When Rogan finally frees me of the helmet and hangs it on the opposite handlebar, he reaches for my hand again. He’s very matter-of-fact as he curls his slightly rough fingers around my unsteady ones.
“Do you like stir-fry?” he asks as we walk side by side up the path made up of geometric concrete shapes that dot the grass.
“I do.”
“Good. I was trying to think of something that wouldn’t ruin by the time we got here, so I just cut up all the ingredients and left them in the fridge. It won’t take long to cook them.”
I pull up short, my shocked eyes turned to Rogan. “You literally cooked for me?”
“Well, not yet. I literally cut and chopped for you, though.”
“Wow. I’m impressed.”
Startling me yet again, Rogan throws both hands up into the air and shouts, “Finally! Thank God!”
“Finally what?” I ask, confused.
“Finally! I managed to impress you.”
I suppress a grin. “Like you ever had doubts.”
“I was beginning to wonder. It was startin’ to look like God had given you the gift of anti-Rogan blood.”
“Is there such a thing?”
“I didn’t think so, but you had me scared there for a minute.”
His grin is so cocky, yet so charming and cute that the only thing I can do is smile and roll my eyes.
“Well, there’s no reason to worry. You’ve accomplished your mission. Now you can stop trying.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” he asks with a wink just before he reaches around me to open the big white front door.
He motions for me to precede him, which I do, looking around the spacious foyer-slash-great-room combo as he closes the door behind us. When I make it full circle to once again face Rogan, I stumble back a step. I wasn’t expecting for a man in a wheelchair to have somehow silently rolled up and stopped less than a foot from where I stand.
The guy reaches out to grab my wrist just as Rogan’s arm comes around my waist to steady me.
“Sorry,” he says in a low, gruff voice. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
“You must be Rogan’s brother,” I say kindly, trying not to feel put off by his frown. If it weren’t for that, he’d look a lot like Rogan with his blond hair and green eyes. He even has the same strong jaw and slightly crooked nose. But where Rogan appears happy and charismatic, his brother just seems . . . cold.
“Yep. I’m the cripple,” he remarks snidely, casting an angry glare at Rogan.
“He didn’t mention that part,” I lie in an effort to diffuse the palpable tension. Well, it’s not technically a lie. Rogan didn’t say he was crippled; he said he was handicapped. Semantics, yes, but still . . . “Thank you for having me to dinner.”
“Like I had much choice.” Another fuming look thrown at Rogan.
“If I’m imposing, I can come back another time. I don’t want to put you out.”
Finally, the brother looks at me as though he’s seeing me for the first time and not some tool Rogan is using to infuriate him. “No, you’re fine.”
For some reason, I feel sorry for this man. I know it would kill him to know this, but I can’t seem to help it. It’s not for his handicap that I pity him, though; it’s for his anger. I know from past experience that anger and bitterness can eat you alive and steal away what life you have left if you let it. It’s best to just let go and move on whenever possible.
It’s with this sense of sorrow that I feel for him that I stick out my hand and put on my biggest smile. “Great, then. I’m Katie. It’s nice to meet you, Rogan’s brother.”
He watches me silently for several long seconds before he looks down at my outstretched hand and then back up to my face.
“Kurt. It’s nice to meet you, Katie,” he replies, a very small smile curving his lips.