“Who says I would screw it up?”
“Hmm.” I tap my chin. “I don’t know, maybe every person in this town. Ever since I came back, you’ve made it your mission to unwelcome me.”
He shakes his head. “Not true. I was pleasant at Ren’s birthday party.”
“Pleasant is a loose term.”
His eyes narrow. “What are you trying to say, Harper?”
The challenging tone in his voice, the darkness in his eyes . . . this is the Rogan I quickly became accustomed to after his accident. The Rogan who picked me apart and destroyed me. It’s not the Rogan I grew up with, the one who had hearts coming out of his eyes whenever I saw him, the one who would do just about anything to make me smile.
I miss that Rogan.
“I’m saying you’re an asshole, and even if the Harbor Walk House is the perfect location for one of the scenes in the film, I’d rather spend every waking hour looking for a new location than giving you the benefit of ‘helping’ me.”
He rubs his hands together, a cocky look crossing his face. “That’s rather immature of you, wouldn’t you say?”
“Immature? Me?” I point to my chest. “I’m the immature one? This coming from the guy who throws a hissy fit at the bar because someone thinks we’re together.”
“Hissy fit?” he scoffs. “Glad to see you haven’t stopped overexaggerating.”
I step forward, getting in his face—or at least the best I can. “I don’t know how I ever thought I could marry you, now I see the man you are today.”
He doesn’t even flinch, doesn’t move a muscle. He just slips on his leather gloves, never breaking eye contact. “I guess it’s good that I broke it off then, huh?”
How fucking dare he?
With one final stare down, he pushes past me, but not before I say, “I’m not going anywhere, Rogan. I’m here to stay, and you’re going to have to deal with that.”
“You act as if that’s going to be a problem for me.”
And with that, he takes off out the door, the bell above chiming his exit.
Nostrils flared, face flushed, I turn to find Jen cringing.
“I feel like that could have gone worse?” she offers tentatively.
“Oh yeah? How?”
She folds a fudge box together. “I don’t know. He could have thrown down the gauntlet and declared war.”
“Jen.” I point to Rogan’s retreating back. “That’s exactly what he just did. And trust me when I say there’s no way in hell I’m going to let him win. If we’re going to live here, I’m going to make sure he regrets ever making me love him.”
“Yeah, I’m here. I’ll give you a call back once it’s in my hands.”
I pocket my phone and head toward the back of the general store to the ice cream section. It’s Thursday, which means Oliver has made his specialty ice cream, and word on the street is he made Oreo Mint Crunch. Eve and I have plans to annihilate the carton tonight while binge watching The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel. I was instructed not to come home without it.
Hurrying through the aisles, I bypass a few patrons and skip through the cereal section as I see someone from the corner of my eye one aisle over pick up their pace as they head back to the ice cream as well.
Nervous, I walk a little faster, unsure of how much ice cream is left. Oliver’s ice cream is no joke in Port Snow, and if you don’t show up on time, you’re out of luck. As the person to my right picks up speed, I look ahead to find a line already forming in the back. Shit.
I power walk toward the end of the line just as a large frame slips right in front of me, taking the spot behind Mr. Gunderson.
Well, that’s rude. He cut right in front of me.
It isn’t until I gather myself that I realize the offender is wearing the same wool jacket I was admiring two days ago.
Rogan.
I should have known.
I tap him on the shoulder. He turns, gives me a once-over, and then resumes his position, not giving me the time of day. “Excuse me,” I say, tapping him harder. “You just cut in front of me.”
Not facing me, he answers, “Are you ten? I didn’t ‘cut’ in front of you.”
“Yes, you did.”
“No . . . I didn’t. You weren’t in line yet; you were heading in this direction, but you weren’t in line. I had every right to take this spot.”
Angry, I poke him in the back this time, causing more pain to my finger than his steel-like muscles. “You saw I was walking into my position in line, and you swooped in. If I don’t get ice cream, it’s your fault.”
