Tough Enough (Tall, Dark, and Dangerous, #2)(19)

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 *!

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?”