Tough Enough

His eyes meet mine in the receding dark. I crawl up onto my knees and stare at him for a few seconds, memorizing this moment, this feeling, this man. I stroke my fingertips down his cheek, enjoying every prickle of his early-morning beard against my skin. I don’t ever want to forget what it feels like to touch a star. Not a star in Hollywood, but a star in my otherwise black sky. Bright and warm and oh-so-fleeting.

A tiny frown flickers between Rogan’s dark, glistening eyes. He turns his face and presses his lips to the center of my palm. As always, his kiss kindles a flame, one that, if left unchecked, burns its way into a raging inferno that only he can extinguish. It never dies, though. Not really. It always seems to be waiting there. Glowing embers, just beneath the surface, waiting for him to come along and bring them back to blazing life. Like he brought me to life.

I’m glad that he takes the time to make love to me once more before he goes, but I feel guilty when I see him scurrying about, rushing to get home to his responsibilities. I’m a selfish, selfish woman. Kurt will give him a terrible time if he’s late, I’m sure. But I can’t fully regret him staying with me a little longer. I could never regret a moment spent with him, no matter how awful the consequences.

Hours later, Rogan is there when I push through the doors at work. His smile shows no evidence of a bad morning with his brother. His smile never shows anything other than his easygoing, “take life by the balls” attitude. I’ll miss it. I’ll miss him.

After our normal odd conversation with Mona and her word of the day, I take my time putting makeup on Rogan. I relish the feel of his eyes on me, of his skin beneath my fingertips, of his closeness. And when he’s walking out my door with the tech, I fight back tears.

It’s as I’m cleaning up, preparing for the next person to fill my chair that I get a visit from Victoria. My stomach twists into a resentful knot when I see her. I hope my smile is as coolly polite as always, though.

“So, you enjoying your last day?” she asks.

I frown. “Pardon?”

“Your. Last. Day,” she repeats, barbs in her tone as she enunciates each syllable like English is my second language.

“My last day of what?”

“Being Rogan’s pretend girlfriend.”

“I’m not—” I stop myself. I’m not going to discuss Rogan with this pit-viper of a woman.

“Awww, you’re going to deny it? How nice of you to think that I care, but you can save it. Because I don’t. People like you don’t even register as a blip on my radar.” Her top lip draws back from her teeth, a sneer of disgust that clearly belies the sugar of her words. “I think it’s sweet that he took pity on someone like you, but I don’t want you to think it’ll last. He’ll be back with me before next weekend.” My heart is a sluggish thump behind my ribs as her face suddenly breaks into a blinding smile. “Okay, well, see you Monday.”

She slinks back through my door, turning her nose up to the man she passes. He plays a mafia don on the show and he’s next on my list for the day. He’s older and not very attractive, far beneath her notice, but he’s a nice guy. Too nice to keep company with the likes of her, anyway, even if she wanted to. But I still hate to see her treat him like his importance ranks somewhere just beneath that of gum on the bottom of her shoe.

I smile my same polite, professional, distant smile as he takes the chair and I go about my job. It takes all my concentration to hold my mask in place, a mask that says the dark cloud over my head didn’t just get a little bit darker.

•   •   •

“Did you bring your umbrella?” Rogan asks when the stewardess leaves to fetch our drinks at just after six Thursday evening.

“Yes. I packed it, but are you going to tell me why I’m bringing a polka-dot umbrella to New York when the forecast isn’t even calling for rain?”

Rogan’s lips curve into that lopsided, sexy smile that I love. “Oh, it’ll rain. You’ll see.”

The stewardess returns with two flutes of champagne. “What are we celebrating?” I ask as I inhale the sweet perfume of the bubbly liquid.

Rogan’s smile wanes as he watches me until he glances down at his glass. His expression takes on a hint of sadness. “More time.”

My heart! Oh God, my heart!

I can’t find a smile to give him, so I’m glad that he isn’t looking at me for one. “To more time.”

When he looks up to clink his glass against mine, his temporary melancholy seems to have lifted. He winks and takes a long sip of the delicious fizz.

“Where the hell is Patrice?” Kurt blares from behind us.

“Maybe she, ohhh I don’t know, has a day off now and then. Ya think?” Rogan calls back in sarcastic response.

I grin when I hear his brother mutter, “Asshole.”

“He’s so spoiled. Just a few flights on a private plane and he’s a diva. ‘Where’s Patrice?’ ‘Bring me peanuts!’ ‘Somebody pull this stick out of my ass!’” Rogan mocks in his best, low-key Kurt impression. He seems gratified when I laugh. I know he likes it. He’s said as much.

A man who likes to see me smile and make me laugh. Was it ever possible that I woudn’t fall in love with him?

I think I know the answer to that. Falling for Rogan feels like it was as inevitable as the sun rising or the stars shining.

“So, is this your plane?” I ask.

“Nah. I don’t fly enough to justify one. It’s leased by the agency that represents me. I guess when you’re dumb enough to get in the ring with some of the world’s deadliest fighters in order to make them millions of dollars, they figure the least they can do is give me a comfortable flight.”

“The very least. And do they have someone on board to give you a foot massage, too?”

“Not this flight. I thought if there was any . . . massaging to be done . . .” He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively and I roll my eyes, even though my stomach does a flip at his insinuation.

“You’re not going to say something about the mile-high club, are you?”

“I wasn’t, but now that you brought it up, I’d love to fill you in on the, ahem, package.”

I smother a laugh, resisting the urge to look back over my shoulder and make sure Kurt isn’t listening.

“I’m sure your brother wouldn’t have anything to say about that at all.”

Rogan scowls, as though he’d forgotten about his brother that quickly. “Damn it.”

“I guess you’ll just have to be on your best behavior today. Just this once.”

Rogan huffs loudly. “Fine. I guess we can watch a movie.” Reaching for my hand, Rogan kisses my knuckles and then looks into my eyes. “You know, of all the informative little tidbits that I so pleasurably dug out of you over the last six weeks, there’s one thing I never asked. What’s your favorite movie?”

“How could you be so remiss?” I gasp in mock horror.

“I was too busy being smitten to think about movies.”

My pulse stutters, but I do my best to ignore it and act natural. “But not too busy to find out what kind of facial hair I prefer on a man?”

“Hey, that’s a legit question. Sometimes I get the urge to grow a goatee. I needed to know where you stand on the matter.”

“Why? It’s not like you were going to be around very long.”

A shadow passes over his face, a mirror of the one that has hovered over my heart all week. More inevitability.

Too many things are inevitable, it seems. Love, loss. Ecstasy, heartbreak. To have, to have not.

“Don’t say things like that. It’s like you’re not even giving us a chance.”

I’m surprised by the snap in his voice.

“It’s not that. It’s just . . .” I trail off, looking down to study my fingernails as I ponder which way to go with this conversation. We both know what’s happening, but maybe we don’t need to discuss it. Maybe we can just pretend. For a little while longer. I quickly decide not to mar what beauty might be left in our last hours and days together. I do my best to recover outwardly. I lean my head back against the plush leather seat back and turn on a bright smile for Rogan. “I’ll give us every possible chance.”