“Actually, if you don’t get ice cream, it’s because you weren’t savage enough to claim this spot. You don’t get what you want by strolling through meadows, admiring flowers and butterflies, Harper. You have to set your mind to things and attack.”
Maybe I should demonstrate Rogan’s stupid theory on him. My mind is certainly set on kicking him in the balls . . .
“When did you become such a pompous ass?”
“Is that what society is calling confident men now?”
Ooh, he makes me so freaking angry. It’s like we’re back in college, when he got really good at pushing my buttons. But instead of the best makeup sex ever, I’m stuck with celibacy and bottled up anger. Perfect.
Knowing I’m not going to get anywhere with his stubbornness, I take the high road and keep my mouth shut, stewing over my chances of getting ice cream. As we get closer and closer, I start to sweat. I can’t see what Oliver has in the freezer, but I have a sick feeling that the last carton . . .
“Lucky guy,” Oliver says to Rogan. “You got the last one for tonight.”
Son of a freaking bitch!
“Thanks, man. Can’t wait to try it.” Turning to face me with a stupid smile on his face, Rogan drops the ice cream in his basket. “Better luck next time, Miss Sanders.”
That motherfucker!
“You’re kidding me?”
I shake my head, standing in line, waiting for my coffee order to be finished.
“Nope, it’s all true.”
“Wait.” Rylee, the local romance novelist, presses her hand to my arm, invested in my story. “So you’re telling me that during your freshman year in college, you snuck into a bar on Halloween and ended up winning a thousand-dollar prize for your costume and dance routine?”
“Yup.” I shift my hair to the side just as Ruth calls out an order. “I have some pretty sweet dance moves. I put Derek Hough to shame.”
Rylee chuckles. “Wow, what were you dressed as?”
“A referee. Nothing too fancy. I’m telling you, it was the dance moves.” I motion to her computer, which is at her usual corner of the coffeehouse. “You can put that in your book. Feel free to use my name.”
“And when you’re writing about winning a Halloween costume contest,” Rogan interjects, leaning between us to grab his coffee, startling me into heart attack status. When the hell did he get here? “Make sure to mention the character’s boob pops out, and that’s why she won. She got the most cheers for a nip slip.”
I am going to murder him. I clench my fists at my sides as I come face to face with his cocky grin.
“Your boob popped out?” Rylee laughs.
With one hand stuffed in his pants pocket, the other holding his coffee, Rogan nods. “Yup, that whole thing, out on display. Did she mention she was dressed like a slutty referee?”
“Nooooo,” Rylee drags out, turning toward me.
Face heating up, I shift on my feet. “Well, you know—”
“And she never wore a bra back then.” Rogan’s eyes scan my chest as a smile plays across his lips. “I guess she still doesn’t.” I’m going to punch him, right here, in front of all these people. “But since there was no bra and she cut the neckline of her shirt down between her breasts, there was no hope when she started jumping up and down on the bar top. The little prune popped right out.”
Prune?
I gasp and clasp my hands over my breasts as if
they’re currently on display. “My boobs are not prunes!”
“Sorry.” He takes a sip of his coffee. “Apricots.” He pats Rylee on the back. “See you around, Riles,” he says, then retreats out of the coffeehouse, giving me zero chance of rebutting his claim.
Apricots . . . more like grapefr—
Hell, who am I kidding? I’m lucky if I can compare my boobs to apples.
“Is this seat taken?”
I glance up to find Mrs. Davenport hovering over me, cane in one hand, coffee in the other. I gesture toward the seat. “Not at all, it’s all yours.”
“Thank you.” She sets her mug on the coffee table in front of the brown leather chairs before slowly taking a seat. Once she’s situated, she exhales and rests her cane to the side before leaning forward to grab her cup. She blows on the hot liquid and leans back in the chair. “Warm day for the season, wouldn’t you say?”
