That Forever Girl

by Quinn, Meghan

  “Why not? You shared a womb, so you can share friends.”

  Rogan tugs my arm and nods toward a quiet corner of the restaurant. Good idea. No one wants to hang out with Reid and Eve when they start bantering.

  We find a little table off to the side near the fireplace. Rogan, like the gentleman he is, pulls out my chair for me and helps me sit down before taking the seat across from me.

  He scratches the side of his jaw and studies me, a smile tugging on his lips.

  “What?” I ask. “What’s that smile all about?”

  “Just thinking about you in a giant puffy vest. I can’t picture it.”

  “Well, you’ll see it tomorrow. Unless you can’t make it.”

  “Nah, I’ll be there. The last two days have been busy for me, but the rest of my week should open up.”

  It’s odd, seeing Rogan in the role of Mr. Businessman. I’ve known so many stages of Rogan’s life, but grown-up Rogan is different. I’ve always thought he was attractive, but this Rogan . . . he’s positively sexy with his five-o’clock shadow, fitted clothing, and contemporary hairstyle that my fingers are begging to run through. But beyond appearances, he’s carrying himself differently. More confident, more in control.

  “What’s that look for?” he asks.

  Not wanting to get into my thoughts, I say, “Tell me one thing you did when we weren’t together that you wish you could have called me to tell me about.”

  “That’s easy. Two years after we broke up and I built up my strength and endurance in my leg, I ran a half marathon down in Connecticut.”

  “A half marathon? That’s incredible.”

  “When I finished, I collapsed a few feet away from the finish line and cried like a goddamn baby. Griffin was by my side the entire way while the rest of my family was on the sidelines. It was one of the only times my dad closed the Lobster Landing. Even though their support meant everything to me, there was a part of me that was missing. It was you. That night, I so desperately wanted to call you and tell you.”

  “I wish you would have,” I say softly. “That’s so incredible. You must have been so proud of yourself.”

  “I was. It was one of the few bright moments in my life over the last few years. I would like to say I’ve been a gold-star amputee, being positive, living life to the fullest, but I haven’t. It was hard to be positive when I drove away the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

  “I don’t want to talk about that right now.”

  “You’re right, I’m sorry.” He reaches across the table and takes my hand. “What’s something you wish you could have called me about?”

  “So many things.” My head whirls with memories I wish I could have captured with him. “I traveled up and down New England and ran into some interesting people . . . some strange ones too, but there was one person I met along the way that I truly wish I could have called you about.”

  “Was it someone famous?”

  I nod, slowly.

  “Oh shit, really?”

  “Yup. And he’s a favorite of yours.”

  “Seriously? Athlete or celebrity?”

  I wince. “Athlete.”

  He groans, squeezing his eyes shut. “I’m going to be green with jealousy, aren’t I?”

  “You really are. Maybe I shouldn’t tell you.”

  “Yeah, maybe you shouldn’t. It might be best for the both of—”

  “It was Jacob Damon,” I blurt out.

  “What?” he shouts, eyes nearly popping out of his sockets. I can’t help but laugh. “No fucking way. You’re trying to hurt me right now, right? Please tell me you’re trying to hurt me.”

  I shake my head and dig out my phone. It takes me a few seconds, but I find the picture and turn my phone toward Rogan; his eyes fixate on the screen. Jacob has his arm wrapped around me as we take a selfie on a hiking trail.

  “What the hell?” He takes the phone and studies the photo. “Where are you?”

  “I was hiking up in New Hampshire, and I happened to run into him. He was ahead of me, but I wound up catching up. I wanted to know who the giant sucking wind was.”

  “He was sucking wind?”

  “Big time.” We both chuckle. “I mean, he’d been retired for at least a few years at that point. His running back days were long gone.”

  “I can’t believe you met him . . . and took a picture with him. Please . . . please just tell me you mentioned me. I know we were broken up at that point and you would have rather stuck a pencil up my pee hole than talk to me, but please say you mentioned me. I need to know that Jacob Damon at least knows my name.”

