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.”
“This is getting us nowhere. Let’s ask our own Leia,” Kurt suggests, turning his slightly less dazzling green eyes to me. “Be honest, who would make the best Han Solo? Kief or me?” Kurt gives me his most winsome smile, winking and nodding and gesturing for me to choose him, all of which makes me laugh.
“You can’t ask me that! You’d both make great Hans.”
“Well, you know the only way to know for sure, don’t you?” Rogan’s brother asks.
Something about his wide grin makes me instantly suspicious. “I’m not sure I want to know.”
“You’ll have to kiss us both.”
“What?”
Kurt shrugs. “Sorry. I don’t make the rules.”
Open-mouthed, I turn to look at Rogan. “Are you hearing this?”
His face is relaxed and his lips are curved, but there’s a hardness to his eyes that gives me pause. “I’m hearing it. The only thing that’s keeping me from kicking his ass is sympathy. I know how it feels to want to kiss a beautiful makeup artist.”
“I don’t want to kiss just any beautiful makeup artist. I want to kiss this one.”
My face flames under the heat of so much attention. I glance shyly from Kurt to Rogan. Something about his expression tells me that he’s no longer having fun. I wonder if the cause is his brother’s overtly flirtatious commentary. That seems to be the only thing that has changed, and as much as I shouldn’t care whether Rogan is jealous, the prospect that he might be sends a little thrill through me.
“Well, unfortunately, you’re both out of luck. I’m a terrible kisser, so it would hardly be fair for me to judge.”
“That’s highly unlikely,” Kurt declares.
When I glance at Rogan, his eyes are a dark emerald sparkle in the handsomely tanned landscape of his face. “Liar,” he says softly.
Clearing my throat, I stand and grab my plate to take it into the kitchen, but Kurt stops me. “Leave it!” he barks. I freeze, mid-motion, glancing across the table at him questioningly. His face breaks into a boyish grin. “You’re a guest. You shouldn’t have to clean up.”
“But I—”
“Ah ah ah,” he clucks, shaking his head and wheeling around to my side of the table. “No arguments.”
Kurt takes my plate from my fingers and places it in his lap before he wheels around to collect the rest of the plates from the table. With one aggressive fling of his powerful arms, he sends his chair careening across the hardwood and into the kitchen.
When I can only see the top of Kurt’s head in front of the sink, I turn to Rogan. His expression is unfathomable and his eyes are heavy-lidded as they watch me. I try not to fidget under his curious scrutiny and my voice is a hoarse croak when I speak. “Thank you for dinner.”
“Thank you for coming.”
“A-are you okay?” I ask.
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
I give him a one-shouldered shrug. “I don’t know. You just seem . . . off.”
Rogan grins, an action that transforms his face into the one I’m most familiar with, making my belly do a little flip. The brooding version was like a stranger. “Does that mean you prefer me when I’m on?”
His eyes twinkle as he comes to stand before me, less than six inches separating us as he stares down into my face.
“I didn’t say that,” I reply, a bit more breathless than I’d like to be.
Rogan reaches up and drags the back of his index finger under the edge of my lower lip. “You didn’t have to.” For a few seconds, I tense, wondering if he’s going to try to kiss me, but then he winks, reaching for my hand and tipping his head toward the other side of the room. “Since Kurt volunteered for cleanup, let’s go out onto the patio and get started, ’kay?”
I nod, shivering at the heat that pours from his palm into mine. It flows up my arm as Rogan leads me through the living room to a wall of windows. Two of them are giant sliding panels that open onto a softly lit travertine patio. Directly in front of me lies a lagoon-style pool, the water inside it a deep blue. Overflow spills from the attached spa, creating a soothing backdrop. It gives the backyard a Zen garden feel.
An area rug to one side holds a grouping of wicker furniture that sits beneath a pergola. A dozen creamy lanterns hang overhead. They shed their warm, romantic light on the intimate setting like twelve tiny moons.
Rogan moves to the sofa and releases my hand, gesturing for me to have a seat. “We can go over the lines a couple of times and then try it a few times without cheat sheets,” he says with a grin, referring to two sets of script pages that seem to have appeared in his other hand like magic.