Tiny and ancient, Mrs. Davenport is the center of the town gossip. Everyone reports back to her, and then she distributes information as she sees fit. Whether it goes in the town newspaper or gets spread around by word of mouth, nothing happens in this town without her knowing about it.
Franklin might be the biggest gossip on the streets, but Mrs. Davenport is like the Godfather, sitting in her apartment in Senior Row, watching over the townspeople, wielding her cane like a bazooka.
Unless you want the town to know about everything, watch whatever you say around the old bird.
Weather is a safe topic, so I nod. “Very. I was shocked when I walked out the door and didn’t need a jacket.” I set my Kindle to the side, knowing full well my relaxing morning just turned into a full-on conversation with Mrs. Davenport.
“When you’re old like me, you find wearing a jacket is like wearing underwear: always necessary.”
There’s a visual: Mrs. Davenport in underwear. I hide my shudder.
“Something to look forward to.”
She takes a sip of her coffee and jumps right into the conversation I know she was waiting to have. “You seem to have a weary look about you.” How nice of her to say. “Tell me, dear, what brings you back to Port Snow?”
Crap, I didn’t think she was going to ask that.
“Uh . . . you know, helping out my dad.”
She locks eyes with me over her cup of coffee, the smallest lift to her brow, and smacks her lips a few times. “Helping your dad out? Smells like a lie.” I swallow hard, hoping and praying she can’t see through my wall to my horrible, painful truth. “But who am I to point out the real reason.”
I don’t say a word. Instead, I pick an imaginary piece of lint from my pants. Focus on the pants, not on the wise woman sitting in front of me.
She clears her throat and thankfully changes the subject. “Rogan is looking good in his older years, wouldn’t you say?” Not the subject change I was necessarily looking for, but it’s better than the past. It’s better than ever having to talk about Brandon.
“Older years? He’s twenty-eight.”
“Well, compared to when you two were in college. He’s aged nicely, hasn’t he?”
“Sure,” I answer. If I said no, she would know I was lying. Anyone with eyes can see how attractive Rogan is.
“It’s a shame what happened between you two. Do you think you would ever get back together?”
The great thing about being old is that you can have conversations with no shame. You can ask whatever the hell you want with no consequences. No one is ever going to mouth off to you, because you’re old and you’re just lucky you didn’t pee your pants that day during a nap.
“Um, I don’t think so, but I do wish him the best with his future.”
“Oh, bullshit,” Mrs. Davenport scoffs. “There’s a part of you that wants him to fall flat on his beautiful face while jogging with your dad.”
“What?” I blink a few times. “Jogging with my dad?”
“Yes.” She nods toward the window next to us. “They’ve been jogging together every Tuesday and Thursday for the past few years; it’s why I’m here. I never miss the show. Here they come now.”
I crane my neck to the side, and . . . just as Mrs. Davenport said, there they are, jogging side by side. My dad’s face is red, his gait strong for his age. And then there’s Rogan, wearing sweatpants, a tight-fitting white shirt, and a beanie. His pecs bounce up and down with his stride—his even and powerful stride. I can’t help but glance down at his leg, wondering how it is, if it’s hurting him. He looks just as fit, if not more so, as when he was in college.
And of course that annoys me.
Why couldn’t he be the kind of ex-boyfriend—ex-fiancé—who let himself go after realizing he would never go pro? Instead, he’s come back stronger, hotter, and more confident than before—with a cocky attitude to match it.
“Good show, isn’t it?” Mrs. Davenport says, staring over her coffee, eyes trained out the window.
“Yeah . . . just great,” I answer indignantly, folding my arms over my chest.
Freaking good-looking Rogan and his stupidly big muscles.
I really do hope he trips.
“What can I get you?”
The menu lowers, and I’m met with Rogan’s rakish smile, those blue eyes cutting me in half, his five-o’clock shadow outlining his handsome face.
I’m defeated and tired, and my arms fall to my sides. “What do you want?”
“Wow, you should really work on your tableside manner, Harper. Especially if you want good tips.”
