Tough Enough

His face is relaxed and his lips are curved, but there’s a hardness to his eyes that gives me pause. “I’m hearing it. The only thing that’s keeping me from kicking his ass is sympathy. I know how it feels to want to kiss a beautiful makeup artist.”

“I don’t want to kiss just any beautiful makeup artist. I want to kiss this one.”

My face flames under the heat of so much attention. I glance shyly from Kurt to Rogan. Something about his expression tells me that he’s no longer having fun. I wonder if the cause is his brother’s overtly flirtatious commentary. That seems to be the only thing that has changed, and as much as I shouldn’t care whether Rogan is jealous, the prospect that he might be sends a little thrill through me.

“Well, unfortunately, you’re both out of luck. I’m a terrible kisser, so it would hardly be fair for me to judge.”

“That’s highly unlikely,” Kurt declares.

When I glance at Rogan, his eyes are a dark emerald sparkle in the handsomely ta

Clearing my throat, I stand and grab my plate to take it into the kitchen, but Kurt stops me. “Leave it!” he barks. I freeze, mid-motion, glancing across the table at him questioningly. His face breaks into a boyish grin. “You’re a guest. You shouldn’t have to clean up.”

“But I—”

“Ah ah ah,” he clucks, shaking his head and wheeling around to my side of the table. “No arguments.”

Kurt takes my plate from my fingers and places it in his lap before he wheels around to collect the rest of the plates from the table. With one aggressive fling of his powerful arms, he sends his chair careening across the hardwood and into the kitchen.

When I can only see the top of Kurt’s head in front of the sink, I turn to Rogan. His expression is unfathomable and his eyes are heavy-lidded as they watch me. I try not to fidget under his curious scrutiny and my voice is a hoarse croak when I speak. “Thank you for di

“Thank you for coming.”

“A-are you okay?” I ask.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

I give him a one-shouldered shrug. “I don’t know. You just seem . . . off.”

Rogan grins, an action that transforms his face into the one I’m most familiar with, making my belly do a little flip. The brooding version was like a stranger. “Does that mean you prefer me when I’m on?”

His eyes twinkle as he comes to stand before me, less than six inches separating us as he stares down into my face.

“I didn’t say that,” I reply, a bit more breathless than I’d like to be.

Rogan reaches up and drags the back of his index finger under the edge of my lower lip. “You didn’t have to.” For a few seconds, I tense, wondering if he’s going to try to kiss me, but then he winks, reaching for my hand and tipping his head toward the other side of the room. “Since Kurt volunteered for cleanup, let’s go out onto the patio and get started, ’kay?”

I nod, shivering at the heat that pours from his palm into mine. It flows up my arm as Rogan leads me through the living room to a wall of windows. Two of them are giant sliding panels that open onto a softly lit travertine patio. Directly in front of me lies a lagoon-style pool, the water inside it a deep blue. Overflow spills from the attached spa, creating a soothing backdrop. It gives the backyard a Zen garden feel.

An area rug to one side holds a grouping of wicker furniture that sits beneath a pergola. A dozen creamy lanterns hang overhead. They shed their warm, romantic light on the intimate setting like twelve tiny moons.

Rogan moves to the sofa and releases my hand, gesturing for me to have a seat. “We can go over the lines a couple of times and then try it a few times without cheat sheets,” he says with a grin, referring to two sets of script pages that seem to have appeared in his other hand like magic.

I nod again. “That’s fine.” I take the proffered pages from his extended hand and sit stiffly on the edge of a cushion.

A stab of nostalgia slices through my heart as I look over the two pages of dialogue and notes. There was a time when something like this would’ve energized and motivated me, a time when my place was in front of the camera rather than in the shadows behind it. But that time is past. Now, I just feel . . . empty. If I’d only known how much my dreams would cost me . . .

“Have you ever read through a script before? Do you want me to—”

“Yes, I’m familiar with them,” I answer soberly.

Rogan gives me several minutes to read silently through the pages before he asks, “Ready?”

Again, I nod. “I think so.”

“I’ll start from where shooting will resume.” Rogan clears his throat.

Back and forth, we read our lines. The first time, it’s more perfunctory. The second round has a little more emotion to it as I get used to the scene. The third time seems much more relaxed and real.

When he finishes with the last line, Rogan glances up at me. His brow wrinkles slightly. “You’re not reading from the script?”

“No. I think I’ve got it down pretty good.”

Rogan’s eyebrows shoot up. He’s impressed. That pleases me, even though it shouldn’t. I just hope he doesn’t start asking questions.

“Do you want to try them standing up, then? The scene calls for us to be standing in the office of my character’s club.”

“Sure.”

Rogan stands and I quickly follow suit, wiping my damp palms on my jeans. The scene somehow plays a little too close to reality for me and I wonder if Rogan will try to finish it completely. With a kiss. My stomach feels all squirmy just thinking about it.

Rogan walks to the edge of the pool where the lantern light is mostly faded. We are minimally illuminated by the blue glow of the water. For the most part, we are in a dark bubble all by ourselves.

The first line drifts through the night, bridging the small distance between us like a velvet cord, drawing me into Rogan’s world.

“You wanted it. You wanted the truth.”

“Not like this. Not this way. I thought you were different. I thought—”

“Bullshit!” he explodes, startling me even though I knew what he was going to say. “You knew exactly what you were getting in to, what kind of man I am.”

“But I’ve never . . .”

It’s easy to be timid, to play the role of this confused, cowed girl trying to resist that which she wants so badly. That which she knows will destroy her. In some ways, she’s not a far stretch for me.

“You’ve never what? Had someone want you because of how it feels instead of what you can give them?”

Rogan’s voice is low as he takes a step toward me. I can feel the shivering of my nerves, just as this character probably feels the shivering of hers.

“You know who my father is. Some people will do anything to get close to him.”

“Well, I’m not one of those people. I don’t give a damn about your father. And neither should you. This is about us. This is about what I’m going to do to you the second you stop pretending you don’t feel this, too.”

I lick my lips. Not because I’m pretending to be someone else, but because right now, with Rogan so close that I can smell his soap, I’m not.

“I can’t . . . This isn’t something that I . . .”

The arguments are the same stilted ones I would use if this were the real Rogan talking to the real me, trying to convince me to let go of my hang-ups.

“Liar. You can. And this is something that you—”

“If they ever find out . . . If anyone ever knows . . .”

“It’s too late for that, sweetheart. You’re already mine.”

“I’m not yours yet. There’s still time.”

“No, there’s not. I’m going to kiss you. Kiss you like you need to be kissed. Like you’ve always wanted to be kissed. And in a week’s time, I’ll be back. On that night, you’ll have a decision to make.”