might be blushing again. After she rummages through a drawer for another minute, she turns her composed self back to me, a corkscrew in one hand. “There has to be a story behind it.”

“Behind what?” I ask, content to just watch her rather than talk. Or think.

Her grin is more pronounced this time. “Behind the minivan.”

“Oh, right. The minivan. I have a brother who came with me. He’s handicapped. I dropped him off at the gym on the way to the park.”

Her expression softens. Visibly. “Y-you have a handicapped brother?”

“I do.”

“And you . . . you take him places with you? You take care of him?”

I shrug. “Well, I don’t know about that. I mean, he’s grown, so . . .”

“Does he live with you?”

“For the most part.”

“That’s . . . that’s . . .” Katie is looking at me like she’s just now seeing me. Really seeing me. After several seconds, she glances down at the counter, at the glasses she’s arranging in a straight line with the bottle of red. “That’s very kind of you. I’m sure he appreciates it.”

“I’m sure he does, but like most guys, he’s got a piss-poor way of showing it.”

“Just like a damn man,” she says softly, glancing up at me from beneath her lashes, the hint of a playful smile still curving her lips.

“Bastards,” I reply.

Her eyes sparkle up at me and it takes every ounce of willpower I have not to haul her into my arms and kiss her senseless. Which might take a while. She’s got plenty of sense about her. Too much, maybe.

After a minute, when the temperature in the little kitchen is rising noticeably, Katie clears her throat again, pulling that swath of rich auburn hair over her shoulder like I’ve seen her do before. “So what is it that you drive when you’re not carting your brother around?”

“Maybe if you’re nice to me I’ll show you one day.”

She grunts indignantly, her lips parting yet still curved. “I’m always nice to you.”

“But you could be nicer,” I tell her with a half-grin.

She raises one dark brow, the sexiest damn thing I think I’ve ever seen on a woman. Besides her licking the corner of her mouth when she’s concentrating or nervous, that is. “And just how . . . nice are you expecting me to be?”

“Not that nice,” I answer. “Unless you just want to be that nice. I would never argue if you wanted to be extra, extra, extra nice to me.”

I give her my widest, most innocent smile. She laughs outright, an action that fills the kitchen with a delicate tinkle and turns her face from beautiful to breathtaking. A display like this from her is pretty rare, so pulling it out of her makes me feel like I’ve won the lottery.

“Do that again,” I request quietly, so drawn to her that I can’t stop myself from moving closer, from reaching out, from touching.

“Do what again?” she asks. When I cup her silky cheek in my palm, she straightens, but she doesn’t back away. A good sign.

“Laugh.”

“I can’t laugh on command,” she explains, her eyes flickering up to mine and away, up to mine and away.

“I swear to God, I think I’d do just about anything to hear that again, to see your face light up like that.”

My thumb blindly stroking the crest of her high cheekbone, I catch and hold her eyes this time. They’re like melted sapphires, a fathomless liquid that I could easily let myself drown in.

Katie’s lips open and close a couple of times, like she’s trying to find words where there are none. But the time for talk is over. I feel like I’ve waited patiently for an eternity to taste, and now it’s time for my reward.

Slowly, I bend my face toward hers, hoping she won’t move away, praying that she won’t stop me. “You’ve been on my mind since the first day I saw you, Beautiful Katie. It’s time you give me the answer to a question that’s been haunting me for weeks.”

I can feel the sweet, shallow puffs of her breath fanning my lips as I get closer. “W-what’s that?”

“Do your lips taste like cotton candy?”

“How would I know?” she asks a bit dazedly.

“Give me five minutes and I’ll tell you.”

I bring my other hand up to hold her face still as I brush my mouth over hers. When she doesn’t move away, doesn’t push me away, I sink into her lips like I might sink into a bed made of marshmallows. Sweet, plump, light-as-air marshmallows. And, God help me, Katie sinks right back.

Maybe she’s been wondering about me, too. Maybe she’s as curious about me as I am about her. Maybe, just maybe, she wants me as much as I want her. Whatever the reason, I’m delighted when she parts her lips and tilts her head, a silent plea for me to deepen the kiss.

And deepen it I do.

The first touch of my tongue to hers is mouthwatering. She tastes sweet, sweeter than the marshmallows, sweeter than the wine I brought, even though she’s not had a drop of it yet. I step closer to her, bringing my lower body in light contact with hers. She leans into me, and my groan floods her mouth. Almost in answer to my involuntary reaction, she gasps, drinking in my breath, taking part of me into her body. The thought, so simple and innocent, nearly snaps the thin thread of my control.

When Katie drags her tongue along the side of mine, the warm silk of her pushes me a little too far. I weave my fingers into her hair and I dive into her mouth, into her kiss.

And I’m met with a brick wall. Katie stiffens in my arms, her hands coming to my chest to push me away. Surprised, I release her instantly. I open confused eyes to her frantic ones as she scrambles away from me, tugging her hair back over her shoulder like a security blanket.

“Did I hurt you?” I ask, clueless as to what I did to cause the sudden change.

“No, no,” she responds, smoothing her hands over her hair, over and over and over as she takes deep, calming breaths. “Sorry, I just . . . It’s just been a long time since someone has kissed me that way.”

“I would say I’m sorry, but I’m not. I’m only sorry that I made you uncomfortable.”

She flicks her eyes toward mine in a sideways glance that says she’s far from fine. She won’t even face me.

“It’s fine. Really. I think I’m just . . . I’m just tired. It’s been a long day.” I can hear the excuse coming before the next word leaves her lips. “Can we just call it a night?”

I swallow my sigh. Shit! “Of course. We can do this another time.”

She gives me a fake smile that barely curves her lips and never reaches her eyes. “Maybe.”

She glances away again, hugging her arms around her middle. I would say she’s freezing me out, but she’s not. She’s not being cold or bitchy; she acts almost . . . wounded. Like the frightened deer I was worried about seeing. But what the hell did I do? I only kissed her. And she kissed me back.

I figure now’s not the time to ask. The best thing I can do is leave; leave her in peace and hope I can pick up the pieces tomorrow.