  “I mentioned you.”

  “Fuck.” Rogan leans against the wall next to us, his eyes closed, his hand scrubbing down his face. “Jacob Damon has heard my name. Christ, Harper, I could kiss you.”

  He’s so adorable. “I knew you would appreciate that. It killed me not being able to rub it in your face. I was so freaking tempted to send you an email with just the picture in it.”

  “God, if you did, that would have been the ultimate eff you. I would have applauded you. Probably would have driven to wherever you were just to give you a high five for spitefulness and then drive away.”

  “You’ve always taken the mature route.”

  He chuckles. “That’s me, Mr. Mature. God, I still can’t believe you met Jacob . . .” He pauses and sits up straight. “Wait, does that mean you got his autograph? Is it sitting in a box somewhere? Do you need help unpacking it?”

  “Yeahhh,” I drag out. “I didn’t get an autograph.”

  “What?” He practically leaps out of his chair. “How could you not have gotten an autograph?”

  “We were hiking. I didn’t have a pen on me. Would you have wanted him to sign a napkin with his sweat?”

  “Yes! Christ, Harper, yes! I would have taken a vial of his sweat and kept it on my nightstand.”

  “Ehh . . . okay, that’s weird.”

  He shakes his head. “No, what’s weird is you not asking for the sweat vial. I thought I taught you better—what happened to all those conversations we had in the manor? You know, when we talked about what we would do if we ever ran into one of our idols? Don’t you remember those?”

  It was one of our favorite games. We’d choose a celebrity and then decide how we would approach them if we ever ran into them. The key to success when meeting a celebrity: not “fangirling” too much to scare them away but “fangirling” just enough to make them like you, then ask a few questions, and then the final ask: Give me something of yours.

  The arguments and carefully curated questions we came up with for different celebrities were so on point that we knew if we ever met them, we would end up with some celebrity underwear. That was always the ultimate goal: snagging the undies.

  “You can’t judge.” I shake my head, grinning. “When you’re put in the real-life situation, it’s different. I couldn’t ask for the undies; I could barely ask for a picture.”

  Rogan waves his hand in dismissal. “You’re dead to me.”

  “Oh please, as if you would have been able to act normal if you met him. Have you ever run into a celebrity?”

  “No—”

  “Exactly, so you have no room to talk. It’s completely different in person.”

  “I still think you need to practice.”

  “Fine.” I rub my hands together. “Want to go for another round?”

  He points at the table. “Right here, right now?”

  “Yeah. You scared?”

  “Pfft, please. I’m the master of this game.”

  He really is—or was—but at least I can give it a shot. He always had better questions. I usually went for the obvious, but his questions were scarily detailed. It’s almost as if he spent every free minute reading celebrity gossip magazines.

  “Okay, are you ready?”

  “Yup.” He cracks his knuckles and then stares me down. “Do you want me to give you a celebrity first?”

  “
Yes.”

  He takes a moment, considering, until a giant smile breaks out on his face.

  “You’re in the grocery store. You’re in the midst of picking out chicken breasts and have your hand inside a plastic bag, pawing through the chickens, protecting your hand from any random leaked juices.” He knows me too well. “When all of a sudden, from the corner of your eyes, you spot Orlando Bloom, thumbing through the steaks. Go.”

  “Orlando Bloom? Hmm . . . okay. I would approach him with a simple question, like . . . I’m having a dinner party and need help picking out some chicken breasts. Do you think you could help?”

  “Damsel in distress, nice approach. Unless he wants to go down in history as a dick, he’ll step up and help you out.”

  “And since I think Orlando is a nice guy, I have him hooked. And then I would ask him a few questions about chicken, until I ‘realize’ he’s Orlando Bloom. Then I’d tell him how much I loved him in Pirates of the Caribbean.”

  “Good, one of his blockbusters.”

  “And then I’d tell him that Johnny Depp didn’t steal the show at all, that he was the true star. After the compliment, I would ask him to sign my boob and move on.”

