Tough Enough (Tall, Dark, and Dangerous, #2)(12)

Rogan is wearing damp hair, a tight white shirt and a lopsided grin that makes my insides turn more somersaults than an Olympic gymnast. Holy monkeys, is he hot!

Total jerk, total jerk, total jerk, I remind myself to cool my bubbling insides.

I offer a politely unaffected smile to both occupants of the room, ignoring the fact that Mona is practically vibrating with excitement. I assume it’s because of his close (and very handsome) proximity until I see her eyes continually dart to his hand.

That’s when I start to get suspicious that something’s up and that Mona’s zeal might not be entirely due to Rogan’s nearness.

I narrow my eyes on first Mona and then Rogan. Before I can ask any questions, however, Rogan stretches out his hand. In it is a coffee cup.

“Extra hot, extra cream,” he says simply, his eyes shimmering with charm and his grin glistening with sincerity.

I feel the frown furrow my brow. “Thank you,” I mutter, reaching for the coffee.

“Aren’t you going to ask how he knew you liked it that way?”

I glance up at Mona. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her quite this . . . animated. If a person can look like a squeal sounds, then that’s what Mona looks like. “I assume he heard you announce it yesterday when you brought me some.”

She looks a little crestfallen because I guessed it, but it does little to dull her enthusiasm.

“And he remembered,” she adds.

“So he did,” I reply, at a loss as to what else to say. It shouldn’t be any big deal that the guy overheard something and was able to retain it overnight, right? I mean, why is Mona so excited?

As for me, I’m immediately suspicious. Why is Rogan being so nice to me? Why is he working so hard to hide “total jerk” from me? Because I know it’s in there. It has to be, right? He is that guy, isn’t he?

And what could he possibly gain by deceiving me? It’s not like I’m some great prize or anything.

Rogan’s gravelly drawl breaks into my introspection. “Impressed yet?”

My befuddlement overshadows his flirtatious question and I blurt what’s on my mind, which I never do. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

Rogan doesn’t answer right away. We just stare at each other as his smile dies, replaced by a puzzled expression of his own. “Honestly, I don’t know. There’s just something about you that . . . I don’t know. Makes me want to see you smile, I guess.”

Ruthlessly, I ignore the flutter in my stomach and push past it with rationale. Letting feelings get the better of me will only end in disaster.

“But why? Why me?”

Rogan’s emerald eyes hold mine firmly, his brow now creased with a frown of his own. “I’ve been asking myself that since yesterday,” he admits quietly.

“Well, at least you’re honest,” I mutter on a sigh, not intending to say the words aloud.

“I’m always honest.”

Although his words are sincere, there’s no reason for me to believe them. But, strangely, I do. I know I shouldn’t, but I do.

For a moment, it seems Rogan and I are alone in the room, immersed in a strange moment of truth and self-awareness. He nods to me, I nod to him and somewhere, deep down, I feel a small part of my inner hardness soften ever so slightly.

? ? ?

Coming to work the next day feels different. Nothing out of the ordinary has happened. In fact, my morning has gone like every other morning before it, almost down to the greeting I get from Ronnie, one of the set designers, as he enters the building a few seconds behind me.

“Looking sweet this morning, Katie,” he calls out to me. I turn toward the familiar voice and the familiar redheaded thirtysomething guy, waving and smiling my reply, just like always.

But today feels different. I don’t know why, but I suspect that it has something to do with my first client and the way my stomach is curled with anticipation. I do worry about that, but worrying doesn’t seem to change it. Neither do all the reiterations of how bad a guy like Rogan could be for me. Nothing seems to be able to penetrate the dangerous spell he’s so effortlessly weaving over me. I’m fighting it, but still I find myself looking forward to seeing him. And that’s not a good place to be. Not for me, anyway.

Today, I’m not surprised when Mona doesn’t greet me as she usually does. I have a feeling I know exactly where to find her.

Just before I turn the corner to walk into my “office,” I smooth my hair into its neat wave that flows over my left shoulder, concealing the side of my neck. I straighten my shirt and pull a cat hair from my sleeve, and my hand stops dead as I let it drift from my fingertips into the subtle air current passing by.

I’m primping. Preening. And that’s not like me either. I mean, I try to look nice and decent every day, but today . . . today I want to be attractive again. I didn’t really realize it until just now. And that worries me.

It’s that worry that I carry through the doorway and into my office. I’m wearing it like a shield, but still, it’s unable to stop the arrow of attraction that strikes me when I see Rogan sitting in my makeup chair, chatting amicably with my friend.

How can he do this to me? And how can I let him?

Or do I even have a choice?

Before I can offer a greeting, Mona chirps from beside Rogan, “Good morning! Look who has your coffee. Again.”