“As . . . interesting as that sounds, I think I’ll pass, but thank you.”
“You leave me no choice then,” I tell her vaguely.
“No choice but to what?”
I pause for effect and then let it drag on for a little longer, just to crank up her curiosity. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” I ask, throwing her own words back at her.
I laugh when she narrows her eyes threateningly. I’m going to do much more than kiss her before this is over.
ELEVEN
Katie
On the fourth morning, I don’t even expect to see Mona until I reach my office. I think she’s as taken with Rogan as everyone else seems to be. I’m trying desperately not to fall into that trap, but it’s getting a little harder each day. Especially when I walk in to find him sitting in my makeup chair, early as always, patiently holding a cup of coffee that I know will be mine.
I try to enter quietly so as not to interrupt whatever Rogan is telling Mona that has her complete, undivided attention. She looks mesmerized, like the cobra in front of the snake charmer. As I look at her, leaning sexily against the counter all tall and blond and beautiful in front of one of Hollywood’s newest obsessions, I wonder why Rogan isn’t bringing her coffee and torturing her with his knee-buckling grin.
I don’t know the answer to that, I only know that when he turns to find me standing in the doorway and his eyes light up, I’m kinda glad that he’s not. Not that I ever wanted to feel this way again—giddy, flushed, excited over a guy—but if I’m honest, I have to admit that I missed feeling this . . . alive.
There’s a few seconds of silence, during which his sparkling green eyes just roam over me from head to toe. Then he stands to his full tall, lean height and carries my coffee and something else across the room to me. He holds me captive in his gaze, a hold that’s getting harder and harder to break the more he does it. In my peripheral vision, I see Mona’s blinding smile before she slips out the door, virtually unnoticed.
“Good morning, Beautiful Katie.” He says this so softly that I feel the words as much as I hear them. They’re like a warm breeze on my skin, a tender kiss on my lips. A velvety touch to my soul.
“Why do you call me that?” I ask, struggling to hang on to my resistance. Even to my ears, though, my question sounds weak. It wasn’t supposed to be. It was supposed to be defiant, maybe a little aggravated. Instead, it sounds like a futile effort. And it might very well be. At this point, I can be sure of nothing.
“Because that’s your name. And because it’s true.”
“I wish you wouldn’t call me that.” Some tiny voice inside me argues, No! Never, ever stop calling me that!
“Well, it’s that or darlin’. You pick.”
Hearing him call me darlin’ in his rough-yet-soft Texas twang is enough to twist my stomach into a knot. I’m not sure which is worse.
I clear my throat and try to maintain my composure in the face of his assault. Because that’s what it is. It’s a full-on assault of my senses, of my better judgment, of the person that I’ve constructed to keep everyone away from the real me.
“Maybe you should let me pick something else.”
“Nope. Those are your only choices.”
I sigh. “Well, since both are inappropriate, I’ll leave it up to you, then. I get the feeling it won’t do me any good to argue with you anyway.”
Half of his mouth quirks up into a grin. “You’re a quick study. And now that we got that out of the way, I’ve got something for you.”
“Let me guess. Coffee,” I say with a wry grin, my insides secretly bubbling over his continued interest in me, in this game. I genuinely figured he’d tire of it within hours, especially after spending his days on set with all the beautiful people.
“You’re half right,” he admits, handing me my cup of coffee, no doubt exactly the way I like it. I take a sip and watch him over the rim of the pseudo-Styrofoam. “I brought you fake candy,” he says, reaching into a box that I hadn’t even seen to produce a cute bouquet of miniature Snickers made to look like a spray of flowers in a short, red vase.
“But I also brought you real candy,” he continues, pulling a package of Skittles from inside the box, “and finally, smart-ass candy.”
I have to laugh when he removes the last item from the box. It’s a pocket-sized Webster’s Dictionary.
“What an . . . interesting assortment of gifts,” I say, my lips still curved. How is it possible that he’s made candy and a dictionary feel like diamonds and roses?
Because you’re stupid, my inner bitter girl snaps.