That Forever Girl

by Quinn, Meghan

  “Can you blame me?” I ask, twisting my coffee cup in my hand.

  “Not even a little, and I know if you indulge me with a few answers to my questions, I’ll be a lucky son of a bitch. I’m just trying to make things a little easier on us.”

  I hate to admit it, but he has a point. Will I always love this man? Of course. Will we ever get back together? No, I think there’s way too much damage done, too many things that were said—but with a little bit of mending, we might be able to get along. And that’s all I really need: to get along with him.

  “Okay.”

  “Okay?” he asks with a raised eyebrow. I nod, my answer curving up his lips. “Want me to go first?”

  “Before we begin, I think we need some ground rules on what kind of questions we’re allowed to ask.”

  “That’s fair. What are your rules?”

  “No relationship questions. I don’t want to know about your conquests or tell you about mine.”

  “You’ve had conquests?” His brow furrows.

  “What did I just say?”

  “Sorry.” He quirks his lips to the side and is silent for a second. “Like . . . how many conquests?”

  “Rogan!”

  “Okay, I’m sorry.” He lets out a deep breath. “No relationship questions. What else?”

  I tap my chin, really giving this some thought. If I’m going to jump in headfirst without a life vest, might as well try to make the water as shallow as possible.

  “No postmortem. I don’t want to rehash what happened to us; that’s off-limits.”

  “Done. Anything else?”

  “Hmm . . . let’s have a safe word.”

  “A safe word? Like a kinky-sex safe word?” He wiggles his eyebrows at me, which I quickly cover with my hand.

  “And no sexual innuendos or gestures. It’s not proper friend protocol.”

  “Not true. Friends joke about sex all the time.”

  “Not sex with each other.”

  “Fine,” he groans. “What about the safe word?”

  Wow, he’s actually giving in. “We can use the safe word if we’re ever asked a question that we don’t want to answer.”

  “Okay, so what should the safe word be?”

  Reaching into the bag, I pick off another piece of the fritter and chew. “Let’s see, it needs to be something we wouldn’t normally say to each other.”

  “Well, since frisky talk is off-limits, why don’t we have ‘sex’ as the safe word?”

  “No, I don’t want you whispering ‘sex’ to me every chance you get. I know you, Rogan Knightly.”

  He leans his head against the back of his chair. “Apparently. Okay, how about . . .” He drums his steering wheel with his index fingers, a habit he used to have when we were younger. He picked it up from Griffin, and I hate to admit it, but it’s kind of cute. “How about ‘dongle’?”

  “Dongle? What is that?”

  “You know, another word for a computer adaptor. D-o-n-g-l-e, dongle.”

  “Thank you, spelling-bee champion.”

  He holds up three fingers. “Three years in a row.”

  “And still obnoxious about it. Too bad you couldn’t get past regionals.”

  “Well, if my best friend helped me instead of making fun of me for being able to spell, maybe I would have.”

  I shake my head, a smile on my face. “Don’t blame me for your shortcomings, Knightly.”

  “You know my comings are anything but short.”

  “Hey,” I snap. “No sexual references.”

  “Oh, has that started?”

  “Yes!” I answer, flustered—all I can think about is just how not short he really is. “All rules are currently being enforced.”

  “Okay. So ‘dongle’ is our safe word—”

  “You know, dongle sounds an awful lot like something else,” I point out. Honestly, every time he says dongle, even spells it, I think of a penis, and thinking about a penis around Rogan is not a good idea. I might be heartbroken, but Rogan has only gotten hotter as he’s gotten older. Which is very dangerous.

  “Who has the dirty mind now?”

  I ignore that. “‘Hydrangea,’ then. That’s our safe word.”

  “No, too girly.”

  “Do you really need a masculine safe word?”

  “No. Gender neutral would be appreciated, though.”

  I huff. “Why are you being difficult?”

  “This is a safe word for both of us, so we have to come to an agreement. I’m not being difficult; I’m taking this seriously.”

