Текст книги "Tough Enough"

Автор книги: M. Leighton

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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

SIXTEEN

Rogan

“Cut! Let’s try this again. Right from ‘You wanted it.’”

I grit my teeth. Why the hell can’t I get this right?

The answer to that question is a word. A single word. Or rather a name.

Katie. Sweet, beautiful, intriguing Katie. Katie with a dash of fire that she keeps as close as the hair around her neck. Katie with lips that taste like the wine we never got to drink. Katie with the eyes that push me away and then beg me to stay. That Katie.

I push her out of my mind and smile at the tall redhead across from me, the one with whom my onscreen relationship is heating up. She watches me with her appreciative gray eyes, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth as she stares up at me. She’s made her interest in me known. I’ve been polite in my disinterest. She’s all but ignored it. Obviously, she’s not the type to give up.

Her attention doesn’t bother me. Her titillating teases don’t faze me. I’m not tempted. I’m just . . . distracted.

I just keep smiling, unaffected, as I run the lines through my head again. When I can recite them perfectly in the silence, I nod back at the director. My mind is clear and focused. I’m ready.

I roll my head on my shoulders, trying to regain my usual level of concentration. That’s when I see her. She draws my eye like a bright flash of light, only there’s no flash, no light. Just her.

I’ve never seen her come out to watch filming before. And wouldn’t you know that today, of all days, she’d show up. Normally I wouldn’t mind, but I’m having enough trouble keeping my head in the game as it is. She certainly isn’t going to help that.

“Rogan?” Rayelle, the redhead, leans left, putting her face in my line of sight, making it a nonissue for me to look away from Katie.

I grit my teeth again, something I’ve done all day, something that has given me one helluva headache, and I nod once more.

“Take fourteen. Action!”

The instant Tony, the director, says ‘action,’ the words just leave me. Again. My eyes flicker to Katie. On her face is a blank mask. She’s neither excited nor blasé, neither interested nor disinterested. She’s simply here. Watching. I’m beginning to know her well enough to guess that something is going on just beneath the surface, though. It didn’t take me long to figure out that her still waters run very deep.

“Cut!” Tony barks again. “Rogan, what the hell? Is your head in your ass or what?”

I curl my fingers into fists. This isn’t like me. I never bring less than my A-game to anything that I do. I’m an all-or-nothing kind of guy.

“Sorry, Tony. I don’t . . . I don’t know what’s wrong, man.” The aggravated disappointment on his face makes me feel like shit. He’s been singing my praises since the first day I got here and I hate to let him down.

He gets out of his chair and walks over to me, reaching up to drape his arm around my shoulder. It’s an awkward position for him considering the height disparity, but he does it anyway so that he can lead me off set. “Are you running your lines? Putting in the time?”

“I read over my lines every night. I just . . .” I feel like punching something. I need some time in the ring to get rid of a little aggression.

“Maybe get Rayelle to help you out a couple times a week.” His wink says he thinks she can help me with more than just my lines. I’m sure she’d be more than willing, but she can’t fix what ails me. Only one woman can, and I’ve hit a brick wall with her.

Then it occurs to me. “I think I might know just the person to, uh, help me out.”

“Fine, fine. I don’t give a damn who it is, just make it work.”

“I’ll be right as rain by Monday,” I pledge, my mind already on the weekend and how I can convince Katie to spend it with me.

Tony grins and slaps me on the back. “That’s my boy!”

With that, he turns back to the set. “Get Groenig in here. We’ll shoot the mansion scene this afternoon instead.”

My enthusiasm spikes to a more normal level and I swivel my head back to where Katie was standing. The spot is empty now.

Why come if you were planning to leave so soon?

I don’t understand her at all, which is probably part of the appeal. She’s such a contradictory female I don’t know what to make of her. She doesn’t react to me like most women do.

I think back to the way she looked at me when she saw my scars. They affected her. Why, I don’t know. She didn’t appear to be disgusted, so I don’t think it was that. Regardless, I’m more determined than ever to get inside that beautiful head of hers.

I’m smart enough to know she damn sure ain’t gonna spill her guts for me. But if she has come to know me at all, then she ought to know that I don’t give up. I’m no quitter. I will know her. And I’ll know her well.

Ignoring all the chaos surrounding me, I tug my shirt over my head and make my way to Katie’s brightly lit cosmetic cove. I stop just inside the doorway, catching and holding my breath so that she won’t hear me. Her back is to me, her rich hair spilling between her shoulder blades like a coppery waterfall. She’s doing something with her hands, something I can’t see, but she’s also humming. She’s swaying the tiniest bit to the music inside her head and, at this moment, she looks more peaceful than I’ve seen her so far.

