“Not quite sure. It’s all about timing.”
“I thought friends tell each other everything,” she counters with a smirk.
“Best friends do; regular friends have to work up to best-friend status.”
“But the newspaper announced we were best friends again.” Fucking cheeky woman.
“Hmm, really?” I shift in my seat. “Looks like I need to ask for a retraction then.”
“Are you saying we’re not best friends?”
“Just friends for now. I’m positive we’ll get to best-friend status, though.”
“I guess it’s something to look forward to.”
What I wouldn’t give for a freaking pint of ice cream right now. I can’t remember the last one I had. I buy it all the time, but never for myself. It’s a small request I grant to someone who’s made a huge impact on my life, the same person I visit every Friday at three o’clock.
And as I watched her eat it yesterday, savoring every spoonful, I felt my mouth water to the point that I had to swallow more than normal.
I need ice cream.
Badly.
The last few days of spending time with Harper have been . . . fuck, they’ve been amazing, but they’ve also turned me into an emotional ball of bipolar nerves.
I’m ecstatic when she’s around, like a dog jumping up and down when its owner comes home.
I’m frustrated when she speaks, knowing her beautiful lips are so close yet untouchable.
I’m depressed as fuck when I have to say goodbye.
And then, when I see her across the street, smiling and laughing with someone, I feel really, truly at peace, knowing that I didn’t take away her happiness, that she can still grace strangers with her beautiful smile.
See . . . I’m a fucking mess.
And there’s only one cure: ice cream.
Hoodie hugging my shoulders, the hood pulled over my head, I trek down Main Street in my work jeans and boots after finishing up some sanding on a renovation. I make my way to the general store. Oliver’s specialty ice cream will be sold out, but at least there will be some reliable standbys that will get the job done.
I never eat sweets, but desperate times and all that.
Not wanting to run into anyone—I just want my ice cream—I pull my hood a little farther down and make my way to the back where the coolers are.
Hmm . . . cookie dough. I really want cookie dough. I search the cooler, scanning all the labels. Vanilla, chocolate, mint chip, pecan . . .
“Oh, so you do own normal clothes.”
Shit.
I look over my shoulder; Harper is standing behind me wearing a puffy green jacket, a basket hanging from her arm. She looks impossibly small, drowning in that jacket, but the way her red hair drapes over her shoulders, her eyes gleaming up at me, it takes every muscle in my body to stop myself from wrapping my arm around her waist and pulling her close.
“Can’t sand in a suit.”
“I guess not.”
Her eyes blaze a trail up my body, taking in every last inch of me, sending a bolt of lust straight to my dick. Christ, one look and I’m a goner.
“Get a good fill?” I ask, never letting her perusals go unnoticed.
She blushes and pushes a strand of hair behind her ear. “Are you getting ice cream?”
“Thinking about it.”
“Don’t you have some left over from last week? You know, when you stole the last pint of ice cream from me? Doesn’t seem like you’d eat a whole carton when you couldn’t even bear to eat a bite of a fritter.”
“You’re right. I didn’t even eat any of the ice cream.”
The blush fades away and her temper kicks in, lacing her eyes with indignation. “You took the last carton of special ice cream and you didn’t even eat it? What kind of monster does that?”
I chuckle. “The kind of monster who picks it up every Thursday for someone else.”
Her mouth makes a small O. “Would this be for the same person you visit every Friday?”
“Yup,” I answer, sticking my hands in my pockets and casually rocking back on my heels. “If it’s a flavor she likes, then I make sure to pick it up for her.”
“So it’s a woman you see.”
I slowly nod.
“Well, that’s interesting. Are you romantically involved with this woman?”
“Is that my friend asking, or a jealous ex-girlfriend?”
“Jealous?” She waves her hand in front of her face. “Not even remotely. Just, you know, being a friend. Sorting the good women from the bad.” She leans in with a conspiratorial look. “You can tell me. I’ll let you know if she’s a bad egg. Like Denise.”