  He’s being difficult. Classic Rogan.

  “Fine. How about ‘pineapple’?”

  “Overused. ‘Whitney Houston.’”

  “The singer? Nope. I like her music too much, so I might bring her up. ‘Beetlejuice.’”

  “What if we say it three times?” He shakes his head. “No, I’m not playing with those odds.” Oh my God, he’s so ridiculous. “‘Pop-Tart.’”

  “No. ‘Subway,’” I counter.

  “No. ‘Limp Biscuit.’”

  I groan. “No. ‘Neon Rainbow.’”

  “No. That’s a damn good song, though. How about . . . ‘foliage.’”

  “Foliage?” I test it out. “I think that could work. It’s not part of my everyday vernacular. Yeah, let’s go with foliage.”

  I hold out my hand, which he quickly takes, giving it a firm shake. “Foliage it is.”

  “So now all the rules are out of the way, can we get down to the questions?” he asks.

  “Yes, but I want to start.”

  He holds up his finger. “One second.” He undoes his seat belt and takes off his wool jacket, followed by his suit jacket. He lays them carefully across the back seat and then rolls up the sleeves of his white shirt to his elbows, showing off the impressive, rippling sinew of his forearms. He might not be playing football anymore, but he sure as hell kept up his physique. Maybe it was all the times he refused doughnuts. “Better. Now shoot.”

  He twists his giant body in his seat and positions himself so he’s sort of leaning against the car door. The V of his shirt pops open just a little, so I can see a small expanse of his chest and a patch of short chest hair. Well, that’s new . . . and really sexy.

  Christ, don’t ogle him.

  I clear my throat and direct my gaze elsewhere. “First question. Where do you live?”

  Caught off guard, he blinks a few times. “Well, I wasn’t expecting that.”

  “I’m assuming you don’t live with your parents anymore, and since you’re Mr. Real Estate Mogul, I’m curious about what kind of house you bought for yourself.”

  “More like a glorified landlord.” He scratches the side of his jaw, contemplating his answer. “I live off Enchanted Elms.”

  Enchanted Elms? Like . . . the Enchanted Elms?

  “What?” I sit up in my seat. “Wait, there’s only one house on Enchanted Elms. You live in the Elbert Elms Cottage?”

  “Yeah,” he drags out, looking apprehensive.

  “The same white house with the yellow door and the wraparound porch that looks bigger than the whole house?”

  “Same,” he answers, still avoiding all eye contact with me.

  “That was the house my dad told my mom he’d buy for her someday.”

  Now he’s pushing his hand through his hair. “Was it?”

  “You knew that.” He shifts in his seat as my pulse picks up. He bought Elbert Elms Cottage, the house in the woods, tucked away, where the neighbors are moose, geese, and the enchanting elms. It’s a beautiful little fairy tale of a home, and I remember how much my mom loved it.

  And Rogan bought it.

  He not only bought it, but he lives in it.

  “Rogan . . .”

  “You know what . . . foliage. Yup”—he nods—“foliage.”

  “Rogan, you can’t—”

  “You came up with the rules, not me.” He holds his hands up in defense.

  I didn’t think the rules wer
e going to come back and bite me in the ass this fast. I have so many questions for him, like . . . why, being my biggest one. Ever since we broke up, it’s like he went around Port Snow and bought every property that had any sentimental value to me. I don’t understand.

  “This was a stupid idea.” I cross my arms over my chest and stare out the window.

  Playfully, he nudges my leg. “Don’t be salty. There are things I don’t want to talk about and things you clearly don’t want to talk about, so let’s respect that and try to have a little fun with this.”

  Unfortunately he’s right. I need to lighten up a little if I’m going to be working closely with him. Time to suck it up and try to skim the surface with this guy, despite once being buried deep in his soul.

  “Fine. Your turn to ask me a question.” I rub my hands together. “I can’t wait to say foliage.”

  He chuckles. “Come on, be better than that.”