  Silence for a second. Rogan’s brow pinches together. Just from the look in his eyes, I’m going to guess he has a better way of communicating with Orlando. Rogan always does.

  “First of all, let’s agree on no signing of body parts. If Jennifer Lopez can’t sign my dick, then Orlando Bloom sure as shit can’t sign your boob. Secondly, you think he’s going to sign something after you blatantly lie and tell him he was better than Johnny Depp? You won’t get anywhere with that.”

  “Of course I will. He’ll be flattered.”

  “He’ll know you’re lying,” Rogan counters. “Everyone knows Johnny Depp made those movies.”

  I fold my arms over my chest. “Okay, what would you have done?”

  “I would have complimented his dick.”

  “What?”

  “Come on. Don’t you remember when those dick pics came out? He was paddle boarding with Katy Perry, pantsless, dong flapping in the breeze, ready to be fish bait the minute he fell into the water.”

  Oh . . . hell. Damn it! He’s right. The dick pics.

  He laughs. “I can see the regret in your eyes.”

  “He does have a big penis.”

  “Exactly, and if only you told him you liked the photos and were impressed with his . . . assets, then you would have for sure gotten at least an autograph if not a shot at his panties.”

  “It pains me to admit it, but you are so right.”

  “I know I am. Now give me a celebrity. I’ll show you how it’s done.”

  And for the next half hour, he does, as we bounce celebrities back and forth. All I can think about is how familiar this repartee is and yet how thrillingly new it is as well.

  Okay, I’ll give it to the designers of the puffy vest. Warmth with no restriction. I can see why it’s a popular wardrobe choice. Of course I paired mine with a flannel button-up, jeans, and . . . sneakers.

  And so I take on my third day of filming, much more comfortable this time. Even Carl mentioned something about my outfit today, which surprised me; I didn’t think he was able to pry his eyes from his tablet long enough to notice anything.

  It’s our last day at the Harbor Walk House, thankfully. The location is amazing, but it’s really tight. After all, we’re restricted to the bridge spanning the bay.

  “Hey, Harper.” Brian, the lead actor, comes up to me before the first take, makeup towels tucked in his shirt, his hair already styled, that brilliant smile plastered on his face. “How are you this morning?”

  I clutch my clipboard to my chest. “I’m doing well. Thank you. Grateful for the normal call time.”

  He chuckles. “I was doing a film a few months back that had us waking up at one in the morning for two weeks straight. It was pure torture. This feels like a cakewalk.”

  “Ouch, I would have quit. I’m so not a morning person.”

  “Well, it doesn’t show, if that helps.” He nods at my vest. “Changed up the wardrobe today.”

  Jeez, how many people noticed? “Yeah, thought I would go for something a little more comfortable.”

  “We all had a bet going to see how long it would take you to give in to comfort. I had you pegged at four days, thought you’d stick it out longer. Can’t believe I lost.”

  “What?” I laugh. “You were all betting on me?”

  “We do it with every newbie. We appreciate the professionalism, but when you’re working these long hours, comfort is key.”

  The breeze picks up, brushing my hair over my face; I quickly push it behind my ear. “I learned that in a matter of hours. Now if I can remember to put my hair up tomorrow, I think I might be all set.”

  “Then you’ll be just like the rest of us.” He winks. “I meant to ask you, is there—”

  “Hey, Harp.” Rogan’s voice shivers up my back as he wraps his arm around my shoulder, pressing a kiss to the side of my head. His grip is territorial, and when I look up, I can’t miss the jealousy in his eyes. He holds his hand out to Brian. “Rogan Knightly. I own a few of the properties where you’re filming.”

  With his movie-star smile, Brian takes Rogan’s hand and gives it a firm shake. “Brian Garrett. It’s nice to meet you. The Harbor Walk House has to be one of my favorite locations. I can only imagine how peaceful the mornings are when there isn’t an entire cast and crew milling around.”

  “One of my favorite places to watch the sunrise,” Rogan says, arm still firmly around my shoulder.

