Tough Enough(26)

I figure now’s not the time to ask. The best thing I can do is leave; leave her in peace and hope I can pick up the pieces tomorrow.





FIFTEEN


Katie

Whereas I’ve been so excited to come to work these last weeks since Rogan’s been here, today, for the first time, I’m actively dreading it. God! Rogan must think I’m some sort of weirdo freak.

And he wouldn’t be wrong.

I never really wanted him to find out, though. I don’t know how, exactly, I planned to avoid it, but I had been living in some sort of fantasyland where it was entirely possible that he wouldn’t.

Maybe I just thought that this whole thing could play out in my head without ever really getting . . . real. Or physical. Even though I’ll admit to being curious about his kiss. I’ve thought about it more times than I’ve probably thought about anything else. And the reality of it . . . Sweet Mary! I couldn’t be any more thrilled with that.

Even as I think back on it, I shiver. I can’t ever remember someone’s kiss making me feel like my insides are on fire. But Rogan’s did. It’s probably a good thing he ran his hands into my hair, snapping me back to reality. I was enjoying that far too much. I was lost to everything but him and what he was making me feel.

And that could never end well.

Despite my dread and upset, even now, my stomach feels warm and my legs feel tingly at the mere thought of his lips and tongue. What kind of a kiss makes a person’s legs tingle? A damn good one, I guess. And the sad thing is that it was just a kiss. He wasn’t touching anything below my collarbone and it was . . . was . . . oh God!

I stop just outside my “office” door and take a few deep breaths. I wait until my heartbeat is a little calmer and I can breathe like I didn’t just run a fifty-mile marathon before showing myself.

When I feel a bit more collected, I turn the corner into my space, fully expecting the same scene that has greeted me for weeks now. To say that I’m disappointed at what I find is a tragic understatement.

My area is empty. There’s no flirty Rogan in my chair. There’s no mischievous Mona talking his ear off. It’s just . . . empty. Just me and my space. And no one else. I’m surrounded by the quiet and the solitude that I’ve craved for years now. It’s always made me feel alone, but never lonely.

Until today.

I go about my usual early-morning duties in slow motion, chastising myself the whole time for being ridiculous. I mean, why get so upset over something so silly? And how stupid was it of me to expect anything from a guy like Rogan? He was bound to disappoint me one day. Might as well be today.

I’m lost in thought, opening a pack of new brushes, when a familiar deep voice suddenly breaks into my tailspin. My movements still as I listen to Rogan laugh from out in the hall somewhere, a sound that’s accompanied by Mona’s excited giggle. I hear them drawing closer to my room and I resume my activity, anything to keep my now-trembling hands busy.

Just before they enter, I hear Mona and Rogan quiet. I listen closely, but hear no sound at all. Afraid to turn around, I place brush after brush in a straight line in the neat and orderly drawer that contains other similar brushes, until the task is complete. I crumple the plastic in my hand and close the drawer quietly before I’m forced to turn around.

I nearly head butt Rogan’s chest. Somehow, he managed to creep up behind me without me hearing a single sound.

A surprised squeak-gasp combo squeezes past my lips. “You scared me!” I admit breathlessly.

“I’m sorry!” he replies. Then, with his sincere eyes locked on mine, he adds, “I didn’t mean to scare you. I promise.”

I know he’s referring to more than just this morning. He’s probably apologizing for what happened last night. Immediately, I’m off-kilter. But that’s what Rogan does—he throws me off balance. With no conscious effort on his part, it seems. I doubt he realizes that he’s practically turning my fickle emotions inside out.

“It’s fine,” I say, taking a step back. I feel the counter brush the backs of my legs. I can retreat no farther, which only frazzles me even more.

His eyes, brilliantly green this morning, search mine for several tense seconds before Rogan raises his hand between us. “I brought coffee.”

Thankful to have something, anything else to focus on, I look at the cup. It’s shorter and fatter, and boasts the label Main Street Diner on the side. I take it from him, frowning as I sniff.

“The coffeemaker here is broken so I went across to the diner to get some. Extra hot, extra cream, although I’m not sure how the extra hot held up during the commute.”