  “I will. Go on, ask away.”

  Immediately, he asks, “What’s your favorite place you’ve visited over the last seven years?”

  Damn it, good question, and one that I can easily answer.

  “Greensboro, Vermont.” I wistfully sigh. “I stayed there for about six months, helped a local antiques collector turn over her inventory, and spent the rest of my time exploring the small town. Willey’s General Store is like going back in time. It’s a Walmart but mini-size, has everything you need and more with old, small-panel floorboards and a giant gumball machine in the front. I loved going in there, but the main reason I love the town so much is the cheese cellar.”

  “Cheese cellar?” he asks, his blue gaze dreamy.

  “Artisanal cheesemakers at Jasper Hill Farm. Gah, Rogue, this cheese is melt-in-your-mouth perfection. Shari, the woman I worked for, and I would go out to the farm every other weekend and stock up on cheese to take back to town, which we’d pair with local wine. I stayed in the apartment above the shop, and she would come up, have a movie night with me, and then go back to her house via Lyft after a few glasses. It was a simple time, and I’ll always cherish it.”

  “Wow.” He studies me. “How many towns have you lived in since, uh, college?”

  “Oh gosh. I have no idea. A lot. I’ve been up and down the East Coast, staying in small farming towns, larger cities, and exploring every last inch of New England while working odd jobs along the way. I never stayed longer than six months until I settled in Boston. Greensboro was the one town I stayed the longest, because I loved it there, and Shari became the friend I needed at the time.”

  He nods, growing a bit somber.

  “She kind of gave me a map to guide my travels, places I had to visit, food I had to taste.” Quietly I add, “I might have had a broken heart, but I was able to nurse it with a little bit of adventure.”

  He presses his hand on my thigh, his eyes sincere. “I’m glad, Harper.”

  Sitting there, we stare at each other, the past swirling between us, the heartbreak, the questions, the answers no one wants to admit to. It’s all there, building between us, and yet when Rogan pulls away, I know the lid on our past will remain closed.

  And it very well might remain closed forever.

  Changing the subject, I ask, “How did you get involved in real estate?”

  I hope it’s not too personal, because I’m truly curious. He’s twenty-eight and owns what seems like half of Port Snow, including one of the most magnificent manors I’ve ever laid eyes on. How did he do it?

  “It kind of landed in my lap. I got a job with my dad’s friend doing construction the day after I moved back to Port Snow. I got to work right away, double shifts, learning a lot and doing pretty much anything to keep my mind occupied.” He reaches to the cup holder and takes a sip of his coffee. “I lived with my parents and saved all the money I made. Within six months, I had enough for a down payment on my first property. Got it for a steal because it was in bad shape and no one wanted to live there.”

  “What was it?”

  He smirks. “The Harbor Walk House. My dad thought I was crazy, and maybe I was at the time—you have to be a little crazy to own it. I spent three months fixing it up, working into the early morning when I wasn’t on the job, and opened it up as a vacation home. Now, I’m booked out two years in advance. The only reason I’m able to fit Lovemark into filming is because I spoke with the renters, and they’re more than happy to let Lovemark come in and shoot during their stay. I also offered them a hefty discount on their rental fee.”

  I’m a little stunned and really impressed. I had no idea he was in construction, let alone so successful with his first-ever investment.

  “Wow, that’s really amazing. And from there it just snowballed from one house to the other?”

  “Pretty much. I lived with my parents for a few years, and I even worked for them when I had off days. And then with every house I purchased, I had a hand in construction and renovation. Thanks to the tourists and need for rental homes, I was able to turn a quick profit and grow.”

  “You’ve totally Chip and Joanna’d this town.”

  “What?” he asks with a chuckle.

  “You know, the show Fixer Upper. Chip and Joanna Gaines brought new life to houses all over Waco, Texas. Don’t you watch the show? Everyone does.”

  “I don’t watch TV . . . anymore.”

  “What? Uh, I remember a guy who used to record every reality TV show.”