The scene makes me ache to touch her, but the song she’s humming makes me smile through the discomfort. “Ten Feet Tall.” It’s funny because something about her, something about the way she tries not to care but can’t seem to help herself, makes me feel that way—ten feet tall. Like I’m somehow an exception to her rules, whether she wants me to be or not. I don’t think anyone has gotten close to her in a long time.

Maybe until me.

Suddenly, she turns to throw something at the trashcan. I don’t have time to warn her of my presence and she gasps in alarm, her big sapphire eyes getting bigger as she stumbles backward. The makeup chair clips her behind the knees and I see her start to go down. Her arms shoot out and her mouth rounds into an O, as in oh shit! I rush forward, reaching out to wind my fingers around her thin wrists and pull her toward me. The shift in momentum causes her to overcorrect and she falls against my chest.

“Oh!” she chirps, stunned. “Thank you. You startled me.”

“You’re welcome, and I didn’t mean to. I was enjoying the show.”

Color pours into her cheeks and she tucks her head. “How embarrassing.”

“Why?”

“Because. It just is. I mean . . . I don’t know.”

“I love that song, by the way.”

“You knew what I was humming?” She seems surprised.

“Of course I did. Now if it were me, it would be anybody’s guess. I can’t carry a tune in a bucket.”

Shyly, she glances up at me, a wry twist to her lips. “For some reason I doubt that. I bet you’ve never sucked at anything in your whole life.”

“I suck at things all the time,” I reply, hoping to keep the conversation going so that she doesn’t become too aware of the fact that I’m still holding her. Because I like holding her. I love the way she feels against me, all tiny and warm and curvy. And if she thinks too much about it, she’ll pull away.

“Like what?”

“Like origami. Like crocheting. Like ballet. Like—”

She grins up at me. “Have you actually tried any of those things?”

“I have.”

“Dare I ask why?”

“No, you dare not.”

“Secrets. A man after my own heart.” She says it in jest, but I know she’s only partially kidding. I don’t doubt that she has a lot of secrets. And I want to know them all.

“I’ll tell you anything you want to know.” I inject every bit of sincerity into my voice that I can muster. I don’t know why I would even offer. There are several things I couldn’t ever tell her. Wouldn’t ever tell her. But something tells me she’d never take me up on such an offer. That’s not who she is. I’d say she respects a person’s privacy. And asks them to do the same of hers.

Her eyes are locked on mine so I see the very second that awareness sinks in. Her expression starts to shut down before she physically backs away.

“Everyone is entitled to their secrets. I’ll be nice and let you keep some of yours,” she says, trying to be light and playful about it.

Even though I knew it wouldn’t be her style to want all the details, some part of me wants her to know all the ugly, all the unacceptable, all the things that no one else really knows. I want her to know about them and still give me the time of day. Despite them. “What if I want you to know them? What if I want to share them with you?”

“You don’t.”

“And why don’t I?”

“You don’t want to get involved with someone like me. I’m not the . . . I’m just not . . .”

I reach out to take her chin between my thumb and forefinger, capturing her before she can completely escape. “What do I have to do to convince you that I do want to be involved with you? Not someone like you, but you.”

That was too much. I can see it in the way she shrinks away from me.

I’m about to lose control of this opportunity and, knowing Katie, I might not get another one any time soon.

I plaster on a big damn smile even though I’m frustrated as hell.

“Luckily, I didn’t come here to discuss your worth as a human being. I came here to collect.”

“Collect?” she repeats with a frown.

“Yep. You totally derailed me on set today and Tony chewed my ass for not knowing my lines. Made me promise to rehearse them this weekend. And guess who got volunteered?”

I paraphrased, of course. She didn’t get volunteered, except by me. But paraphrasing isn’t lying. Is it?

“Who, me? Why me?”

“Well, I volunteered you. Mainly because you were the source of my . . . distraction to begin with. I figure it’s only right that you make it up to me. To this show.” I throw the last in for good measure, just in case my argument wasn’t convincing enough on its own.

She starts to make excuses. Just like I imagined that she would. “I’d love to help, but—” She stops abruptly, tilting her head to the side the slightest bit. As she considers me, I think back to the moment when she looked up at me after having examined my back. That same soft look is back in her eyes now. She pulls those big blues away from me for a heartbeat, but then she brings them right back. “Okay. I’ll do it. I’ll help you.” She squares her chin, like she’s bolstering herself, but bolstering what? Her courage? Her resistance? Her determination?

