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.
No, it’s the thought that he put into these things that makes them special. It’s no wonder women can’t resist him.
“They’re actually dessert. For after you have lunch with me today.”
I glance back up at him, feeling my resolve weaken like the rest of me. But I can’t let it go. I can’t give up on it yet. The risk is too great.
“I really appreciate the offer. All of this,” I say, indicating my armful of goodies, “but I’m just . . . You’re not . . . I just don’t think it’s a good idea.”
For the first time, I see his unflappable good humor flag. “What’s it gonna take to win you over?” he asks. His tone is a vague mixture of irritation and exasperation.
“I’m not sure it can be done.”
I hate the sadness in my voice. Somewhere deep down, there’s still a girl in me who wants to love, who wants to trust, but she’s afraid. She’s afraid to risk it. But she’s also afraid that no one will ever try hard enough to dig her out, to unearth her from the rubble and debris that have kept her buried for so long. Because if no one does, she’ll die alone. Old and alone.
I thought I’d heard the last of that girl—her voice had gone so quiet—but Rogan has shown me that she’s still very much alive. And that men like him are still a danger to her.
Rogan tips his head to one side to study me. I resist the urge to tug my hair over my shoulder more securely, terrified that he’ll see too much, that he’ll ask too much.
“I’ve never lost a fight,” he says after so long that I almost startle when he speaks. “And I don’t intend to start now.”
With those words left hanging in the air between us, Rogan shakes off his seriousness, gives me that irresistible wink-and-grin combo, then turns to lope back to his chair.
When he’s seated, he kicks his ankle up onto his knee and starts to whistle. That’s when I realize that I might’ve found the one person who can outlast me.
? ? ?
I’ve never really loved or hated work. It’s just . . . work. I liked it less when I had to prepare Victoria Musser and a couple of her really nasty co-stars my first year here, but even then, I didn’t really hate it. Hate—or love for that matter—implies some active emotion, which requires being fully involved in one’s life. I don’t feel that I’ve been fully involved in my life since the accident. Maybe it’s a side effect of having everything you’ve ever known, wanted and loved taken from you in a single night. Maybe it’s depression when left untreated. Or maybe it’s just a symptom of being . . . me. Weird, abnormal, slightly less-than-average me. Whatever the reason, I haven’t experienced many strong emotions—positive or negative—in roughly five years.