I don’t know what kind of future Rogan and I could have, if any, but just the prospect, just the consideration of a tomorrow with someone is a huge step for me. I truly thought I was going to be alone. Forever.
There’s a hitch in my step as I walk through the door to work. Nearly every morning since I’ve been here I’ve run into Ronnie first thing. We share our little ritualistic greeting and then go on with our day. Only today, things are different. And not just because of Rogan.
My carefree, happy morning just took a stressful turn as my eyes scan the hall for Ronnie. I don’t see him anywhere.
But who I do see is Rogan.
My lips twitch up into a small, relieved smile when I spot his tall physique. He’s clad in the rattiest jeans I’ve ever seen, along with black boots, a black tee, and a wicked grin that makes me blush. He didn’t leave my house until almost dawn. Said he wanted to be there when his brother got up so he could fix their breakfast, as was his habit. Of course I didn’t argue, even though I was loath to see him go. Much more than I would’ve expected when we’ve only really known each other for a few weeks. That alone should be a warning sign.
His sparkling green eyes watch my every step until I stop in front of him. “Mornin’, darlin’,” he drawls.
Butterflies beat their gossamer wings against the walls of my stomach, of my chest. I forgot what this feels like—this intimate feeling of knowing someone, of being close to them in a way that binds you, that turns every glance, every smile, every brush of the hand to delicious innuendo. To carefully controlled passion, biding its time until it can be unleashed.
I’m reveling in the moment, in the sensation, right up until Rogan begins to lean toward me. It shakes me from my fantasy world and I take a step back, glancing left and right.
I clear my throat, meeting his frown with another smile. “Good morning.” When the wrinkle between his eyes deepens to a trench, I continue. “I’m glad you’re here.”
“You sure about that?”
I glance around again to make sure no one is watching or listening. “I’m positive. I usually run into Ronnie first thing in the morning.”
Rogan’s skeptical frown disappears in a blaze of fury that burns across his handsome features. “That asshole knows better than to get near you. He won’t look at you, talk to you, talk about you ever again. Hell, he’d better not even mention your name if he knows what’s good for him.”
My grin widens. God, I love that he’s protective. It’s so nice to feel like someone cares, like someone is caring for me. I haven’t felt like that since the accident when my parents died. “Even though I couldn’t let you do anything to him, I love the sentiment.”
“I love that you think you could stop me.”
That gives me pause. “It would make things hard for me here. At work. You do understand that, don’t you?”
I can see that he does, but he doesn’t like it. “Yeah. I get it. But still, he’d better be very careful.” As his anger dissipates, I see his eyes narrow. “Is that why you’re keeping your distance? Because of work?” Reluctantly, I nod. He drops his voice in response. “Because it seems that just a few hours ago, we were about as close as two people are able to get. Chest to chest, belly to belly, my co—”
I clear my throat very loudly, interrupting him even as my cheeks blaze with color and heat. “So, you’re early again, Mr. Rogan. You must be a morning person.” I feel all flustered now. In the best possible, albeit most disconcerting, way.
“Oh, I’m very much a morning person.” His wink reminds me of how he left me in the wee hours—sated, boneless, with the imprint of his body still fresh and warm on mine. Yes, he’s definitely a morning person. And a night person. And a noon person.
I widen my eyes, a silent plea for him to stop his suggestive teasing, but all the while my lips are trembling. It’s a struggle to suppress the girlishly delighted giggle dying to get out.
“What’s the matter, Beautiful Katie?” he murmurs just loud enough for me to hear. “You look flushed. Dirty mind?”
Oh God! Dirty mind, indeed.
With a slight shake of my head and a tightly controlled smile, I make my way around Rogan, who falls into step beside me. I can feel his masculine gloat hitting me like waves of heat, causing my skin to feel dewy and hot from head to toe.
Rogan starts to whistle. It’s a happy sound from a happy man. Or at least he seems to be happy. There’s a glimmer to his eyes, and they want to crinkle at the corners, like he has a secret. Or maybe a wink on deck. And that makes me happy. I shouldn’t care about his state of contentment. But I do. I feel so good that it would seem far less “good” if he weren’t good, too. But he seems good. We both seem good. And that is very good.
Although I keep my attention focused straight ahead, I’m aware of the sidelong glances we are getting as we make our way along the hall to my little cubby. I’m not at all surprised when I walk through the door to find Mona standing in the center of the room, arms crossed over her ample chest, toe tapping in agitation. She looks like a stripper dressed in school-teacher attire. She’s wearing a pencil-slim black skirt and a white blouse that’s at least two sizes too small. Her long legs are encased in fishnets and her feet in stilettos. All she needs is a riding crop, some smart glasses and hair that’s piled messily on top of her head so she can whip it down dramatically.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, taking in her petulant expression and rigid posture.
“I’m feeling very disenfranchised,” she explains.
I glance over at Rogan, who’s already smiling and shaking his head.
“Word of the day?”
She cracks a grin. “Yeah, why? Did I use it wrong?”
“Depends on what you were trying to say,” I tell her as I walk past her to lay my purse on the counter. I turn back to her, feeling both pleased and nervous when Rogan comes to stand beside me, leaning his tall body against the counter next to me and crossing his arms and ankles. I can literally feel the warmth from his body. It teases me, beckoning me closer. I plant my feet and make a point to stand up straight, not giving in.
Mona’s eyes are narrow now as she looks back and forth between Rogan and me. I can see the wheels of her romance book–polluted mind going a mile a minute. Finally, her posture eases and her face lights up with glee. She taps the tips of her fingers together in a tiny clap.
“Eeeeeee,” she squeals in a hushed voice. “Okay, I’m not mad anymore.”
She knows. I don’t even have to ask about her reaction. I know how to interpret it. It’s nothing that I really want to talk about with her, though, especially not in front of Rogan, so I steer the conversation elsewhere. “If that’s what you were trying to say, then yes, you used the word wrong.”
Mona waves me off, her expression saying she couldn’t care less now. She’s got something else to think about. And the thing is, Mona is like a dog with a bone. She won’t be letting this go until she can talk to me about it. In great detail, I’m sure. “I don’t care. Today is a good day. We should celebrate.”
Before I can respond, Rogan speaks up beside me. “Maybe tomorrow. She owes me a lunch and I’m collecting today.”
My insides beam with happiness and I try not to smile. “I guess that takes care of my lunch plans,” I tell Mona casually.
“I want to buy her a piece of pie,” he adds, a bit too softly. I want to look over at him, but I don’t. I’m afraid I’ll see something naughty in his eyes and I’ll get all flummoxed.
Her face splits in the world’s biggest smile and her eyes bounce back and forth between us. “Well, in that case, I’ll just make other arrangements. Maybe tomorrow,” she offers as she starts to back out of the room.