I must admit to being pleasantly surprised. I know I can be hella convincing when I want to be, but I was beginning to wonder if Katie is in possession of some sort of Rogan Immunity Charm that I’m not aware of. But now, I’m thinking that maybe inadvertently revealing something about myself, about my past, has made her see that I’m not such a cocky, obnoxious sleazeball after all.

Damn, this woman . . . She’s making me crazy!

But still, I consider this a victory, so my smile reflects as much. It’s genuine. And it’s big. “You will?”

Why the hell did I just give her an out?

She smiles in return. A small one, but a smile nonetheless.

“I will. But just to rehearse lines,” she adds sternly.

I laugh, giving her a sloppy salute. “Ma’am, yes, ma’am! I’ll pick you up at seven. We can eat and work and then maybe take a swim.”

It only takes about ten seconds for it to register. Panic. That’s what shows up on her face, in her eyes. Panic, pure and simple.

“No, I, uh, I can’t stay out too late. I’ve got some, um, things to do in the morning. But thank you. Just the lines.”

“And dinner. You have to eat some time.” She reaches for the hair that is ever-present at her shoulder and smoothes it around like a comforting blanket. Her nervous tick. “My brother doesn’t get out much and he could realllly use the company.”

“He has you,” she argues.

I give her a withering look. “Yeah, but I’m . . . me. Have you met me?”

The corners of her mouth twitch and I’m immediately gratified. “As a matter of fact, I think I have.”

“See what I mean?”

“Well, you are pretty disagreeable,” she jokes.

“A real bear of a guy, I hear.”

She exhales. “Okay. Just dinner and lines, but then I have to get home.”

“Fair enough,” I announce, backing away. I feel good that I’m making some headway, but I don’t want to push my luck. “Seven o’clock.”

She nods, her eyes shining. Right this minute, she doesn’t look worried or hesitant or guarded like she so often is. She just looks . . . beautiful.

I decide that this is the way I like her best. And that I’ll do everything I can to make sure I see it more often than not.

SEVENTEEN

Katie

What would I call my mood? I ponder this as I sit on the couch in the living room, wiggling my foot and waiting for the clock to strike seven.

Dozer is lying about three feet away, eyeing me suspiciously. Evidently my excess energy and increasing anxiety are pronounced enough to keep even him awake, which is really saying something. He’s practically narcoleptic.

How would I define it? Nervously wary? Or maybe anxiously skeptical? I don’t exactly know what kind of label my inner turmoil deserves. For all I know, it warrants a unique name all its own.

I hear a racy rumble come roaring down my street, getting louder as it approaches. My heart thunders along at a somewhat similar cadence, like the noise alone triggered my internal throttle. No, I don’t know that to be Rogan on his way to pick me up, but then again, yes, I absolutely do. Somehow it sounds like him. I’m already getting a mental picture, even though I’m still sitting on my couch. He told me he might show me what he chooses to drive. Something tells me he’s about to.

When the throbbing engine reaches its peak and then dies right outside, I leap up from my seat and run to the window. My insides twist and slither like a clutch of snakes when I see what’s parked outside. A black-and-silver machine, reading Ducati along the shiny gas tank, rests along the curb. And on its back is Rogan.

Even with his head covered by a matching helmet, I recognize him. I recognize his body and his body language. I recognize the way I respond to him. Even when I don’t want to.

He’s wearing a snug white T-shirt and ratty blue jeans. Nothing that would identify him. It’s the way he wears his clothes, the way the fabrics hug his lithe form, even the way he sits on the bike, like he is one with a wild, untamable animal, that is uniquely Rogan.

When he pulls off his helmet, I’m aware of two things. One, that his hair sticks up all over his head in blond spikes that make my fingers itch to touch. And two, that his eyes are on mine. All the way across the yard and through the sheer curtains that cover the glass of the window, they’re trained on mine. I can feel it. It’s like he knows I’m looking at him, like he can feel it, too. And that he honed in on it, on me. Instinctively. It sounds completely insane, but I don’t doubt it. This isn’t the first time I’ve felt him watching me. And it only gets more and more disconcerting.

For a few seconds, he just stares at me. He’s not smiling; he’s just straddling his bike, holding his helmet between his big, strong hands. The intensity of his gaze burns along my nerve ends, causing me to feel both terrified and excited all at once. It also makes me wonder why I agreed to this. I’m not entirely sure I can be trusted around him. He makes me forget. And that’s dangerous.