Fucking Denise. I shake my head. I would never go near that woman. Way too clingy, and yeah, she may have huge tits, but I’m a sucker for small ones that fit perfectly in the palm of my hand.
“No need to worry,” I whisper. “We’re not romantically involved.”
She nods dramatically and scans the grocery store. “Is she in here?”
“No,” I laugh. “You won’t figure it out, so drop it.”
“But you buy her ice cream.”
“When she wants it.”
She taps her chin, studying me. “Is this one of those trick questions when I think it’s some woman you met while getting your hair cut one day, but in fact it’s a dog you latched onto when doing volunteer work at the local animal shelter?”
“What?” I laugh even harder. “Where the hell did that come from?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” She gestures up and down my body. “You’re a regular Boy Scout with your do-gooder attitude, cleaning up the broken-down houses in town, offering up your properties to Lovemark and not taking much compensation at all—yeah, Sally told me.” Fucking Sally. “So it would only make sense if you were visiting a dog, bringing her ice cream when you’re not running your real estate empire, or apparently sanding. Is that what it is? You’re visiting an old dog in the shelter, feeding her ice cream, wishing you had more time to devote to her?”
“Not even a little.”
“Gah,” she groans, tossing her head back. “That was such a good theory. A lot went into that.”
“I could tell. But sorry, no visiting old dogs for me.”
Her eyes widen, and she turns a death glare on me. “Are you bringing ice cream to Denise?”
“No,” I answer, exasperated.
“Okay, just checking.” She taps her foot and then nods at the ice cream. “So what are you going to get? Are you actually going to eat it?”
“Yeah, I am.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“You don’t have to.” I turn around and reach into the cooler, relieved to spot a carton of cookie dough. “I’m going home and eating this entire thing.”
“A whole carton?” This time she looks at me with disbelief.
“Well, maybe not the whole carton, since I can’t remember the last time I ate a sweet, but I’m still going to eat some of it.”
“Oh, some of it.” She waves her hands in the air, teasing me. “Watch out, Port Snow, Rogan Knightly is going to have a few bites of ice cream.” She shakes her head in disappointment. “Nut up, man, and have a bowl.”
Fuck, I’ve missed this side of her, this teasing, playful side. It’s doing all kinds of things to me, twisting and turning my already-knotted stomach.
“After this conversation I might just eat the whole damn thing.” I start to walk toward the register but pause and face her, holding up the carton. “This right here? This is your fault.”
“My fault? How is you eating ice cream my fault?”
“Because.” My eyes give her a slow once-over. “You’re driving me crazy. I don’t know if I actually want to be friends with you or fuck you up against a wall.”
Talk about shocking the crap out of her. She takes a step back, eyes wide. “Wh-what?”
“You heard me. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a date with a Lactaid pill and a bowl of dairy.
Night, Harp.”
“There’s no way you carved these cabinets from one piece of wood. You’re such a liar.”
“Am I?” I lean against the butcher-block counters of the Harbor Walk House, taking a brief break from assessing the space and taking measurements for production. “You don’t know the kinds of talents my hands possess.” I think about it for a second. “Well, at least the ones outside of the bedroom.”
She purses her lips and narrows her eyes. “What happened to no sexual innuendos?”
“I was stating a fact, not an innuendo. I mean, do you or do you not know how my hands feel running up and down your body? Or the way my fingers can easily make you soaking wet with just a light flick of your nipple? Or how I can make you come multiple times with just my fingers twisting and thrusting inside you?”
Harper’s chest is rising and falling at a more rapid rate; her fair skin instantly blushes. That’s her number one tell, and I love it.
“I hardly see how that’s proper business talk.”
“Oh, we’re talking business? My mistake, I thought we were talking these bad boys.” I lift up my hands, which she once knew so well.
“Why are you curling your finger like that?” She points with her pen. “Stop that.”
