“Oh, is that what it’ll take?”
“Jump if you want Katie to take me home with her, Fido,” Rogan says, snapping his fingers. Fido’s ears twitch and he leaps straight up into the air.
“Wow! You’re great with rented dogs.”
“Thank you, but the real question is: How am I with beautiful makeup artists who walk their cats in the park?”
I look up into twinkling eyes, now the color of moss, and I answer honestly before I can think twice. “Better than most, dog whisperer. Better than most.”
I carry a still-shaken Dozer back to the park entrance, where Rogan drops off his rented dog. I can see the bedazzled look on Fido’s owner’s face when Rogan smiles his thanks. I know just how she feels. That smile is a showstopper for sure!
“So,” he says, putting his hand on the small of my back as we resume our walk to the parking lot, “which one is you?”
“Right there, but I don’t have any wine at my house,” I admit as I point to my blue convertible.
“What?” he exclaims, his expression stricken. “It’s a good thing I got here when I did. This could’ve ended badly. Luckily, I have just the thing. A sweet, aromatic red that will make your wineglass very happy.”
I stop before I step off the curb, sliding my eyes up to Rogan’s. He’s so close I can see the flecks of silver around his pupils, spraying out into the deep green of his irises like spilled mercury. The sparkling orbs drop to my lips and stay there for several seconds, forcing me to lick their dry surface. Almost without meaning to, he mirrors my action, the tip of his tongue trailing just along his bottom lip.
“I’ll follow you,” he rumbles quietly. I nod, tucking my chin as I start off across the lot. “And yes, I’ll be watching your ass as you walk away.”
I neither turn nor comment, but my butt feels suddenly warm and I smile all the way to my car.
FOURTEEN
Rogan
I’m not the least bit surprised by the little house that Katie pulls up in front of. It suits her perfectly. It’s cute and pretty in a quiet, understated way. It looks calm and soothing, a place I can easily picture Katie unwinding each night.
I pull to a stop behind her convertible. When she gets out, she casts an odd look my way. I know what she’s thinking. It’s about my form of transportation.
I grab the bottle of wine and extra glass that I brought and get out to follow her up the neat sidewalk, through a wrought-iron gate and onto an even neater walk that leads to her front door. I bet Katie pulls every weed that comes up within sight of her house. She strikes me as the type who likes things tidy and in order, but that’s not what makes me smile. What makes me smile is the image of her in some tiny shorts and a tiny tank top, hair piled up on top of her head, pulling weeds.
Down on her hands and knees.
Mother of hell!
“What are you smiling at?” she asks as she shifts her cat to finagle her key into the lock.
I don’t tell her exactly what I was thinking, of course. I go back a thought or two until I find something that wouldn’t send her running like a frightened deer. “Just wondering if I was right about what you were thinking.”
When she misses the hole the second time, I take her keys from her and let us in. She pauses in the doorway, blocking my entrance with her small body. “And just what do you think I was thinking?”
“That you wouldn’t have pictured a guy like me driving a minivan.”
She looks sheepish and I know I was right. “I guess I am a little surprised.”
“I figured,” I admit as she finally moves inside, allowing me to follow. The instant I close the door behind me, the cat jumps out of her arms, walks about ten steps into the living room, flops down on its side and goes straight to sleep.
“Damn, does the cat always do that?”