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Authors: M. Leighton

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BOOK: Tough Enough
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He smiles. A full smile that makes his eyes shimmer and my knees weak. “You’re a terrible liar.”

My insides feel twitchy, like I’m fighting the urge to laugh. “Better than a great one.”

Rogan reaches up and brushes the back of one finger over my bottom lip. A bolt of electricity rockets straight through me, lighting up every nerve along the way. “That it is.”

We stand like this for seconds. Minutes. Hours, it seems. And then, without another word, he turns to resume his seat in my makeup chair, leaving me alone in a bubble of my own mixed emotions.

TWELVE

Rogan

I’ve managed to avoid Victoria almost entirely for nearly a month. I knew my luck had come to an end when I saw her come through the door at the diner today. I was right. Damn it. She made a beeline for me, so now here I am, making nice with my ex, playing stupid as she throws every hint in the book about us getting back together.

I think I’ve done an admirable job of paying her just enough attention not to be rude. That lasts right up until Katie and Mona walk in. Even though this is pretty much the only place to eat in town (other than the deli at the grocery store and the pseudo-meat gas-station fare across the street), this is the first time I’ve run into Katie here. It didn’t take me long to realize that she eats at different times, probably based on what kind of need there is to do retouches or specialty makeup.

My gut twists when I look at her.
God
, she’s . . . Hell, I don’t even know. Yeah, she’s beautiful in a clean and wholesome way, and yeah she’s sexy as hell on Sunday, but there’s just something about
her that gets to me. Maybe it’s the shy way she keeps her chin down when she walks in, like if she doesn’t look up no one will notice her. Or maybe it’s the small smile that plays with her lips, like she wears this polite mask all the time. Or maybe it’s the glimpses I’ve been getting at what she’s
really
like, when the walls are down and she’s not quite so guarded. Damned if I know, but this girl is under my skin. In a big way.

I sneak glances at her as she and her friend are seated. I watch her laugh, albeit quietly, and I watch her lips move as she orders. She hasn’t seen me. She makes a point not to look around. God forbid someone notice her.

When her food comes, I find it even harder to pretend that I’m listening to Victoria. I’m not surprised when Katie orders
real
food in the form of a burger, fries and a milk shake. For some reason it fits. And watching her eat . . . Jesus H. Christ! She takes voracious bites, bites that make me want to strip her down, stretch her out up on the table, and enjoy eating her the way she’s ravenously enjoying her meal. Right in front of everyone. I wouldn’t care who was watching. She captivates me
that much
, dominates my thoughts to
that degree
.

And, evidently, it shows.

“What’s so interesting?” Victoria asks, a little ice in her tone.

“Huh?”

“You’re staring. What’s so interesting that you can’t even listen to what I’m saying?”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “Oh, nothing. I was just thinking about, uh, something I saw on television last night.”

Lie. Big, fat lie, but I’m
not
getting into this with Victoria of all people. Katie doesn’t deserve that kind of negative attention.

Her expression says she believes me Not. One. Bit.

But considering the level of her vanity, my distraction does
absolutely nothing to dissuade her from continuing her one-sided conversation.

I try to pull myself back to the table a few times, but mostly I continue to watch the little witch across the room. I figure I’m about thirty percent successful until the waitress delivers a piece of pie to Katie’s table. That’s when I lose the battle.

Her eyes get wide and a real smile spreads across her face as the waitress sets it in front of her. She grabs her fork without even taking her eyes off the cream-covered triangle.

And then she digs in.

I can’t take my eyes off her when she brings a heap of pale green custard to her mouth. She slides it onto her tongue and then closes her lips around the fork, pulling it slowly from between them. She doesn’t chew for a few seconds; she just lets the pie sit in her mouth. Her eyes close in ecstasy and I can all but
hear
her moan of delight.

Blood rushes to my cock as that imaginary moan accompanies my previous thought of her lying naked beneath me.

Holy hell!

I’ve never thought food, or watching someone eat it for that matter, to be a particularly erotic activity, but I stand corrected.

I’m watching, waiting for Katie to take another bite, when I’m brought back to my own table by a loud, waspish, “Rogan!”

Irritated at the interruption, I bark at Victoria, “What?”

I manage to pull my eyes away from Katie long enough to focus on my ex’s furious expression. “What the hell are you so interested in over there?” She turns in her seat and scans the diner before swiveling back to me. “What? Did you spot Elvis or something? I don’t see what you find so fascinating.”

Even though she had to have seen her, Victoria obviously doesn’t find Katie a noteworthy sight and can’t imagine that
I’d
find her noteworthy either. I guess Katie has become so adept at being a
wallflower that she has others overlooking her, too. I don’t see how. I don’t see how anyone can overlook her wavy auburn hair, her flawless skin, her perfectly round tits, tucked away under a shirt that screams TOUCH ME NOT and makes me want to touch so, so much.

Shiiit!

The strain of my hard-on against my zipper is a better wake-up call than ten pissed-off Victorias. I’m in a public place, for God’s sake. With my vicious ex. Not
at all
the time to let lurid thoughts of a hot-and-shy little makeup artist get to me. I can wait until tonight. Maybe then I’ll be able to taste what’s been keeping me awake at night.

Shaking my head, I clear my throat and nod toward Victoria’s half-eaten salad. “You done?”

I suppress my sneer. I’d much rather Victoria eat like an
actual
person than like a starving bird. I’d much rather she eat like Katie. But she’s no Katie. Not by a long shot.

“Yes,” Victoria replies in one petulant syllable.

I throw some bills onto the table. “Good. Let’s get out of here.”