  Brian eyes Rogan’s grip; understanding passes over his features before a small smile tugs on the corner of his lips. “I have to get going, but I wanted to ask you, Harper, where’s the best place to get some lobster bisque around here? I want to make sure I don’t miss out.”

  There’s no question who makes the best lobster bisque in town; if someone tells you differently, they’re probably being paid off by a competitor. “Easy. The Lighthouse Restaurant over on the peninsula. Ask for extra cheese and bread.”

  “Awesome. Thank you.” Brian turns to walk away. “You’re a wealth of information, Harper. I love it.” He gives me a quick wink and then takes off toward hair and makeup, leaving me alone with a very unhappy Rogan.

  “Breathe,” I tell him before turning in his arms to face him.

  “I am breathing,” he snaps.

  “Really? Because it seems like you’re about to crack a tooth from how tense you are.”

  He fixes his eyes on Brian’s back. “Just concerned for him. He should really be practicing his lines instead of flirting with the sexy redhead.”

  And there it is.

  I shake my head and pat his chest . . . his very fluffy chest. And that’s when I notice. He’s wearing a navy-blue puffy vest. “Did you wear this for me?”

  “No,” he says, chin tilted up. “I wanted to fit in.”

  I tug on it. “Just admit it, you wore it for me.”

  “Definitely not for you.” He smiles, bringing his hands to my hips. “But if you wanted to, you know . . . wear something for me on Friday, like a really short dress, I would appreciate that.”

  This man is impossible. With a giant eye roll, I step away. “Your desperation is showing, Rogan.”

  “It’s been showing since the minute you came back to Port Snow,” he counters, tugging on my jeans pocket and pulling me into his warm embrace, my back to his chest. “I’m just letting myself act on it now.” He presses another kiss along my neck this time.

  I swat him away. “Stop that. Not here while I’m working.”

  “Is making out with your boyfriend not a job requirement?”

  “Boyfriend?” I look over my shoulder. “I thought we were just dating.”

  “With our history, it’s the same thing.” His answer is so casual, as if the word boyfriend doesn’t hold an immense amount of weight.

  “I don’t know if
we’re ready for titles. We haven’t even gone on a second date yet.”

  “Trust me, by the end of Friday night, you’re going to be wearing that title with pride.”

  I don’t doubt that; back when I was his girlfriend, I couldn’t have been more proud of the man I teamed up with through this crazy journey of life. It was so easy to give him my heart and soul, and it would be even easier to do it again. The prospect is terrifying but, I have to admit, also exhilarating.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  ROGAN

  I’m fucking nervous.

  The idea of Harper in my house makes everything a little too real, like this is my one shot to impress her. It’s why I took the day off, feigning meetings, and spent the whole time getting my house ready, buying new linens, washing them so they don’t look new, hanging random things, making sure the house looks perfect. Not only is this my house, but it’s also the house Harper’s late mother wanted to live in. I want Harper to walk in and feel right at home, like she was meant to live here all along.

  It’s why I got her favorite apple spice candle at Sticks and Wicks this morning, and it’s why I made homemade spaghetti sauce even though it was a pain in the ass and I had to throw out the first batch because my salt container fell into the boiling pot.

  And then there was my outfit. It felt weird, dressing up just to stay at home, but wearing nothing but a pair of shorts didn’t seem appropriate—even though I know Harper is super curious to see me shirtless. It’s all in her eyes as she peruses my body. At least I have that going for me.

  After multiple outfit changes—yes, I was that guy—I settled on a light-blue sweater, dark jeans, and no socks because, I’ve been told, there’s just something about a barefoot guy in jeans. Don’t ask me why; I don’t get it.

  And even though my prosthetic will show, I’m hoping she’ll look past it and see the man I am today and open up to the possibility of us . . . forever.

  I glance around the house, checking for anything that’s out of place. White throw pillows on the gray couch look great. Wide plank flooring swept and mopped. Black-framed pictures of family and Port Snow are freshly dusted. Music is quietly playing in the background through the surround system. And like a good little candle, it’s burning away, giving off a fresh apple scent that has even me wanting to prance through a goddamn orchard.