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.
FOURTEEN
Rogan
I’m not the least bit surprised by the little house that Katie pulls up in front of. It suits her perfectly. It’s cute and pretty in a quiet, understated way. It looks calm and soothing, a place I can easily picture Katie unwinding each night.
I pull to a stop behind her convertible. When she gets out, she casts an odd look my way. I know what she’s thinking. It’s about my form of transportation.
I grab the bottle of wine and extra glass that I brought and get out to follow her up the neat sidewalk, through a wrought-iron gate and onto an even neater walk that leads to her front door. I bet Katie pulls every weed that comes up within sight of her house. She strikes me as the type who likes things tidy and in order, but that’s not what makes me smile. What makes me smile is the image of her in some tiny shorts and a tiny tank top, hair piled up on top of her head, pulling weeds.