“Oops, sorry.” I chuckle, knowing exactly what I was doing. “Muscle spasm.”
“We’re getting off course.” She quickly licks her lips and stares down at her paper. “Um, where were we?”
I hold back my smirk. “Cabinets, my hands . . . muscles contracting, oh, I mean spasming.”
“Yes, spasms. I mean . . . no! We’re not talking about spasming or contracting or fingers.” She pushes her hair out of her face. “Okay, so wood.” She sputters. “Cabinet wood, not penis wood. I don’t know why I said penis wood or why I’m staring at your penis.” She clamps her hand over her mouth. “Oh God, did I say that out loud?”
Fuck, laughter bubbles up inside me.
“Forget I said crotch—”
“You didn’t say crotch.”
“Wh-what?” Her head tilts to the side, eyes wild. “I mean penis, forget I said penis, or wood. Let’s just move on.” Pen poised, she winces. “I have no idea what we’re talking about.”
“Give it up, Harp. You have sex on the brain.”
“You put it there,” she snaps and tosses her notepad and pen on the counter and then stares at the cabinets. “This is not one piece of wood.”
“Nah, ordered them from a factory.”
Tossing her hands in the air, she walks away. “You’re infuriating.”
“Just the entryway.”
“Are you sure?” I ask, leaning against a wall of the Inn by the Sea, arms crossed, my shoulders pulling on my suit jacket, shaping the fabric around my arms. I’m only aware of this because Harper keeps staring at them. She thinks I don’t see it, but I do. The little glances in my direction. She might be keeping her heart under lock and key, but her lust is apparent, with every sideways glance and once-over she gives me.
“Yes. Sally will go over this more with you, but they just need the entryway of the inn and then the closed-in back porch.”
“Any bedrooms? I redid them. Want to check one out?”
“What? No.” She shakes her head. “No, that’s not necessary.”
“Big, comfortable beds.” Her eyes flick to my crotch and then back to her papers. “Mirrors on the ceiling.”
Her head snaps up. “Seriously?”
“No.” I laugh. “I’m classier than that. Just wanted to see what your reaction was.”
“You know, you seem to be forgetting about our no-sex-talk rule.”
“That wasn’t sex talk, that was . . . informing you of the new accommodations.”
“You’re making this harder than it should be.”
“Is that right?” I wiggle my eyebrows. Huffing, she blows past me and straight out the inn doors to my car. I follow close behind her. “You seem upset.”
“I’m annoyed.” She tries to open my car door, but it’s locked.
Casually, I lean against my car and look up at the cloudless sky. “Want to go to lunch?”
“Right now?”
I hold up my watch. “It’s noon. I’m hungry. You seem like you could use some food.”
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea.” She clutches her folder and papers to her chest.
“I think it’s a great idea.” I push off the car and unlock it. “Hop in.”
“But . . .”
I don’t give her much time to refuse my offer. Instead, I take her folders from her and plop them in the back seat of my car and then help her into the passenger seat. I pull on the seat belt and go to buckle her in when she snags it from me.
“I’m quite able, thank you.”
“Just trying to make sure you don’t go anywhere.”
“Some might call this kidnapping.”
Hand on the door, I say, “Maybe it is,” right before I shut it and round the SUV.
This might be jumping the gun when it comes to our “friendship,” but I’m willing to push her. I know she doesn’t trust me, but there’s only one way to solve that: nudging her to step outside her comfort zone and spend more time with me.
“What are you in the mood for?” I ask, sliding into the driver’s seat and starting the car.
“Will you actually eat with me? Or are you going to gnaw on a carrot while I shove food in my face?”
“I’ll eat with you.”
“Good.” She smiles. “Then take me to Mario’s. I want some pizza. And you’re buying.”
“Be honest,” Harper says, pulling a piece of cheese off her finger with her teeth. I swear to God, she’s doing that on purpose. “When was the last time you ate pizza?”
