“I know, sweetie. That’s never changed.”
I meet his eyes. “I can’t contain how happy I am.”
“But . . .” He can hear it in my voice: the questioning.
Giving in, I slouch in my chair, knees bent up into my chest. “Everything feels so right, like . . . like I’ve found myself all over again.”
“What’s wrong with that? Isn’t that what you’ve been working on, why you came back to Port Snow?”
If only he knew the real reason.
“Sort of, but I just feel like a shell of a person.”
“What are you talking about?”
How can I explain this while sparing my dad the horrific details? I look up at him, into his kind, soulful eyes, and I realize there’s no sugarcoating it. If I truly want to move on from the past, I need to face it, and I need to be honest.
I take a deep breath. “I came back to Port Snow because . . .” I swallow hard. “Because I was in an abusive relationship with Brandon.”
My dad lifts from his seat for a second, pure anger etching across his face before he sits back down and gathers himself. Gripping his cup of coffee like a lifeline, he blows out a long breath. “What happened?”
Knowing the actual details might throw him into cardiac arrest, so I keep my explanation simple. “It was good at first, but over the last year, he started to get more and more angry, and . . . he started to take his anger out on me. It wasn’t until he physically hurt me that I took off. It sort of woke me up, made me realize I deserved more.”
“He hit you.”
I nod as the rest of my body freezes, petrified at how he’s going to react. “But please, I don’t want to get into it. It’s behind me now, and it’s the reason I came here—because I needed a new start. When I moved back, I swore I would spend the time finding myself, truly exploring the person I want to become.”
It takes my dad a few breaths before he calms down and looks up at me. “So why do you think you’re a shell of a woman?”
“Because . . .” I fiddle with a piece of lint on my knee. “I told myself I would never let another man dictate my future, that I would find my own path. I thought I was doing well with Lovemark, discovering a new career path, but even though I like the job, I don’t love it. I haven’t felt whole . . . not until Rogan came back into my life. Until we reconnected.” I shake my head. “I’m one of those girls who depends on a man for happiness.”
My dad’s chair slides under him; he rounds the table and scoots in next to me, taking my hand in his. “Have I ever told you why I’ve never remarried? Why I’ve only been on a handful of dates since your mother passed?”
“I’ve always wondered, but I never wanted to pressure you.”
His thumb passes over my knuckles. “When I met your mother back in high school, I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that she was my person, and no matter who else came along, she would forever be the other half of my soul. I like to believe that some people hold the beat of another human’s heart in theirs, and they spend their entire lives searching for the owner. People are put on this earth to love. You are one of those people, and Rogan is your other half. Without him, you’re not whole. Without you, he’s empty. You complete each other, and there is nothing wrong with basing your lives around the love you share.”
Tears prickle at my eyes as my lip trembles. “He’s . . . he’s all I want in life. Shouldn’t I want more?”
My dad shakes his head. “No, sweetie, because to you, he’s happiness, and that’s really what we should all strive for in life: happiness.” He wipes a stray tear from my cheek. “Coming back to Port Snow wasn’t about finding yourself; you’ve known who you are for a long time—a brilliant, beautiful woman with a heart of gold. You were searching for your home, and when it comes to you and me, our home isn’t a location or a building; it’s the place we hold in someone’s heart.” Another tear rolls down my cheek. “Rogan is your home. It might have taken you some time to realize that, but that’s what your time here has been about: finding your home in him.”
“You really think so?”
He pulls me into a hug. “I know so, sweetie. I see the same love I once shared with your mom between you two. It’s why I’ve never held any animosity toward him, because I understand the kind of love he carries in his heart for you. It consumes you, makes you do stupid things sometimes. He’s a good man, Harper. You both deserve each other.”
I throw my arms around him, pressing my face against his shoulder, my heart full, my soul content. “So you don’t think of me as a shell of a person?”
He shakes his head against me. “If anything, I think you’re so brave. You’ve found the key to your happiness. It takes people ages to figure it out—some people never realize what it is. You are brave and strong because that’s what it takes to love. Don’t let anyone tell you differently.”
With another squeeze, he presses a kiss to the top of my head and stands from his chair. He pulls his phone from his pocket and grows serious. “Now what’s the address of that Brandon bastard? I have something to give him.”
“You are not going to give Brandon ‘something.’” I use air quotes.
“Did I say ‘give him something’? I meant introduce his dick to my shotgun.”
“Oh my God.” I shake my head, though part of me considers it. Just knowing my dad scared the shit out of Brandon would be something. “Don’t worry, I reported him. He’ll get what’s coming to him.”
