Tough Enough(56)

When he straightens and brushes grass off his hands, he grins up at me. “How’s this for a place to rehearse?”

I sigh loudly. “I guess it’ll do. I mean, if I have to rough it,” I add, sniffing theatrically.

“Well, if this isn’t to your liking, I feel sure I can think of something more . . . comfortable for you to sit on later.”

I feel heat sting my cheeks and all the play drains right out of me, flushed away by the surge of desire.

“What, no smart-ass retort?” he teases, stretching out on his side and patting the blanket next to him.

“I’m sure I’d have one if I could think,” I reply honestly.

Rogan laughs, a sound that I’m quickly falling in love with. It’s a rich rumble that seems to come from his soul. It always makes me want to smile, like I can’t help enjoying what he’s enjoying. “I like your style, Ms. Rydale.”

I know he doesn’t mean that kind of style, but his comment brings to mind my wardrobe, which in turn brings to mind the concealing blouse I chose and the comforting swath of hair that resides where it does every day—covering my scars.

I kneel on the spread and set Dozer down. He walks all of four feet, to the edge of the blanket, and flops down, falling almost immediately to sleep. Rogan, watching him, shakes his head in amazement.

“A narcoleptic cat. Who knew?”

I giggle as I slide in beside Rogan, pulling my feet up under me. “So, what feast did you bring us?” I ask, inclining my head toward the huge basket resting behind Dozer.

“Ah-ah-ah. Work first, play later.”

I’m surprised. “We’re really going to run lines?” I thought it was just his way of teasing me.

“Yep. Sure are. I want to get this right the first time tomorrow.”

“I’m sure you will. You’re quite good.”

Rogan looks genuinely pleased. “Thank you. I noticed that you’ve got mad skills at all this. Have you ever acted? Or considered acting?”

I feel myself tense. I know Rogan’s question was innocent enough, but it still stirs memories that I never like reflecting upon.

I could hedge. Make up something to put him off, but since he’s been so honest with me, told me such painful things, I feel that I owe him the truth.

I take a deep breath, gathering my courage. “Actually, that’s what I originally went to school for.”

“What? Acting?” Now he seems surprised.

“Yes.”

“Why the hell didn’t you pursue it? Is it because of your burns? Because—”

“No, no. Not really,” I interrupt, not wanting to discuss them again. I would still much rather pretend that they aren’t there, or that he can’t see them. “Since I was a little girl, I always dreamed about being an actress. I tried out for every school play that I could, watched as many movies as I was allowed, studied the greats. You know how kids are. But my parents were very, very strict. They didn’t want me in the spotlight like that. They wouldn’t even consider letting me attend The Julliard. But I applied anyway and was accepted with a full scholarship.”

Rogan sits up from where he was resting back on his elbow. “You got a scholarship to The Julliard?”

I smile, but it’s no longer a proud smile. It’s just sad. “I did. But they still refused to let me pursue it. They wanted me to be a pharmacist.”

“Well, it’s not too late, you know,” he says, his expression rife with resentful determination. “You should chase your dreams, damn it.”

I wave him off. “No, I actually did that. Only it didn’t work out so well.” I clear my throat, twirling a stray piece of grass between my fingers, anything to give my hands something to do and my eyes something to focus on other than Rogan. “It was what I wanted, and even though my parents were against it and very upset with me for applying anyway, I packed up and left. I did what I wanted to do. At the time it didn’t matter what they wanted.”

“But it didn’t work out?” Rogan asks, his warm palm covering my bare foot nearest him.

“Not in the end. At first it was great. I accepted the scholarship and moved to New York. Within a couple of months of being at The Julliard, I was getting a lot of attention. Instructors, directors, local theater. They keep an eye on all the productions put on at the arts center and I guess for a while, I was the apple of their eye. The up-and-comer to watch.” My laugh is bitter. I can’t help it. It wells within me when I think back on my life, on my decisions. On fate. “I was in the paper a few times the summer after my freshman year. It was surreal. And that got me the notice of a guy.”