“I really can’t remember.” I fold my slice in half and take a big, gooey pepperoni-filled bite. Fuck, it’s so good.
“That’s absurd. I had pizza last week. Who doesn’t know the last time they had a slice of pizza?”
“A guy who doesn’t really care?”
“Pah!” she exclaims. “If you didn’t care, then you would be eating all the pizza, every day. It’s because you care that you don’t eat it. So what’s the deal? Why are you Mr. Health Nut now?”
“I’ve always been healthy.”
“Not this healthy. So, what is it? Are you looking to try out for Mr. Hard Body up in Pottsmouth?”
“The all-male strip club?”
“Yeah, I mean, what other reason is there?” She gestures to my chest. “Not that I’ve been staring, but I can’t help but notice how tight your dress clothes are. You weren’t this muscular in college. So . . . what is it?”
Not that she’s been staring? Ha, okay. She’s been staring, a lot.
And if I open up just a little, it will go a mile in her book. If I’m going to gain back her trust, I need to give her little pieces of me, of the man I am today and the decisions I’ve made. Because I can’t help the way I’m drawn to her, drawn to the familiarity of what we had. But when she first arrived, I didn’t know how long she’d stay in Port Snow, didn’t think either of us was ready to acknowledge we might be open to more, so every time we were drawn or pushed together, the fear made me push her away. Same as it did after college. Now I know I have to change that. I need to prove to her that the past is exactly that—the past.
I’m a different man.
A better man.
It’s about time she sees that.
I set my pizza down and pick up my water glass, nervous. “After everything that went down in college, I always wondered if I would have been able to recover faster if I’d taken better care of myself.”
Her eyes soften as a blanket of seriousness drapes over us. “Rogan, you were a machine—”
“No. I wasn’t. I drank, I ate shitty food, and I didn’t ice like I should have. I got lazy my sophomore year, and it showed. It was like I won the starting position and gave up.”
“You worked so hard, trained so much.�
��
“Doesn’t matter. I could have done more. It’s always been one of my biggest unanswered questions. Now, I take such good care, so I never have to worry about that.” I lift up my pizza and take another bite. “Today doesn’t count,” I say, mouth full.
“Nor does the other when you had ice cream?” She lifts a brow in my direction.
“Keeping tabs on me, Sanders?”
“No, just pointing out that you don’t have to be so strict; you’re allowed to have moments.”
“Moments with you.” She shyly smiles and wipes her mouth with her napkin. I can see the wheels turning in her head, so before she can defuse the repartee we have going on, I ask, “Do you still have your list?”
“My . . .” She draws a blank. “My wish list?”
“Yeah, the one you started back in high school. You had things on there like first kiss, touch a whale, and what was it . . . see Ford Blakely’s penis?”
“Shh,” she hushes me, looking around. “He lives here.”
“I know,” I whisper, leaning forward. “He issued me a speeding ticket a month ago.”
“Did he really?” Harper smirks, looking a little too happy.
“Yeah, he did. Then he shook my hand and thanked me for giving his mom a deal on rent.”
She throws back her head and lets out a loud laugh. “He did not.”
“Yup, the guy shows no favorites in this town, not even his mom’s charitable landlord.”
“I can’t believe he gave you a ticket. How fast were you going?”
“Thirty-two in a twenty-five.” I drag my hand over my face. “Fucking brutal.”
“That’s not even bad.”
“Tell me about it.” I take a sip of my water. “But back to wanting to see his penis. Can you clarify that for me?”
That particular entry on her high school wish list never bothered me per se, but I always wondered why she never took it off.
“I can tell you’re never going to let this go.”
“Nope.”
“Fine.” She takes a bite of her crust. “I heard it was rather large, and I just wanted to see for myself.”
“Why did you need to see a large penis when you had one at your disposal whenever you wanted?”
That Forever Girl Page 21
