“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.