Finally, his face breaks into a breathtaking smile and I jump away from the window. I keep backing away until I’m safely ensconced in the shadows on the opposite side of the room. I pull in several gulps of air, fanning my flaming face with my nervous hands. I wait impatiently for the moment when he’ll knock and I’ll be face-to-face with what could end up being a nightmare for me.

But he could end up being a dream for you, too, my inner optimist chimes. I don’t hear from her much, but it seems she’s more vocal of late.

Three firm knocks on my front door have my insides snapping with the electricity of attraction. Probably not the best way to start an evening where I need to maintain a cool head so that I can keep a charming, gorgeous man at arm’s length.

“You can do this, you can do this, you can do this,” I mutter under my breath. The thing is, I don’t know for sure that I can. I haven’t been this attracted to anyone in a long time. Actually, I don’t think I’ve ever been this attracted to someone. Period. Not even my ex, who basically ruined my entire life. He’s part of my aversion to Rogan. Him and the horrific memories that he and he alone is responsible for. The other part consists of the things about me that would surely run Rogan off, things I would never let him see.

Those sobering thoughts are like a bucket of ice water right in the face. My breathing levels and my face cools, so that it’s with my usual calm that I open the door and greet him.

“Hi,” I offer with a mild smile.

“Hi, yourself, darlin’,” he drawls, leaning against the doorjamb and running his jewel-tone eyes over me. “Not only do you look beautiful, but you’re dressed perfectly.”

I glance down at my low-rise jeans and simple pink tee that reads Fat Lewey’s across the chest. “I am?”

“You are. I didn’t have to bring the van tonight.” He nods toward the curb, where his glossy motorcycle awaits.

I glance behind him at the gleaming yet intimidating machine. It looks dangerous, much like its driver, which is something that I’ve made a point to avoid in my life.

Until Rogan.

“I see that. You must have a death wish,” I comment wryly.

“Not tonight,” he murmurs in a voice that moves over my skin like rich, dark molasses. He straightens with a crooked smile and holds out his hand. “Come on.”

For the space of five or six heartbeats, I wonder what I’m agreeing to, what this night will mean in the grand scheme of my life. Before I can come to any conclusion, he’s reaching forward to curl his fingers around mine, sending a shiver up my arm and a thrill down my spine.

I follow him out onto the stoop, turning to close the door behind me. “Sleep tight, Dozer,” Rogan calls to my cat where he sits on the back of a chair near the door. As I’m pulling the door closed, I see Dozer wink one yellow eye and then promptly fall asleep.

Rogan pulls me down the sidewalk behind him, his grasp firm and warm. He stops beside his bike to unstrap another helmet from behind the tiny perch that qualifies as a backseat. “This is for you,” he says, gently sliding the smaller version of his helmet onto my head. I reach up to keep my hair in place as he buckles a strap under my chin. “Shit!” he says in irritation.

“What?” I ask, mildly alarmed.

“How the hell can you look hot in a helmet?” he asks, slapping my face shield down.

He can’t see my smile as he turns to ready himself, throwing one leg over the motorcycle. He rights it from its reclining position before he raises his hand to assist me. He says nothing and neither do I as I slide my fingers across his palm and climb onto the Death Machine (which is how it will forever register in my head).

I sit clumsily on the little perch, not knowing what to do with my hands or my legs. Rogan fires up the engine, revving it a few times before he twists to reach back and put my feet on the two little chrome stubs sticking out on either side. The action brings my knees up higher and forces me to lean forward slightly. A little yip escapes because I feel like I might fall off. Rogan grabs my hands and pulls them around his stomach, bringing my chest to his back.

“Just lean into me and hold on,” he says, his voice coming through loud and clear into my helmet. So clear, in fact, that I can hear the smile he’s wearing even though I can’t see it.

I like this, this bike, this anonymity. I can enjoy touching him, being wrapped around him without having to explain myself or worry about his all-seeing eyes. Maybe a motorcycle isn’t such a bad thing after all.

That’s what I’m thinking right up until he darts away from the curb and accelerates so fast that I fear the front wheel will come off the ground. After that, my only thought is survival.

I squeal, surprised and excited and a little afraid, to which Rogan’s only response is a throaty chuckle. It vibrates along the surface of my skin much like the motorcycle vibrates beneath my butt.

