That Forever Girl

by Quinn, Meghan

  ALSO BY MEGHAN QUINN

  The Secret to Dating Your Best Friend’s Sister

  Diary of a Bad Boy

  The Dating by Numbers Series

  Three Blind Dates

  Two Wedding Crashers

  One Baby Daddy

  Back in the Game (Novella)

  The Blue Line Duet

  The Upside of Falling

  The Downside of Love

  The Perfect Duet

  The Left Side of Perfect

  The Right Side of Forever

  The Binghamton Boys Series

  Co-Wrecker

  My Best Friend’s Ex

  Twisted Twosome

  The Other Brother

  Standalones

  Dear Life

  The Virgin Romance Novelist Chronicles

  Newly Exposed

  The Mother Road

  Box Set Series

  The Bourbon Series

  Love and Sports Series

  Hot-Lanta Series

  All Meghan Quinn’s books can be read in Kindle Unlimited.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2019 by Meghan Quinn

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Montlake Romance, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Montlake Romance are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781542006903

  ISBN-10: 1542006902

  Cover design by Letitia Hasser

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PROLOGUE

  ROGAN

  Two and a Half Years Ago

  “Where’s my lotion? I’m not celebrating my twenty-first birthday with dry hands.” Brig angrily flips pillows off the bed, crawls on top of the mattress, and digs in the crevices of the headboard and nightstand.

  “What the hell are you looking in the bed for?” Griffin asks from his relaxed position on the couch.

  Because we wanted to spoil our little brother—though I’m starting to regret that now, as he cries to us about lotion—we splurged and got a hotel suite in the heart of New Orleans’ French Quarter. Three rooms: one common area and two bedrooms, which should be big enough for four grown-ass men, but as proved earlier today when we got in a stupid-as-shit fight over Popsicles, it’s much too small for the Knightly brothers.

  Being the older brothers, Griffin and I took the room with two queen-size beds and made Reid and Brig share a king. Brig bitched for a good half hour about having to share a bed during his birthday trip, but we trumped him with the “We’re paying; you listen to us” card.

  “I don’t know what you fools do in here at night.” Brig continues to dig around.

  I put an end to it by grabbing the back of his shirt and pulling him off the bed. He’s not a small guy, but luckily I catch him off balance. “Hey, dickhead, why don’t you go ask your roommate? He took it into the bathroom with him.”

  “Did he really?” Brig’s eyes flame with anger. “I told him that was my lotion and it’s not to be touched. He knows how cracked my hands get from working in the shop. He’s fucking dead.” Shirt in disarray, Brig charges across the common space and into the other bedroom.

  Griffin chuckles softly, scratching his hand along the side of his jaw. “You have his lotion, don’t you?”

  From my back pocket, I pull out the bottle and flip it in my hand.

  Mirth consuming his face, Griffin shakes his head at me. “And here I thought Reid was the instigator in the family.”

  True, Reid and Brig are both annoying instigators.

  “He deserves it after that whole purple Popsicle shit earlier. Fuck, he would not shut up.”

  From two rooms over, Reid’s voice booms through the old plaster walls. “I don’t have your lotion, you irritating motherfucker. Stop. Let go of my towel . . . I swear to God, Brig, I will . . . get back here.”

  Brig comes running into our room, a towel in one hand and a razor in the other. Trailing behind him is a buck-ass-naked Reid, holding one hand in front of his junk, a murderous promise searing through his eyes.

  “Give me my razor.”

  “Not until you give me back my lotion. Look.” Brig holds out his hands. “My knuckles are cracking! How am I supposed to get a woman to come back to the room with me tonight if I have cracked knuckles?”

  “For one, you’re not bringing anyone back with you since we’re sharing a bed, and secondly, there is no way in hell a woman is going to want to fuck you when you act like a goddamn child. Now give me my razor, or I will sit on your face, bare balls and all.”

  “Pfft. I’d like to see you try.”

  Reid’s brow lifts in challenge. “I’m already naked, and I’m stronger than you. Don’t think you want to test me.”

  And that’s why we put Reid and Brig in a room together.

  My phone rings in my pocket, giving me an out from this asinine conversation. Mom scrolls over the caller ID; I should take it even though I know she’s going to drill me about what’s happening. We may all be in our twenties, but she still worries, probably because we can still be immature assholes.

  Casually flipping the bottle of lotion in Brig’s direction, I say, “Found this on the floor,” and head out to the balcony for some privacy.

  Reid’s voice follows me out the door. “Told you I didn’t steal your lotion, you crusty cabbage leaf. Christ!”

  I shake my head and shut the door before answering the phone. “Hey, Mom.”

  “There’s my favorite son.”

