I sneak glances at her as she and her friend are seated. I watch her laugh, albeit quietly, and I watch her lips move as she orders. She hasn’t seen me. She makes a point not to look around. God forbid someone notice her.

When her food comes, I find it even harder to pretend that I’m listening to Victoria. I’m not surprised when Katie orders real food in the form of a burger, fries and a milk shake. For some reason it fits. And watching her eat . . . Jesus H. Christ! She takes voracious bites, bites that make me want to strip her down, stretch her out up on the table, and enjoy eating her the way she’s ravenously enjoying her meal. Right in front of everyone. I wouldn’t care who was watching. She captivates me that much, dominates my thoughts to that degree.

And, evidently, it shows.

“What’s so interesting?” Victoria asks, a little ice in her tone.

“Huh?”

“You’re staring. What’s so interesting that you can’t even listen to what I’m saying?”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “Oh, nothing. I was just thinking about, uh, something I saw on television last night.”

Lie. Big, fat lie, but I’m not getting into this with Victoria of all people. Katie doesn’t deserve that kind of negative attention.

Her expression says she believes me Not. One. Bit.

But considering the level of her vanity, my distraction does absolutely nothing to dissuade her from continuing her one-sided conversation.

I try to pull myself back to the table a few times, but mostly I continue to watch the little witch across the room. I figure I’m about thirty percent successful until the waitress delivers a piece of pie to Katie’s table. That’s when I lose the battle.

Her eyes get wide and a real smile spreads across her face as the waitress sets it in front of her. She grabs her fork without even taking her eyes off the cream-covered triangle.

And then she digs in.

I can’t take my eyes off her when she brings a heap of pale green custard to her mouth. She slides it onto her tongue and then closes her lips around the fork, pulling it slowly from between them. She doesn’t chew for a few seconds; she just lets the pie sit in her mouth. Her eyes close in ecstasy and I can all but hear her moan of delight.

Blood rushes to my cock as that imaginary moan accompanies my previous thought of her lying naked beneath me.

Holy hell!

I’ve never thought food, or watching someone eat it for that matter, to be a particularly erotic activity, but I stand corrected.

I’m watching, waiting for Katie to take another bite, when I’m brought back to my own table by a loud, waspish, “Rogan!”

Irritated at the interruption, I bark at Victoria, “What?”

I manage to pull my eyes away from Katie long enough to focus on my ex’s furious expression. “What the hell are you so interested in over there?” She turns in her seat and scans the diner before swiveling back to me. “What? Did you spot Elvis or something? I don’t see what you find so fascinating.”

Even though she had to have seen her, Victoria obviously doesn’t find Katie a noteworthy sight and can’t imagine that I’d find her noteworthy either. I guess Katie has become so adept at being a wallflower that she has others overlooking her, too. I don’t see how. I don’t see how anyone can overlook her wavy auburn hair, her flawless skin, her perfectly round tits, tucked away under a shirt that screams TOUCH ME NOT and makes me want to touch so, so much.

Shiiit!

The strain of my hard-on against my zipper is a better wake-up call than ten pissed-off Victorias. I’m in a public place, for God’s sake. With my vicious ex. Not at all the time to let lurid thoughts of a hot-and-shy little makeup artist get to me. I can wait until tonight. Maybe then I’ll be able to taste what’s been keeping me awake at night.

Shaking my head, I clear my throat and nod toward Victoria’s half-eaten salad. “You done?”

I suppress my sneer. I’d much rather Victoria eat like an actual person than like a starving bird. I’d much rather she eat like Katie. But she’s no Katie. Not by a long shot.

“Yes,” Victoria replies in one petulant syllable.

I throw some bills onto the table. “Good. Let’s get out of here.”

I follow Victoria to the door, sparing one last glance in Katie’s direction. When I find her, her mouth is open and her fork is raised, but she’s not sliding the bite of pie onto her tongue. She’s stopped dead, mid-bite. Frozen. When I see her eyes, I don’t have to ask why she stopped. The wide, hurt orbs are burning right through me.

THIRTEEN

Katie

All afternoon I thought if I could just get home I’d feel better. I thought once I got away from work, away from where it seems I’m surrounded by thoughts and memories of Rogan, that I’d find a little peace. But I was wrong. Now that I’m here, I’m too restless to sit still.

So is that why he didn’t invite me to lunch today? He gave up and decided to go back to more . . . fruitful orchards? Because I feel sure Victoria is as fruitful as they come.

What an asshole!

I pace the living room floor, Dozer’s head moving back and forth with me, like he’s watching a ping-pong tournament. “I knew better, Dozer. I knew better than to believe that he might actually like me. What was I thinking?”

He lets out a short purr at his name, his big yellow eyes riveted to mine.

“You wanna get out of here? How ’bout a walk? We haven’t been to the park in three days. That’s a travesty!” Normally, I walk Dozer every evening if it’s not raining.

Dozer jumps down off the arm of the couch and trots over to me, as though in answer to my question. It seems he’s in favor of a trip to the park. No doubt he’s missed it, too.

I get his leash and my purse and head for the door, hoping that maybe the distraction of a public place will help my poor brain find some rest.

I scoop up Dozer and turn to lock the knob. My eyes fall on the empty wineglass sitting on the table just inside the door. With a rebellious sniff, I slam the door shut, leaving it right where I left it when I got home. Rogan can kiss our little game and any promises I might’ve made him good-bye. He doesn’t need the attentions of a simple girl like me when he’s still getting more than enough from Victoria.

I both seethe and ache just thinking about seeing him at the diner with her. And then I feel just stupid. Stupid for believing that he could be interested in me. Stupid for letting him charm me out of my good sense. And to think that I was actually starting to feel excited about him, about going to work and getting to spend some time with him each morning.

What an idiot! I chastise, wishing that I hadn’t let down my guard with him at all. I guess I just didn’t give him enough credit. He’s a more talented actor than I suspected. He almost had me convinced.

Ten minutes later, Dozer is hooked up to his leash, darting happily from bush to tree, eyes wide and ears alert for any dogs in the vicinity. I pay little attention to the odd looks that get thrown my way when people see me walking my cat on a leash. I’m used to them. I realize it’s far from conventional to walk a cat in a dog park (or anywhere else for that matter), but I’d seen it done before, so I thought I’d try it. Turns out it’s the perfect fix for a cat like Dozer, one who grew up indoors, but likes the outdoors.

Despite the much-needed break of the dog park, though, I can’t seem to shake the grip of this . . . funk that’s had a hold on me all afternoon. I’m trailing along behind my cat, my mind wandering everywhere but here, when a small terrier of some sort zooms past me. Dozer jumps up and whirls around, ears flat, teeth bared, hissing and ready to defend himself. I gasp, but just before the little dog can get a chunk of his nose clawed, he reaches the end of his leash. He comes to an unwilling stop with a strangled yelp. Heavy footsteps race up behind me, and I wonder briefly what kind of owner can’t control a forty-pound terrier.