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!’”