As we zip along the streets of the outskirts of Enchantment, I concentrate less on the landscape that’s speeding by and more on the intriguing man that I hold in my arms. He’s obviously had some bad things happen to him in his life. He’s obviously fought to overcome them. Only now, rather than hiding away from life and danger and risk, he embraces it. He hunts it down and conquers it. I can see it in the way he masters the curves of the road, in the way he tips his chin up to the world, grinning as if to say Bring it on! rather than tucking it in submission. In fear. Therein lies the difference between us. What happened to me crippled me. I became a victim, forever changed by my past. Rogan rose above, became a victor, and refused to let his past change his future.

We both fought to survive. But only one of us fought to live. Really live. And he won. He’s still winning.

Like sunshine creeping into the skies at dawn, I feel a ray of light break through the darkness that I’ve been drowning in for so long. It’s inspiration. It’s motivation. It’s the sight of someone rising up and overcoming.

It’s Rogan.

Feeling eases back into places that went numb a long time ago, places I thought were all but dead. The things that Rogan has made me feel, most of them against my will, are like thin wires feeding electricity into my nerves, my muscles, my heart. They tether me to him and pull me inexorably closer. This common ground between us, this way in which we could understand each other like most people never will, might just be the strongest one so far.

Rogan turns off the road on which we’ve been traveling for several minutes. I knew we were heading toward the foot of Brasstown Bald, which is the mountain that sits behind Enchantment, because I know that’s where the luxurious homes were built for the elite of the studio’s employees (i.e., the actors). I assumed that’s where Rogan would be staying.

When we reach a small brick guard shack to the left of an enormous wrought-iron gate, Rogan slows to wave at the guard. He jumps to his feet, smiles politely and triggers the mechanism to let us through. Rogan waits patiently, easily balancing our combined weight on his bike. It seems effortless, and I understand why when I glance down at the long muscles of his thighs. I can see them standing out, bulging inside the denim of his jeans.

As soon as the gate is open enough for us to squeeze through, Rogan sharply twists his wrist, sending us hurtling between the slowly opening halves. He cuts it so close I can almost feel the cool metal of the gate brush the skin of my arm. Almost.

Less than two minutes later, he pulls to a stop in the circular driveway of a sprawling contemporary home. It looks like little more than a sea of glass amid a field of sharp angles. He raises his hand, which I take to use for balance as I dismount. I work on unfastening the buckle beneath my chin as Rogan settles the motorcycle on its kickstand and kills the engine. My fingers work clumsily and slowly in my distraction. I can’t seem to take my eyes off the man as he tugs off his helmet, runs his fingers through his hair and drags his lean body off the machine.

He casually hooks his helmet on one handlebar and turns to face me. One side of his mouth quirks. “Need some help?”

“No,” I reply, fumbling with the strap.

Rogan watches me with an amused look on his face for a few seconds before he leans in and takes over. “Here, let me do it. You’ll never get it undone with those shaky hands.”

I glance down at my trembling fingers. “You didn’t scare me. I don’t know why I’m shaking.” Even though I think I really do.

“Adrenaline. You can’t help but feel it on that bike.”

I say nothing, more than happy to go with that explanation.

When Rogan finally frees me of the helmet and hangs it on the opposite handlebar, he reaches for my hand again. He’s very matter-of-fact as he curls his slightly rough fingers around my unsteady ones.

“Do you like stir-fry?” he asks as we walk side by side up the path made up of geometric concrete shapes that dot the grass.

“I do.”

“Good. I was trying to think of something that wouldn’t ruin by the time we got here, so I just cut up all the ingredients and left them in the fridge. It won’t take long to cook them.”

I pull up short, my shocked eyes turned to Rogan. “You literally cooked for me?”

“Well, not yet. I literally cut and chopped for you, though.”

“Wow. I’m impressed.”

Startling me yet again, Rogan throws both hands up into the air and shouts, “Finally! Thank God!”

“Finally what?” I ask, confused.

“Finally! I managed to impress you.”

I suppress a grin. “Like you ever had doubts.”

“I was beginning to wonder. It was startin’ to look like God had given you the gift of anti-Rogan blood.”

“Is there such a thing?”

“I didn’t think so, but you had me scared there for a minute.”

His grin is so cocky, yet so charming and cute that the only thing I can do is smile and roll my eyes.

“Well, there’s no reason to worry. You’ve accomplished your mission. Now you can stop trying.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” he asks with a wink just before he reaches around me to open the big white front door.

