CHAPTER THREE

LAYNA

THE BATHROOM IS SMALL AND very lumber chic, but it’s clean, and though it’s probably rude to take advantage, the hot water tank seems pretty big.

In lieu of princess soap, I’m left with an invigorating bar of green to use on my face, body, and hair. But squeaky-clean feels lovely. The problem is now that my immediate hygiene is taken care of, my brain has energy for ruminating on my many, many problems.

What am I going to do now?

I have no access to my credit cards or the money in my account. My phone works, but it’s probably not safe to use. I’ve got no wheels. And no friends except for the taciturn tow truck driver who is actually very nice.

I’m pretending I don’t think he’s nice to look at, too, because that causes a whole slew of other problems I’m not ready to deal with at the moment. Being attracted to a completely inappropriate man is not helpful.

I find some store brand lotion under the sink. Better than nothing. It’s goopy at the top like it hasn’t been used in a long time. Rogan is low maintenance, it seems. Bless him, though, for the spare toothbrush I find still in its cellophane package.

When I feel human again, I open the bathroom door, and oh my God. Bacon. The man is cooking me bacon.

Now I’m not just attracted to him, I want to marry him.

I follow my nose to the kitchen. “Are you my guardian angel, Mr. Rogan?”

He turns slowly, but where I’ve come to expect a brooking-no-patience-with-you-look, instead I get a long perusal. A long, intense perusal.

Rogan’s eyes darken, and my nipples pinch tightly beneath his robe. Stop it.

He breaks the awkwardness first by turning around to tend to the pan. “It’s just about ready. Have a seat.”

“Can I help with anything?” He’s holding himself very rigidly. “No, I got it.”

I sit at the bar, and he plates us a meal for a king. Okay, it’s eggs, bacon, toast, and juice. But it’s the best eggs, bacon, toast, and juice I’ve ever had.

“Do you want coffee?” he asks after I’ve made too many indecent moans around my fork.

“Oh my God. I would do anything you ask for a cup of coffee.”

Our gazes catch, and my blush is four-alarm, but he moves his eyes to my lips and I sigh.

He gets up quickly, almost knocking over his juice in his haste, and moves across the kitchen to start a pot of coffee.

“So, you live here alone? Is there a girlfriend who isn’t going to be pleased that you’re harboring a known felon here today?”

He doesn’t turn around but shakes his head. “No girlfriend.”

I like watching the way he moves around his space. It doesn’t seem like he should be so graceful. His muscles bunch under his thin t-shirt, and I’m a little too captivated. His arms are covered in colorful tattoo sleeves, something I hadn’t noticed earlier as they been under coveralls or a flannel shirt. He’s also absolutely ripped. Like maybe he bench presses the cars after he pulls them out of ditches.

“You seem like a catch, Rogan. Why no lady friend?”

The color of his face darkens when he looks at me, and I think that it’s a blush, which tickles me to no end. “I think we both know I’m not a catch. Most women want a man who talks.”

“You talk.”

He holds up the sugar bowl, which I decline. “Not much. Not with new people anyway.”

“I’m new people. You talk to me just fine.” I take the cup he offers and doctor it with creamer. “Lots of women like quiet guys. Then we don’t have to fight for the spotlight.”

“You don’t feel like new people.”

I’ve got the coffee mug to my lips, but I pause there as his words connect inside my brain. He’s blinking at me like he can’t believe he said that either.

“You don’t feel like new people, either,” I admit and then take a drink. The guy may skimp on bathroom products, but his coffee beans are top quality. “I know you don’t usually bring your tow truck rescues home. I really appreciate everything you’ve done for me.”

He takes the stool next to me again, his presence warm and safe. I haven’t really felt safe in a while, I guess. Not since my dad died.

But even as I feel safe, there’s an undercurrent of energy that isn’t about safety. A zing I’ve never felt before. And I wonder if Rogan feels it, too.

“You seem like a very capable woman, Layna, but something tells me you’re in over your head. I’d like to help you.”

The clouds in my coffee don’t offer me much in the way of answers, but I continue to stare into the cup. I don’t feel capable. Not at all. But I don’t think I can share my burden with Rogan. He might try to help, and that’s the last thing he needs to do. The guy my stepdad owes money to is bad news. It’s better that Rogan just thinks I’m a flighty mess than try to step in and get involved. I’d never forgive myself if he got in too deep trying to save me. And he would.

I twirl my hair and pretend my life is the way it was a few years ago. The old Layna. “I’m just your average spoiled princess running away from her princess problems, nothing for you to worry about.”

“You could go to jail for the car.”

I shrug and finish the coffee, setting the mug down like I’d just done a shot. “I’m sure I can just buy my way out of it, right?”

He’s up and spinning my stool around until I’m caged between the mass of his body and the counter now behind me. “Wrong answer.”

My heart rises in my throat. He’s so masculine it’s insane. A girl could climb him like a tree. A Testosterone Tree. “You don’t need to worry about me. I’ll be fine. I always bounce back better than ever.”

My voice cracks on ever, and he furrows his brow. “Talk.”

“And say what? What do you want to hear? I’m spoiled and a pain in the ass. I’m reaping what I’ve sown. Poor little rich girl.”

He’s staring at my mouth, and my pulse kicks up. “I think that’s what you want me to believe. But you’re hiding something.”

“I’m not your problem, Rogan.”

“You don’t trust me.”

At the moment, I don’t trust myself. He smells delicious and those hard muscles beneath his shirt make promises about what he’s capable of. The strength he possesses. I bet a girl in his arms wouldn’t be afraid of anything ever again.

But that’s not for me, unfortunately.

“I don’t trust anyone.” Not anymore. Not since my dad died and my mom brought Alan into our lives. Not since she died shortly after that. “It was nice of you to cook for me. I’ll do the dishes.”

There’s a moment between us. He’s still too close; it’s too intimate. But somehow, he’s not close enough.

“You need to trust someone.”

If he would look away from my eyes, I might be able to think. Maybe.

“You’re in my house.” He says it like that makes sense.

“Yes, Captain Obvious.”

The tic in his jaw is a work of art. “You’re wearing my robe.” He moves his head so we’d be cheek to cheek if we were an inch closer, and he inhales. “You smell like me.” He pulls back and all that broody focus is trained on my eyes now. “That means you’re mine. You can trust me.”