I try to enter quietly so as not to interrupt whatever Rogan is telling Mona that has her complete, undivided attention. She looks mesmerized, like the cobra in front of the snake charmer. As I look at her, leaning sexily against the counter all tall and blond and beautiful in front of one of Hollywood’s newest obsessions, I wonder why Rogan isn’t bringing her coffee and torturing her with his knee-buckling grin.

I don’t know the answer to that, I only know that when he turns to find me standing in the doorway and his eyes light up, I’m kinda glad that he’s not. Not that I ever wanted to feel this way again—giddy, flushed, excited over a guy—but if I’m honest, I have to admit that I missed feeling this . . . alive.

There’s a few seconds of silence, during which his sparkling green eyes just roam over me from head to toe. Then he stands to his full tall, lean height and carries my coffee and something else across the room to me. He holds me captive in his gaze, a hold that’s getting harder and harder to break the more he does it. In my peripheral vision, I see Mona’s blinding smile before she slips out the door, virtually unnoticed.

“Good morning, Beautiful Katie.” He says this so softly that I feel the words as much as I hear them. They’re like a warm breeze on my skin, a tender kiss on my lips. A velvety touch to my soul.

“Why do you call me that?” I ask, struggling to hang on to my resistance. Even to my ears, though, my question sounds weak. It wasn’t supposed to be. It was supposed to be defiant, maybe a little aggravated. Instead, it sounds like a futile effort. And it might very well be. At this point, I can be sure of nothing.

“Because that’s your name. And because it’s true.”

“I wish you wouldn’t call me that.” Some tiny voice inside me argues, No! Never, ever stop calling me that!

“Well, it’s that or darlin’. You pick.”

Hearing him call me darlin’ in his rough-yet-soft Texas twang is enough to twist my stomach into a knot. I’m not sure which is worse.

I clear my throat and try to maintain my composure in the face of his assault. Because that’s what it is. It’s a full-on assault of my senses, of my better judgment, of the person that I’ve constructed to keep everyone away from the real me.

“Maybe you should let me pick something else.”

“Nope. Those are your only choices.”

I sigh. “Well, since both are inappropriate, I’ll leave it up to you, then. I get the feeling it won’t do me any good to argue with you anyway.”

Half of his mouth quirks up into a grin. “You’re a quick study. And now that we got that out of the way, I’ve got something for you.”

“Let me guess. Coffee,” I say with a wry grin, my insides secretly bubbling over his continued interest in me, in this game. I genuinely figured he’d tire of it within hours, especially after spending his days on set with all the beautiful people.

“You’re half right,” he admits, handing me my cup of coffee, no doubt exactly the way I like it. I take a sip and watch him over the rim of the pseudo-Styrofoam. “I brought you fake candy,” he says, reaching into a box that I hadn’t even seen to produce a cute bouquet of miniature Snickers made to look like a spray of flowers in a short, red vase.

“But I also brought you real candy,” he continues, pulling a package of Skittles from inside the box, “and finally, smart-ass candy.”

I have to laugh when he removes the last item from the box. It’s a pocket-sized Webster’s Dictionary.

“What an . . . interesting assortment of gifts,” I say, my lips still curved. How is it possible that he’s made candy and a dictionary feel like diamonds and roses?

Because you’re stupid, my inner bitter girl snaps.

No, it’s the thought that he put into these things that makes them special. It’s no wonder women can’t resist him.

“They’re actually dessert. For after you have lunch with me today.”

I glance back up at him, feeling my resolve weaken like the rest of me. But I can’t let it go. I can’t give up on it yet. The risk is too great.

“I really appreciate the offer. All of this,” I say, indicating my armful of goodies, “but I’m just . . . You’re not . . . I just don’t think it’s a good idea.”

For the first time, I see his unflappable good humor flag. “What’s it gonna take to win you over?” he asks. His tone is a vague mixture of irritation and exasperation.

“I’m not sure it can be done.”

I hate the sadness in my voice. Somewhere deep down, there’s still a girl in me who wants to love, who wants to trust, but she’s afraid. She’s afraid to risk it. But she’s also afraid that no one will ever try hard enough to dig her out, to unearth her from the rubble and debris that have kept her buried for so long. Because if no one does, she’ll die alone. Old and alone.

I thought I’d heard the last of that girl—her voice had gone so quiet—but Rogan has shown me that she’s still very much alive. And that men like him are still a danger to her.

Rogan tips his head to one side to study me. I resist the urge to tug my hair over my shoulder more securely, terrified that he’ll see too much, that he’ll ask too much.

“I’ve never lost a fight,” he says after so long that I almost startle when he speaks. “And I don’t intend to start now.”

With those words left hanging in the air between us, Rogan shakes off his seriousness, gives me that irresistible wink-and-grin combo, then turns to lope back to his chair.

When he’s seated, he kicks his ankle up onto his knee and starts to whistle. That’s when I realize that I might’ve found the one person who can outlast me.

•   •   •

I’ve never really loved or hated work. It’s just . . . work. I liked it less when I had to prepare Victoria Musser and a couple of her really nasty co-stars my first year here, but even then, I didn’t really hate it. Hate—or love for that matter—implies some active emotion, which requires being fully involved in one’s life. I don’t feel that I’ve been fully involved in my life since the accident. Maybe it’s a side effect of having everything you’ve ever known, wanted and loved taken from you in a single night. Maybe it’s depression when left untreated. Or maybe it’s just a symptom of being . . . me. Weird, abnormal, slightly less-than-average me. Whatever the reason, I haven’t experienced many strong emotions—positive or negative—in roughly five years.

Until today.

It’s been almost three weeks since that first morning when I stumbled upon Kiefer Rogan sitting, big as life, in my makeup chair. I didn’t have a clue at the time what a force to be reckoned with he could be.

But I do now.

Each day that I’ve seen him, he’s battered away at whatever kind of emotional stone castle I’ve ensconced myself within. Now I feel weaknesses all around me. Part of me is alarmed by that, but it’s been such a pleasant battering, I’ve barely noticed him doing it. All of a sudden, I’m just . . . different. Different than I was yesterday, even more different than I was the day before, and even more different than I was a week ago. I doubt anyone other than me notices, but I can feel it. And I know who’s to blame.

Each morning, Rogan has presented me with some kooky gift that relates to whatever little tidbit he managed to glean about me the day before—a package of Fireballs (when he found out I love cinnamon), a stuffed teddy bear (when he found out that was my favorite childhood toy), a polka-dot umbrella (when he found out it was the one thing I asked for on my sixteenth birthday and never got). And those are just a few things. I have no idea how he comes across half this stuff in a town like Enchantment, but he does. Maybe he orders it, I don’t know. But try as I might, it’s getting harder and harder not to love his thoughtful determination.