“I don’t have time to deal with your idiocy today.” I lean forward, propping my hand on the table. “And if you think for a second I don’t know it was you who told the drama club to Post-it Note my car the other day, you’re sadly mistaken.” A light smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth. I freaking knew it!
“That time of the year already?” He adjusts his watch. “I thought we had a few more weeks before the high school clubs terrorize the town for Christmas.”
“Stop it,” I whisper. “Stop acting like a dick.”
“I’m not acting like a dick. This is just how I am.”
I shake my head. “No, it’s not. This is not the boy I grew up with.”
“People change, Harper.”
“Yeah, and some for the worse,” I mutter and pull out my notepad. “What do you want? Make it quick; we’re closing in ten minutes.”
“Hmm . . . what do I want, what do I want?” He leans back and peruses the menu, taking his jolly old time.
Irritated, I snatch the menu away. “You’re getting the french onion soup and water.” Before he can change his order, I stomp back to the kitchen and tell the line cooks, who are already cleaning up for the night, that we need one more french onion soup.
Letting out a long breath of air, I grip the counter at the back of the restaurant and tilt my head down. I’m so . . . over everything. My new job starts in a few days, I still need to find some locations, and I’m knee deep in irritation. I’ve seen Rogan more in the last few days than I have since I moved back to Port Snow. If I didn’t know any better, I would have sworn he put some sort of tracking device on me.
If only I knew how to take it off.
While his soup is being made, I reach for a glass and go to fill it with water when it’s snatched out of my hand.
“I’ll be getting my own drink, thanks.”
Rogan’s front is pressed against my back as he places the glass back on the shelf, only to grab a different one.
“What the hell are you doing back here?”
He walks to the soda machine and fills his own glass with water—no ice. “I don’t trust you not to spit in my food. I’ll wait right here until it’s done.”
“Are you insane?” My hands go to my waist. “You can’t be back here. You’re not an employee.”
Rogan bends to look through the kitchen window. He knocks on the counter and calls out, “Hey, Matt, is it okay if I hang out here and wait for my soup?”
“Yeah, do whatever yo
u want, Rogue.”
With a smarmy look, he turns toward me and sips from his water, leaning against the wall, ready to wait.
I point to the dining room. “Go sit down.”
“I’d rather stand.”
I take a step forward. “Go. Sit. Down.”
“I’m good. Thanks, though.”
One more step.
“I’m warning you, Rogan. Go sit down right now.”
He works his jaw back and forth. “You know, I think I’ll just stay where I am.”
Now, I consider myself to be a pretty easygoing person. There isn’t much that bothers me, and I’ve never really lost my temper before. Of course I get angry and get into little fights from time to time, but it takes a lot—and I mean a lot—for me to actually lose my cool.
In this moment, with everything piling on top of me like an avalanche of stress, I feel the moment my will snaps and I lose control. I can pinpoint the exact second I let the crazy out.
And it’s now.
I stomp my foot on the ground, and screeching out what I can only describe as a feral cat cry, I rip the glass from Rogan’s hand and douse his crotch with one swift flick of the wrist.
“What the—”
Rogan backs away as I stomp off into the dining room, shouting to everyone left in the restaurant, “Rogan Knightly just peed his pants! Look out, the wild whizzer is loose!”
I rip my apron off, toss it to the side, and make my way out to the front of the inn. I’m going to owe Eve a huge apology later, but there’s no way I can stop now. I’m on a mission, and it’s to get as far away from Rogan Knightly as possible.
The chilly wind whipping off the ocean hits me first, and then the rain.
Perfect.
I wasn’t even aware it was raining, but it doesn’t stop me. I trudge through the mud, past the inn, and straight toward the lighthouse where my car is parked. I reach for the handle and . . . I left my keys and purse in the restaurant.
Fuck.
Me.
Defeated, I rest my head against the car door and bang my forehead a few times. And here I thought I hit rock bottom months ago. Apparently not.
“Need this?”
That Forever Girl Page 14