He motions for me to precede him, which I do, looking around the spacious foyer-slash-great-room combo as he closes the door behind us. When I make it full circle to once again face Rogan, I stumble back a step. I wasn’t expecting for a man in a wheelchair to have somehow silently rolled up and stopped less than a foot from where I stand.

The guy reaches out to grab my wrist just as Rogan’s arm comes around my waist to steady me.

“Sorry,” he says in a low, gruff voice. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You must be Rogan’s brother,” I say kindly, trying not to feel put off by his frown. If it weren’t for that, he’d look a lot like Rogan with his blond hair and green eyes. He even has the same strong jaw and slightly crooked nose. But where Rogan appears happy and charismatic, his brother just seems . . . cold.

“Yep. I’m the cripple,” he remarks snidely, casting an angry glare at Rogan.

“He didn’t mention that part,” I lie in an effort to diffuse the palpable tension. Well, it’s not technically a lie. Rogan didn’t say he was crippled; he said he was handicapped. Semantics, yes, but still . . . “Thank you for having me to dinner.”

“Like I had much choice.” Another fuming look thrown at Rogan.

“If I’m imposing, I can come back another time. I don’t want to put you out.”

Finally, the brother looks at me as though he’s seeing me for the first time and not some tool Rogan is using to infuriate him. “No, you’re fine.”

For some reason, I feel sorry for this man. I know it would kill him to know this, but I can’t seem to help it. It’s not for his handicap that I pity him, though; it’s for his anger. I know from past experience that anger and bitterness can eat you alive and steal away what life you have left if you let it. It’s best to just let go and move on whenever possible.

It’s with this sense of sorrow that I feel for him that I stick out my hand and put on my biggest smile. “Great, then. I’m Katie. It’s nice to meet you, Rogan’s brother.”

He watches me silently for several long seconds before he looks down at my outstretched hand and then back up to my face.

“Kurt. It’s nice to meet you, Katie,” he replies, a very small smile curving his lips.

I feel gratified to get civility from him. “So I hear we’re having stir-fry. Your idea or his?” I tip my head to indicate Rogan, who is standing quietly at my side, watching our interaction. When I glance over at him, I see that it’s now his brow that’s creased with a frown. I smile at him and the wrinkles deepen. What is it with these men?

“Mine,” Kurt replies, shooting Rogan a quick grin as he wheels his chair one-hundred-eighty degrees and takes off toward the kitchen, which is separated only by a raised bar in this open floor plan.

“He’s full of shit. I’m the brains in this operation.”

“No, you’re the legs. I’m perfectly capable of doing everything else,” Kurt calls from in front of the refrigerator. When he turns back around, he’s holding two covered bowls in his lap and boasting a cocky grin that’s one hundred percent Rogan. “My legs are the only things that don’t work right.”

I smile again, sliding my eyes over to my Rogan. “He’s definitely your brother.”

I don’t know what happened to make him frown back there at the door, but his wink assures me that all is right with the world again.

By order of Rogan, I am confined to a chair during dinner preparations. “How can I impress you with my extensive culinary expertise if you help?” he asks.

“You won’t have to worry about that. She’ll be too dazzled by me to give you a second thought,” Kurt says.

“You haven’t dazzled anybody since Regina Lawson in the second grade.”

“You wouldn’t know dazzling if it exploded right beside your head.”

“I’m the definition of dazzling.”

And so the banter goes until the table is set, the wine is poured and dinner is served. Time passes so pleasantly, so humorously, so effortlessly that I can’t quite remember how the conversation turned to Star Wars. I only know that the guys are hilarious as they debate who would’ve made a better Han Solo.

“I have better reflexes, which would make me the better pilot of the Millennium Falcon,” Rogan declares.

“But I’m a better kisser, and where would Han be without Leia?” Kurt argues.

“How the hell could you possibly know that you’re a better kisser?”

“Amy Steadman told me.”

“Amy Steadman? The only reason she kissed you is because you were gettin’ all girly and emotional and shit over that sophomore who broke your heart. What was her name again?”

“You’re a damn liar! Amy kissed me because she was tired of putting up with your cheatin’ ass.”

“I didn’t cheat on her. We weren’t seeing each other when all that happened. Which brings me to my next point. I’d make the best Han Solo because I’m taller. You’d get stuck being Luke.”

“You’re only taller because your legs work. I’m taller sitting down.”

“Bullshit! I’m an inch and three quarters taller than you. Have been since you peaked the year you graduated. Not my fault you stopped growing too early.”