  Ha. Yeah, she says that to all of us. I take a seat at the wrought iron bistro set that overlooks Bourbon Street, my leg feeling sorer than usual thanks to the dense humidity. We’re closer to Canal Street, so not truly in the heart of the Bourbon nightlife, but close enough that I can hear the trail of laughter from visitors who decided to get their party started early.

  “What’s up, Mom?” The iron rail in front of me is the perfect footrest as I stretch out and scan the street below. A bachelorette party links arms and stumbles down the street, the women acting like it’s their own personal yellow brick road, skipping and singing.

  “How are my boys doing? Staying out of trouble, I hope.”

  “So far.”

  “I expect y
ou four to be on your best behavior. I raised you to be decent and civilized human beings, so don’t disgrace this family.”

  Dramatic much?

  Her nagging is valid, though. The Knightly brothers don’t have a virginal record, especially in our hometown. The local police might have brought us home a few times for your typical teenage things—drinking underage, vandalizing our friends’ yards, and maybe . . . driving a tractor into a pond. But that was because we were drunk. We may be mostly grown up, but I can see where my mom’s concern rests.

  We’re idiots when we’re together, but with Griffin at the helm—now that he’s older and more mature—I know we won’t get into any trouble. At least, I hope we won’t.

  “We’ll be good, Mom. What kind of trouble can we really get into?”

  “Is that a serious question? Because I can list at least twenty things right off the bat.”

  “We’ll be fine, don’t worry. We’ll have some drinks, eat some beignets, and partake in a little gambling. We’ll leave New Orleans unscathed.”

  “I thought you quit drinking.”

  “It’s Brig’s birthday.” I leave it at that. I know she means well, but I’m not in the mood to fall down that rabbit hole of a conversation.

  “Just please don’t get arrested.” I can’t help but notice the hesitation in her words.

  “We won’t.”

  She lets out a long sigh. “Okay, but keep sending me pictures so I know my boys aren’t dead or anything.”

  “You act like we’ve never been anywhere together before.”

  “Oh no. This is the way a worried mother acts when she has to drive from Maine to Atlantic City because her three older sons got themselves put in jail for public intoxication.”

  The smallest of smirks pulls at my lips. “That hot dog vendor was asking for it. He skimped on the onions.”

  “Rogan Bradley Knightly, I’m serious.”

  I tease the whiskers on my jaw with my finger, wondering if I should even bother shaving. It’s not like I plan on bringing a woman back to the hotel like Brig apparently does. “I know, Mom. Trust me, we’ll be fine. You have nothing to worry about.”

  “I better not, because I’m counting on all of you to get married soon and give me grandchildren.”

  Ah yes, always pressuring us to give her grandchildren. It’s her duty to pester us constantly about adding to the Knightly clan.

  “Well, Griff is halfway there.”

  “And what about you?”

  Christ.

  The damp early-evening air soaks into my skin as a group of raucous partiers shouts and laughs below me. Why the hell would my mom choose this moment to talk to me about grandchildren? Why?

  “Not the right time,” I grit out, trying to tamp down my annoyance.

  “I’m worried about you, Rogan. You don’t ever smile anymore. Do you know how much that pains me as a mother? Knowing her son is unhappy?” Guilt. My mom is really good at it. “You know, I thought I’d tell you Harper is in town right now, visiting her dad.”

  And there it is.

  “Mom, stop.”

  “I ran into her at the grocery store. She’s so lovely, so vibrant—just like I remember. She’s working in Boston as a tour guide for a very prominent company.” My teeth grind together. “I mentioned how well you’re doing—”

  “Mom,” I snap, pushing my hand through my hair. “I’ve asked you to never talk about me to her. She doesn’t care what I’m doing, and I don’t want her to know.”

  Because it’s an embarrassment, a huge step down from what I was supposed to be doing with my life. I don’t want to constantly remind Harper that I’m a failure. That I stole away her best friend in the blink of an eye. That I ruined any chance of us having the loving and exciting life we’d been planning for so long.

  “She seemed interested,” Mom responds, an edge creeping into her voice. “She asked how you were.”

  “She was being polite. That’s how she always is, always has been. She doesn’t care about me.”

  My words dangle between us for a silent moment, and my gut twists as they sink in.

  “You know, Rogan, there comes a time in a man’s life when he needs to stop being self-destructive and own up to his faults. When he learns to make a change. This is that time.”

  I scoff. How she could be so blind is beyond me. “I appreciate your concern, Mom, I really do, but I live up to my faults every goddamn day.” Slamming my feet on the ground, I wince as I stand abruptly. “I have to go. We’re heading out.”

  “Rogan, please don’t overreact and end up doing something stupid.”

  “You’re scared I’m going to overreact? Then you never should have brought up Harper.” I grip the balcony’s iron rail. “But don’t worry, I’ll send you pictures so you know we’re not doing anything stupid. We’ll all return to Port Snow in one piece, not a scratch or scar on us. I’ll see to it.”

