Tough Enough (Tall, Dark, and Dangerous #2)(26)

When I’m finished patching up his back, making it so that the world doesn’t see what’s been done to him, I tell him quietly, “You can sit up now.”

I back up as Rogan swings his long legs around and pushes himself into a sitting position, muscles flexing everywhere as he moves. As always, I’m aware of his beauty, but now, as perverse as it sounds, he’s even more appealing to me. He seems real and fallible and maybe a little bit broken. He hides it well, of course, but now I know. And I can’t unknow.

I avoid his eyes as I treat his chest to the same consideration that I gave his back, only with slightly less attention to detail since the camera shots will be focused mainly on his back. I’m fully aware of his mossy gaze on me as I squirt more cream into my hand and rub my palms together. He watches me as I reach for his pecs. He watches me as I let my fingers trail up to his collarbones, across his shoulders, over his bulging deltoids. I make my way back to his midline and then down his abdomen. It’s when the ridges of muscle tense under my hands as I near his waistband that my own stomach begins to react. Warmth blossoms in my core, turning my insides to hot, twitchy mush.

“Careful,” he whispers, drawing my eyes away from his torso.

His pupils are wide and there’s heat in his gaze, but it’s subdued this time. Vulnerable almost.

Ignoring his warning, I respond as though I didn’t hear him. “I—I won’t have to highlight your abs. They’re already defined well enough for the camera,” I say, clinging to thoughts of work to diffuse the tension. Not that it’s effective.

Rogan’s eyes narrow on me just before fire of a different kind appears inside the luminous emerald of his irises. So fast I gasp in surprise, his fingers flick out and snap around my wrists like iron cuffs, stilling my movements. “Don’t feel sorry for me.”

I’m stunned. “Wh-what?”

“I don’t want your pity,” he growls.

Although he shocked me with his quick movement, I calm immediately, understanding his reaction. Being pitied is an awful sensation. “I don’t pity you. I—I just . . .” I don’t know how to tell him that I feel closer to him now than I did last night when he was kissing me. And even if I could, I wouldn’t. He doesn’t need to know that. He never needs to know that. “I get it.”

His eyes search mine. For what, I don’t know. But he must find it because his expression relaxes back into the subdued mask he was wearing earlier.

“Aren’t you going to ask me about them?”

I don’t have to inquire what “them” he means. He’s referring to the scars. “No.”

“Most people don’t notice, but those who have assume they’re the result of my fights. Like you did at first.” He pauses, scrutinizing me like he can see right into my soul. “But you don’t now, do you?”

Reluctantly, I shake my head.

Before he can say anything more, a shadow darkens the door behind him. I glance up just as one of the techs announces that she’s here for Rogan. “Stage Four is ready.”

“Just a sec,” I reply, avoiding Rogan’s eyes as I quickly dab some makeup on two more round places that dot his ribs just under his left pectoral. Except for the one around his shoulder blade, these scars, just like all the others, are so pale they’re barely noticeable. And I’m sure Rogan likes it that way. And I envy his body’s ability to naturally conceal things that might otherwise cause him discomfort. My body saw no such need to help me out. What’s wrong with me is impossible to miss if I don’t take measures to hide it.

When I finish, I steal a glance back up at Rogan’s face. He’s watching me again, only this time with an odd expression marring his otherwise perfect visage. When he leans close to me, he does it quickly as he stands so that I have little chance to move away. His lips graze the shell of my ear as he speaks. “Whatever I did last night, I’m sorry.”

And with that, he swipes up his shirt and follows the tech right out my door.





SIXTEEN


Rogan

“Cut! Let’s try this again. Right from ‘You wanted it.’”

I grit my teeth. Why the hell can’t I get this right?

The answer to that question is a word. A single word. Or rather a name.

Katie. Sweet, beautiful, intriguing Katie. Katie with a dash of fire that she keeps as close as the hair around her neck. Katie with lips that taste like the wine we never got to drink. Katie with the eyes that push me away and then beg me to stay. That Katie.

I push her out of my mind and smile at the tall redhead across from me, the one with whom my onscreen relationship is heating up. She watches me with her appreciative gray eyes, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth as she stares up at me. She’s made her interest in me known. I’ve been polite in my disinterest. She’s all but ignored it. Obviously, she’s not the type to give up.

Her attention doesn’t bother me. Her titillating teases don’t faze me. I’m not tempted. I’m just . . . distracted.

I just keep smiling, unaffected, as I run the lines through my head again. When I can recite them perfectly in the silence, I nod back at the director. My mind is clear and focused. I’m ready.

I roll my head on my shoulders, trying to regain my usual level of concentration. That’s when I see her. She draws my eye like a bright flash of light, only there’s no flash, no light. Just her.