Tough Enough (Tall, Dark, and Dangerous, #2)(24)

I didn’t imagine that he’d give up so easily. But I had hoped.

Well, some part of me did, anyway. Some other part . . . didn’t.

“You two are so cute together,” Mona croons from the doorway. Rogan’s grin becomes more pronounced as the click of heels brings my friend farther into the room. We stand facing each other as she passes by, heading for the counter, on which she perches one hip as she flips through the dictionary. “You should date.”

“I’m not the one who needs convincing,” Rogan mutters.

“Oh you don’t need to tell me that. Katie’s stubborn to a fault and blind to her own beauty. She’s . . . erudite, but sometimes she can be a little dumb.” Rogan frowns and I wrinkle my nose, both of us holding back a laugh. After a few seconds, Mona notices. “What? Did I use it wrong?”

“No, but it’s freakin’ me out,” Rogan says with a chuckle.

“Why? I’m smart. I can learn new words. I can be erudite.”

“Of course you can,” I say, covertly nudging Rogan with my elbow. I don’t want his teasing to hurt Mona’s feelings.

“Well,” she says, standing and dusting her hands off like her job here is done, “I suppose I’d best let you two get to it. You’ve got a lot more body to make up today.”

More body to make up? I was so ready to leave yesterday, I didn’t check the notes for today, and this morning my mind was elsewhere.

Is he doing a shirtless scene? Or, God forbid, is he doing a nude scene?

My pulse speeds up at the mere thought.

With a smile that says she knew that I had no idea, Mona flounces out of the room, pausing only to kiss one of my cheeks and smack Rogan on the butt. “Lunch?” she says from just the other side of the door.

“Lunch,” I reply, watching the tips of her blond hair disappear from view.

Tension rushes in to fill the room, crowding in on me like a vibrating cloud. I take a step back from Rogan, tugging at my hair as I nod toward the drawer where I keep my script notes from Kelly.

“I guess I’d better check to see what I’m doing for you today.” I turn, resisting the urge to run and grab the papers. I’m proud that my walk is slow and that my knees are steady.

“No need. I can tell you,” he says from behind me. I pay him no attention as I rifle through the other papers in search of my instructions. When I have them in hand, I swing back around to face Rogan. The pages slip silently from my fingers to swoosh across the floor.

Standing not two feet away is a half-naked Rogan.

Before I can collect myself, I take him in. Savor him like rich chocolate or decadent cake. I thought he looked amazing in clothes, but . . . dear God! The man is positively heart-stopping without them.

He looks ten feet tall and bulletproof. His shoulders must be a mile wide and perfectly formed, collarbones straight, deltoids flaring. The overhead lights, though soft, highlight the rounded domes of his pecs and the stair-step ridges of his abs. They clench with each slow breath he takes. And covering all that glory is lightly tanned skin and a smattering of hair that reaches from nipple to nipple and then narrows to a trail that disappears into the waistband of his jeans. I dare not look beyond that. I don’t think my heart can take it.

I’m enjoying the journey back up when his voice cuts into my thrall.

“Ya know?” he asks, as though not for the first time. Evidently, while I was raping him with my eyes, he must’ve been saying something.

My eyes fly to his face. “I-I’m sorry. What were you saying?”

His face breaks into the most satisfied grin I think I’ve ever seen. All proud peacock. He knows what I was doing. He knows I was mesmerized. And he’s loving it.

My face stings with embarrassment at being so blatant. And getting caught.

“I was just saying that I think it’s weird that they’d put makeup on my body just to show me working out, ya know?”

“Yeah,” I say dazedly.

“Where do you want me?” he asks, one brown brow shooting up suggestively.

My stomach churns hotly. Why, oh why does he have to be the one guy on the planet who can break through my thick layer of ice and scar tissue? Why, why, why?

I bend to gather my notes from the floor, and I study them closely as I straighten. Not because I need to see what they say, of course, but because I need a reason to look at something else for a minute.

“Looks like the closest shots will be of your back and shoulders as you’re doing some pull-ups. They want the tattoos left intact, but any other imperfections covered, so I’ll do your face and then let you lie down for the rest.”

My heart is thumping so hard, I worry that Rogan will hear it when he sits down in the chair. I set about applying the same products I’ve used on him most other days, going a little heavier on blush to give him a slightly flushed look. That’s all my role entails. They’ll spritz him to make him look sweaty right before the filming starts.

I try not to think of Rogan sweaty. Smooth skin glistening, muscular chest huffing, flat stomach gleaming. No, I need not go there. It’s just . . . it’s just not a good idea.

He’s uncharacteristically quiet as I brush and swirl and dab, but not once do his eyes leave my face. Even if, in my peripheral vision, I couldn’t see them following my movements, I’d still know he was watching me. I can feel it all the way down to my nerves. His gaze, his scrutiny strums them like strings on a harp.