“Of course not. I’m just a little surprised that you’re here alone.” It’s my turn to lean around him, looking for something. Or someone. “Or did you leave Victoria in the car with the window cracked?”
Damn me and my sharp tongue! Damn Rogan for loosening me up and then going for the kill! Damn Calm Katie for abandoning me when I need her most!
After a few long, tense seconds during which I manage to make myself so angry that I’m huffing, Rogan’s smile reappears, bigger than ever.
“Do you see a gun to my head?” he asks, confusing me.
“What?”
“Do you see a gun to my head?” Rogan makes a show of turning to look behind him. “Because that’s the only way in hell I’m spending time with her away from work.”
“I didn’t see anyone brandishing a firearm at the diner today,” I rebut.
“I was already eating when she came in and made herself comfortable. I figured the last thing I needed to do was make a scene at the only place I can get some decent food in this town. What if the cook is like the Soup Nazi and refuses to serve me if I make Victoria cry?” he asks dramatically.
The mere image of the Soup Nazi sternly turning Rogan away from the diner—No food for you!—is enough to make the corners of my mouth twitch. That and the incredible relief I feel that he didn’t go to lunch with her willingly. On purpose. Like a date.
“Victoria cries?” is all I can think of in response.
Rogan snorts. “Only over bad head shots.”
Before I can stop myself, I’m smiling a little. Rogan has spent almost a month convincing me that he’s so much more, so much better than what I gave him credit for in the beginning and, even though I shouldn’t care what he’s like, the soft parts of my heart are elated that it seems I might still have been wrong about him. This is one instance in which I’d love to be mistaken.
“So . . . a cat,” he says, visibly holding back a laugh as he eyes Dozer in his little cat harness, cuddled up in my arms.
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.”