  He scratches the back of his neck, looking down at his coffee. “Yeah, after I left Syracuse, I really didn’t give myself a break. I was working when I wasn’t sleeping.”

  Even though he was the one who broke us up, I can’t help but feel a little sad about the picture he’s painted of his life. Lonely, angry Rogan working until his body can’t take it anymore, only to wake up the next day and do it all over again. It was like he put himself in a self-imposed imprisonment, never giving himself a break. It paid off, but at what cost? He certainly doesn’t seem any less lonely or angry.

  “Why are you really here in Port Snow?” He meets my eyes. “I know it’s not to help your dad.”

  “Foliage,” I whisper, gripping my coffee.

  His head drops, his shoulders slump. “Why won’t you tell me?”

  “Because it’s not something you need to know.” I suck in my bottom lip, tamping down the sickening rush of memories. “How did you find out who owned Snow Vale Manor?”

  It’s one of the biggest questions I’ve had since I found out he owned it. We spent years trying to figure out who the mistress was, who owned the house, why it was left to rot. And he figured it out, apparently, and without my help. It stings to know he solved the mystery without me, but I guess there are a lot of things we’ve missed in each other’s lives.

  He turns in his seat and grips the steering wheel, shooting me a small smile. “That’s a story for another day.” He starts up the car and gestures for me to buckle up. “I’ll drop you back off at Snow Roast. I have things to get done today, and I’m sure you do too, but can we meet up tomorrow to go over the schedule?”

  “Oh . . . yeah. That should be fine.”

  “Good.” He backs out of our parking spot and heads down the hill, turning up the music to a comfortable volume so we don’t have to talk. I don’t know what to make of him. He’s reaching out, but he’s so guarded. The last time I tried to tear down this wall, I ended up with a broken heart.

  His wall might still be intact, but I feel like I just peeked over it, and that drives me crazier than not seeing over it at all. At least when he completely blocked me off, I could ignore him. Now he’s feeding me little glimpses into his life; it’s intriguing and irritating all at the same time.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  ROGAN

  “That won’t work. Only these dates for the Harbor Walk House will work.”

  She does some circling and makes a note on the side of the production schedule. Her teeth graze the pen in her hand as her eyes travel over the paper in front of her.

>   “Okay, and the dates for the manor? Those work?” she asks, still focused on the paper.

  “Yes. Renovations finish up this week, so it’ll be available.”

  She makes a check mark next to the manor dates. “They also loved Holiday Lane and would love to do a scene with all the Christmas lights. Think the residents will be okay with that?”

  “Yeah.” I lean back in my chair and play with the watch on my wrist, moving it back and forth. “They would love it, actually.”

  “Perfect. Sally will be happy to hear that.”

  Sucked into her work, she double-checks the schedule, her pen tapping the paper as she reads. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her this excited about something, something just for her. I hate to admit it, but when we were together, every decision she made revolved around me. Yeah, it meant I got to spend more time with her, so I wasn’t complaining. But I’ve always wondered, somewhat guiltily, where she would be if I hadn’t been in the picture. Would she have a completely different, more successful life? Would she know exactly what she wanted to do?

  I glance down at my watch, catching the time.

  “Do you have somewhere to be?”

  “Just a visit I make every week,” I answer without thinking.

  Her interest is piqued. “A visit? With whom?”

  “Someone.” I bite my bottom lip, kind of wishing I could tell her, but she’s not ready. Well, actually, I’m not ready.

  “It’s two o’clock on a Friday. Who could you possibly be meeting?”

  I shrug. “Someone.”

  “Is this a foliage topic?”

  “It’s semifoliage.”

  She lifts a brow. “Semifoliage? I don’t recall going over those terms.”

  “Consider it an addendum. Just means it’s not completely off the table for conversation, but I need to ease into it.”

  She sets her pen down and crosses one leg over the other, her black trousers pulling tight on her luscious legs. “And how might I ease you into revealing this semifoliage information?”