  She sighs. “I’m sorry if I upset you. I just want you to be happy.”

  Fucking moms and their ability to turn the switch on you so fast that you instantly forgive.

  “I know, Mom. I love you too.”

  “Be careful. And look out for voodoo dolls. They believe in that stuff down there.”

  A sarcastic chuckle rumbles up my barrel of a chest. “Please, Mom, that stuff isn’t real. We’ll talk to you later.”

  I hang up and pocket my phone with one thought blazing through my mind like a wildfire: alcohol. I need a lot of it, and I need it now.

  The balcony doors, bloated in the humidity, creak and stutter as I open them. Griffin eyes me from the couch, silently asking if everything’s okay. The minute he sees my face, he knows it’s not. Reid and Brig bicker in the other room like idiots, giving me a moment of privacy with Griffin.

  “What did Mom want?”

  “Checking up on us, letting me know she ran into Harper at the store . . . you know, your basic conversational pieces.”

  “Fuck.” Griffin stands abruptly and glances around, rubbing his hands together. “Shots?”

  I nod. “Shots. I need to get fucked up tonight, man.”

  Being the good big brother that he is, Griffin claps me on the back and guides me to the common area, where he opens the minifridge and uncaps two small bottles of whiskey. We clink them together and down them in one gulp. No doubt they cost at least fifteen dollars apiece, but fuck it. We both reach for another.

  We’re in New Orleans, where everyone has the same goal: get wasted. What could really go wrong?

  Nothing, right?

  And it’s the only way I’ll be able to forget.

  I need to forget it all.

  CHAPTER ONE

  ROGAN

  Present Day

  “Looks like the curse is broken,” Brig, ever the hopeless romantic, announces as he plops down beside me at the blazing bonfire in Griffin’s backyard. “That old wretch of a lady in New Orleans can take her curse and shove it up her ass.”

  “You think the curse is broken because Griffin’s in love?” Reid scoffs, taking the other seat next to me, beer in hand and a disgruntled look on his face. Well, someone’s in a mood. “No, it’s just broken for him. You’re still doomed, man.”

  Reid and I are very similar, almost too similar. We play the martyr role well, we know how to rile up our family, and we’ve both had to swallow huge disappointments in our lives. But Reid has no filter, especially when it comes to Brig, with his infuriating optimism and heart of gold. He’s a little naive, but I can’t help but admire the dude a little; he lives his life with nothing holding him back.

  Unlike Reid.

  Unlike me.

  “What? No way. Griffin totally broke the curse for all of us. Right, Rogue?”

  I drag my hand over my face and stare into the fire, so sick of this fucking curse. People can’t stop talking about it, not my brothers, not the gossips in town—hell, not even the tourists that come whipping into Port Snow.

  It’s stupid, it’s absurd
, and I still can’t decide whether I believe in it.

  While in New Orleans two years ago—drunk, causing all sorts of trouble for Brig’s birthday, and trying to track down soft pretzels—we tripped over a palm reader running a scam. Granted, we might have accidentally broken her reading table—but she was still running a scam. But Brig, being the kind soul he is, paid the lady to read his palm to make up for the table. She made up some crap about his brothers getting him in trouble . . . honestly, I can’t remember the half of it because I was too damn drunk and disinterested to retain anything—except the moment that has stuck in all of our minds to this day.

  It was like we were in another dimension, another world, a fucking alternate universe. The wind lashed around us in a funnel, dusting up trash and leaves from the French Quarter’s cobblestone streets while this batshit crazy woman raised her arms to the sky and spouted out an unsettling rhyme.

  I can still hear the malice in her voice. And those yellow eyes, the dark abyss of her cloak—it all played into the fear she cast upon us . . . forever living with broken love.

  “Those who belittle and make others feel worse will feel the ungodly wrath of my curse.” Snapping her head forward, she eerily pointed at each of us. “Listen to me, to the words I have spoken.” Her voice grew stronger, louder, more sinister. “From this day on, your love will be broken. It isn’t until your minds have matured that the weight of this curse will forever be cured.”

  Fucking terrifying, right?

  Yeah, it’s lived with me, the memory churning in the pit of my stomach. That next morning I brushed it off completely. And it wasn’t until Griffin’s wife passed away a few short days later that the curse metastasized and became a permanent fixture of my being.

  Do I believe it? Maybe.

  Did it happen? Yes.

  Does it affect my everyday life like it does my other brothers’? No, because not one single female has even tempted me to be in a relationship, not since Harper walked into my life.

  If anything, the “witch”—if that’s what you want to call her—just solidified everything I already knew: I’ve been cursed since college. I lost my future, I watched my dreams slip away without my choosing, and I pushed away the only person who truly made me happy.

  I didn’t need the wind to whip around me and to be stared at by yellow eyes in the middle of New Orleans; I already knew I was cursed.