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.