Tough Enough (Tall, Dark, and Dangerous #2)(16)

“I really appreciate the offer. All of this,” I say, indicating my armful of goodies, “but I’m just . . . You’re not . . . I just don’t think it’s a good idea.”

For the first time, I see his unflappable good humor flag. “What’s it gonna take to win you over?” he asks. His tone is a vague mixture of irritation and exasperation.

“I’m not sure it can be done.”

I hate the sadness in my voice. Somewhere deep down, there’s still a girl in me who wants to love, who wants to trust, but she’s afraid. She’s afraid to risk it. But she’s also afraid that no one will ever try hard enough to dig her out, to unearth her from the rubble and debris that have kept her buried for so long. Because if no one does, she’ll die alone. Old and alone.

I thought I’d heard the last of that girl—her voice had gone so quiet—but Rogan has shown me that she’s still very much alive. And that men like him are still a danger to her.

Rogan tips his head to one side to study me. I resist the urge to tug my hair over my shoulder more securely, terrified that he’ll see too much, that he’ll ask too much.

“I’ve never lost a fight,” he says after so long that I almost startle when he speaks. “And I don’t intend to start now.”

With those words left hanging in the air between us, Rogan shakes off his seriousness, gives me that irresistible wink-and-grin combo, then turns to lope back to his chair.

When he’s seated, he kicks his ankle up onto his knee and starts to whistle. That’s when I realize that I might’ve found the one person who can outlast me.

? ? ?

I’ve never really loved or hated work. It’s just . . . work. I liked it less when I had to prepare Victoria Musser and a couple of her really nasty co-stars my first year here, but even then, I didn’t really hate it. Hate—or love for that matter—implies some active emotion, which requires being fully involved in one’s life. I don’t feel that I’ve been fully involved in my life since the accident. Maybe it’s a side effect of having everything you’ve ever known, wanted and loved taken from you in a single night. Maybe it’s depression when left untreated. Or maybe it’s just a symptom of being . . . me. Weird, abnormal, slightly less-than-average me. Whatever the reason, I haven’t experienced many strong emotions—positive or negative—in roughly five years.

Until today.

It’s been almost three weeks since that first morning when I stumbled upon Kiefer Rogan sitting, big as life, in my makeup chair. I didn’t have a clue at the time what a force to be reckoned with he could be.

But I do now.

Each day that I’ve seen him, he’s battered away at whatever kind of emotional stone castle I’ve ensconced myself within. Now I feel weaknesses all around me. Part of me is alarmed by that, but it’s been such a pleasant battering, I’ve barely noticed him doing it. All of a sudden, I’m just . . . different. Different than I was yesterday, even more different than I was the day before, and even more different than I was a week ago. I doubt anyone other than me notices, but I can feel it. And I know who’s to blame.

Each morning, Rogan has presented me with some kooky gift that relates to whatever little tidbit he managed to glean about me the day before—a package of Fireballs (when he found out I love cinnamon), a stuffed teddy bear (when he found out that was my favorite childhood toy), a polka-dot umbrella (when he found out it was the one thing I asked for on my sixteenth birthday and never got). And those are just a few things. I have no idea how he comes across half this stuff in a town like Enchantment, but he does. Maybe he orders it, I don’t know. But try as I might, it’s getting harder and harder not to love his thoughtful determination.

I’m not sure what to expect from today. Yesterday, he asked me a wide range of questions, so it’s hard to say what he might’ve focused on. I’m already smiling in anticipation, though. He always seems to surprise me. And very pleasantly so.

“There she is!” Mona exclaims boisterously when I walk through the door. “Looking mighty . . .” She pauses to flip to a random page of the pocket dictionary that now occupies a spot on my countertop, courtesy of Rogan. Mona’s new morning routine is to pick a word from its pages and use it as often as possible throughout the day. “Magnanimous.” Her smile is proud and delighted.

I grin. “And just how does one look magnanimous?”

“Well,” she begins, glancing back into the dictionary for the meaning of the word. She slaps it shut, straightens her snug button-up blouse and pulls at the very short hem of her black satin shorts. “It’s your hair. It makes you look very . . . generous.”

“My hair makes me look generous?”

“Yep. I’ve always told you that you have great hair. That’s why. It makes you look magnanimous.” She nods as if to say that explains it all.

I hear Rogan snort from behind her, drawing my attention to him. As usual, once my gaze is there, I can’t pull it away until he chooses to let me. His eyes have a kind of magnetism, like a lush forest of higher gravity that draws me inexplicably toward it and then it refuses to let me go.

“I could say many things about her hair, about the way it shines like a dark penny in the light, or the way it frames her breathtaking face, but I have to say that it has never once brought to mind the word ‘magnanimous,’” Rogan teases, his gaze still trained on me even though he’s addressing Mona.