Tough Enough

“No,” I reply, fumbling with the strap.

Rogan watches me with an amused look on his face for a few seconds before he leans in and takes over. “Here, let me do it. You’ll never get it undone with those shaky hands.”

I glance down at my trembling fingers. “You didn’t scare me. I don’t know why I’m shaking.” Even though I think I really do.

“Adrenaline. You can’t help but feel it on that bike.”

I say nothing, more than happy to go with that explanation.

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 begi

“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 di

“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.

I feel gratified to get civility from him. “So I hear we’re having stir-fry. Your idea or his?” I tip my head to indicate Rogan, who is standing quietly at my side, watching our interaction. When I glance over at him, I see that it’s now his brow that’s creased with a frown. I smile at him and the wrinkles deepen. What is it with these men?

“Mine,” Kurt replies, shooting Rogan a quick grin as he wheels his chair one-hundred-eighty degrees and takes off toward the kitchen, which is separated only by a raised bar in this open floor plan.

“He’s full of shit. I’m the brains in this operation.”

“No, you’re the legs. I’m perfectly capable of doing everything else,” Kurt calls from in front of the refrigerator. When he turns back around, he’s holding two covered bowls in his lap and boasting a cocky grin that’s one hundred percent Rogan. “My legs are the only things that don’t work right.”

I smile again, sliding my eyes over to my Rogan. “He’s definitely your brother.”

I don’t know what happened to make him frown back there at the door, but his wink assures me that all is right with the world again.

By order of Rogan, I am confined to a chair during di

“You won’t have to worry about that. She’ll be too dazzled by me to give you a second thought,” Kurt says.

“You haven’t dazzled anybody since Regina Lawson in the second grade.”

“You wouldn’t know dazzling if it exploded right beside your head.”

“I’m the definition of dazzling.”

And so the banter goes until the table is set, the wine is poured and di

“I have better reflexes, which would make me the better pilot of the Mille