I follow Victoria to the door, sparing one last glance in Katie’s direction. When I find her, her mouth is open and her fork is raised, but she’s not sliding the bite of pie onto her tongue. She’s stopped dead, mid-bite. Frozen. When I see her eyes, I don’t have to ask why she stopped. The wide, hurt orbs are burning right through me.

THIRTEEN

Katie

All afternoon I thought if I could just get home I’d feel better. I thought once I got away from work, away from where it seems I’m surrounded by thoughts and memories of Rogan, that I’d find a little peace. But I was wrong. Now that I’m here, I’m too restless to sit still.

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 asshole!

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 some
one
. “Or did you leave Victoria in the car with the window cracked?”

Damn me and my sharp tongue! Damn Rogan for loosening me up and then going for the kill! Damn Calm Katie for abandoning me when I need her most!

After a few long, tense seconds during which I manage to make myself so angry that I’m huffing, Rogan’s smile reappears, bigger than ever.

“Do you see a gun to my head?” he asks, confusing me.

“What?”

“Do you see a gun to my head?” Rogan makes a show of turning to look behind him. “Because that’s the
only way in hell
I’m spending time with her away from work.”

“I didn’t see anyone brandishing a firearm at the diner today,” I rebut.

“I was already eating when she came in and made herself comfortable. I figured the last thing I needed to do was make a scene at the only place I can get some decent food in this town. What if the cook is like the Soup Nazi and refuses to serve me if I make Victoria cry?” he asks dramatically.

The mere image of the Soup Nazi sternly turning Rogan away from the diner—No food for you!—is enough to make the corners of my mouth twitch. That and the incredible relief I feel that he didn’t go to lunch with her willingly. On purpose. Like a date.

“Victoria cries?” is all I can think of in response.

Rogan snorts. “Only over bad head shots.”

Before I can stop myself, I’m smiling a little. Rogan has spent almost a month convincing me that he’s so much more, so much
better
than what I gave him credit for in the beginning and, even though I shouldn’t care what he’s like, the soft parts of my heart are elated that it seems I might still have been wrong about him. This is one instance in which I’d
love
to be mistaken.

“So . . . a cat,” he says, visibly holding back a laugh as he eyes Dozer in his little cat harness, cuddled up in my arms.

The hard edge is gone from my voice when I ask, “So . . . a terrier.” I have to admit that I wouldn’t have pictured Rogan as the small-dog type of guy. A Rottweiler, sure. A Doberman, absolutely. But a terrier? Not so much.

“Nah. I gave fifty bucks to some lady sitting on a bench at the park entrance to let me borrow her dog for half an hour.” Rogan’s mischievous wink makes my stomach flutter.

“And she let you?”

He shrugs and grins. “I think she might’ve recognized me. Otherwise, she’d probably have told me to go to hell. I was willing to
risk it, though. And to overlook the fact that I think she’s discreetly following me through the park. Maybe she’s thinking, ‘That damn Kiefer Rogan has a sick dog fetish!’”

His laugh is an easy, sexy rumble that slips and slides along my skin. Yet still, all I can think is that he did this to see me. All this. For me.

“How did you know this is where I’d be?” I ask, assuming Mona is the guilty party.

“What makes you think I came here to see you? This is my thing—going around to parks and renting strange dogs for a few hours. I find it very relaxing,” he explains. His face is so sincere, his words so matter-of-fact that I assume he’s serious.

“Really?” I ask, not meaning to wrinkle my nose in disdain.

“No, not really,” he confesses, rubbing his index finger down my curled-up nose. “I most definitely came here to see you.”

My heart patters excitedly in my chest and I press my face into Dozer’s fur to escape the appreciative look in Rogan’s eye.

“Buuut, since you didn’t bring your glass, you’ve ruined my whole plan. Fido here is very disappointed.”

I glance down at the dog again. He’s sitting in the grass, tail wagging furiously, ears perked, staring at Dozer. “Sorry, Fido,” I whisper. “How can I make it up to you?”

The dog’s tail wags even harder.

“Now you’re on the right track,” Rogan exclaims with a suggestive half-grin. “I think if you invite us over to your house for a glass of wine, he might find it in his heart to forgive you.”

“Oh, is that what it’ll take?”

“Jump if you want Katie to take me home with her, Fido,” Rogan says, snapping his fingers. Fido’s ears twitch and he leaps straight up into the air.

“Wow! You’re great with rented dogs.”

“Thank you, but the real question is: How am I with beautiful makeup artists who walk their cats in the park?”

I look up into twinkling eyes, now the color of moss, and I answer honestly before I can think twice. “Better than most, dog whisperer. Better than most.”

I carry a still-shaken Dozer back to the park entrance, where Rogan drops off his rented dog. I can see the bedazzled look on Fido’s owner’s face when Rogan smiles his thanks. I know just how she feels. That smile is a showstopper for sure!

“So,” he says, putting his hand on the small of my back as we resume our walk to the parking lot, “which one is you?”

“Right there, but I don’t have any wine at my house,” I admit as I point to my blue convertible.

“What?” he exclaims, his expression stricken. “It’s a good thing I got here when I did. This could’ve ended badly. Luckily, I have just the thing. A sweet, aromatic red that will make your wineglass very happy.”

I stop before I step off the curb, sliding my eyes up to Rogan’s. He’s so close I can see the flecks of silver around his pupils, spraying out into the deep green of his irises like spilled mercury. The sparkling orbs drop to my lips and stay there for several seconds, forcing me to lick their dry surface. Almost without meaning to, he mirrors my action, the tip of his tongue trailing just along his bottom lip.

“I’ll follow you,” he rumbles quietly. I nod, tucking my chin as I start off across the lot. “And yes, I’ll be watching your ass as you walk away.”

I neither turn nor comment, but my butt feels suddenly warm and I smile all the way to my car.

BOOK: Tough Enough
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