Until today.
It’s been almost three weeks since that first morning when I stumbled upon Kiefer Rogan sitting, big as life, in my makeup chair. I didn’t have a clue at the time what a force to be reckoned with he could be.
But I do now.
Each day that I’ve seen him, he’s battered away at whatever kind of emotional stone castle I’ve ensconced myself within. Now I feel weaknesses all around me. Part of me is alarmed by that, but it’s been such a pleasant battering, I’ve barely noticed him doing it. All of a sudden, I’m just . . . different. Different than I was yesterday, even more different than I was the day before, and even more different than I was a week ago. I doubt anyone other than me notices, but I can feel it. And I know who’s to blame.
Each morning, Rogan has presented me with some kooky gift that relates to whatever little tidbit he managed to glean about me the day before—a package of Fireballs (when he found out I love cinnamon), a stuffed teddy bear (when he found out that was my favorite childhood toy), a polka-dot umbrella (when he found out it was the one thing I asked for on my sixteenth birthday and never got). And those are just a few things. I have no idea how he comes across half this stuff in a town like Enchantment, but he does. Maybe he orders it, I don’t know. But try as I might, it’s getting harder and harder not to love his thoughtful determination.
I’m not sure what to expect from today. Yesterday, he asked me a wide range of questions, so it’s hard to say what he might’ve focused on. I’m already smiling in anticipation, though. He always seems to surprise me. And very pleasantly so.
“There she is!” Mona exclaims boisterously when I walk through the door. “Looking mighty . . .” She pauses to flip to a random page of the pocket dictionary that now occupies a spot on my countertop, courtesy of Rogan. Mona’s new morning routine is to pick a word from its pages and use it as often as possible throughout the day. “Magnanimous.” Her smile is proud and delighted.
I grin. “And just how does one look magnanimous?”
“Well,” she begins, glancing back into the dictionary for the meaning of the word. She slaps it shut, straightens her snug button-up blouse and pulls at the very short hem of her black satin shorts. “It’s your hair. It makes you look very . . . generous.”
“My hair makes me look generous?”
“Yep. I’ve always told you that you have great hair. That’s why. It makes you look magnanimous.” She nods as if to say that explains it all.
I hear Rogan snort from behind her, drawing my attention to him. As usual, once my gaze is there, I can’t pull it away until he chooses to let me. His eyes have a kind of magnetism, like a lush forest of higher gravity that draws me inexplicably toward it and then it refuses to let me go.
“I could say many things about her hair, about the way it shines like a dark penny in the light, or the way it frames her breathtaking face, but I have to say that it has never once brought to mind the word ‘magnanimous,’” Rogan teases, his gaze still trained on me even though he’s addressing Mona.
“Of course you’d say that. You’re infatuated with her. I can view her more objectively,” she says, winking at me as she uses yet another of her pocket dictionary treasures.
“That I am,” Rogan confesses quietly, one corner of his sculpted mouth dipping in to reveal the dimple in his cheek that I haven’t seen since that first day. It’s enchanting, just like the rest of him. And he didn’t need any more help.
Mona pats his shoulder. “Hang in there. You’ve got Mona on your side. You’ll crack that nut before too long.”