“I’d still like to involve my shotgun.”
I pat my dad’s cheek. “I know, Dad. I know.”
I start to walk away when he calls out, “You have to tell Rogan. He deserves to know. Start this relationship with a clean slate.”
I nod, though I’m already dreading the conversation. “I will, Dad, and . . . thank you.”
Rogan: What does your night look like? Please tell me it’s with me between your legs.
Harper: When did you get such a dirty mind?
Rogan: Years of pining after you. Now all I can think about is getting you naked and making you writhe beneath me.
Harper: You could write romance novels with that type of thought.
Rogan: Maybe I’ll ask Rylee if she needs some help.
Harper: I’m sure she gets unsolicited offers from lots of people.
Rogan: So, what are you doing tonight?
Harper: Was thinking about staying in, watching a movie, maybe having some lobster bisque.
Rogan: Orrrrrr . . . you can come to my house, strip down to nothing and sit on my lap.
Harper: Hmm, decisions, decisions.
Rogan: Come on, Harp, I’m dying over here since I didn’t see you yesterday, I’m desperate.
Harper: Now that you have me, you can’t get enough?
Rogan: Exactly. You bring the lobster bisque, I’ll bring the mood music.
Harper: Oh how can I pass up mood music?
Rogan: It’s very hard, almost impossible.
Harper: Fine, I’ll come over, but I do have to talk to you about something.
Rogan: Ehhh . . . that’s never a good thing. Do I need to be worried?
Harper: No. I just have an answer to a question you’ve been asking me since I got back to Port Snow.
“Harper, can we see you for a second?” Sally calls out from her corner of the Lobster Landing.
“Sure.” I set down my clipboard on a side table and head over to her. We’re on our last day of shooting in the iconic gift shop, and from the way Griffin has been hovering over us, I can tell he’s ready to get the place back up and running.
Thankfully, we’ve been inside for the last few shoots, so we’ve been warm and toasty, but tomorrow we’re back outside, behind Brig’s garage; I’m mentally preparing myself.
Elizabeth, Carl, and Sally are all hovering over a tablet, pointing at the screen and talking when I walk up to them. A little nervous, I wait for them to address me.
Sally goes first. “Hey, Harper, we thought while the actors ar
e finishing up with hair and makeup, we would have a little chat with you.”
“Okay.” I try not to show how nervous I am. All I want is to make sure I’m doing a good job.
Carl pulls his head up from his tablet. “Have you enjoyed working with us?”
I nod. “Very much so. It’s been a neat challenge. Something I’ve never done before, but I’m so happy to use what I know.”
“Yes, you really know New England well. It’s come in handy.” Carl removes his glasses. “That’s why we want to offer you a full-time job.”
Excuse me? My pulse picks up as I try to understand what they’re saying.
“Yes,” Sally adds. “We would love to have you travel around with production, scouting different locations for all our upcoming films. We know it might be different in a town you didn’t grow up in, but you have a really good eye; you can picture a scene in front of you. We think that’s a valuable skill.”
“Very valuable.” Elizabeth nods. “And this would give you the opportunity to travel around the country, not just New England. We know you’ve done a lot of traveling before this, so you’ll be able to explore even more.”
“Wow,” I say, completely caught off guard. “I mean, I don’t know what to say.”
“Think it over,” Sally says. “We would love to have you on board; you already fit in with the crew.”
“Okay,” I answer, my mind racing. “Thank you so much. I really appreciate it.”
“You’ve earned it,” Carl says, putting his glasses back on and turning back to his tablet.
With a brief smile, I return to my post and clipboard, feigning working, but in reality, my head is spinning. Scouting for Lovemark full time? And all over the country? I could travel to states I’ve never been to before. I think I’d be good at it . . . but would it be a fulfilling job? That’s the real question.
I feel like I’ve found myself again, but not through the job—through this town and the people . . . and the memories. Do I want to give that all up? Travel from location to location, living out of a suitcase like I have been since college?
I chew on my lip, thinking it over.
And if I take this job, what does that mean for Rogan and me? Would we be able to handle all the traveling and the distance? Would I have to relocate? Would I be willing to? Is one job offer worth upending my entire life? A life I just started to fall in love with?
Looks like I have one more thing to tell Rogan tonight.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
ROGAN
“Yes, Rogan, oh my God . . . yes.”
Pinning Harper against the wall with her dress up around her waist, I slide into her, my jeans around my knees, unable to wait another second until I am inside her.
My lips mold with hers, my hands gripping her ass, propping her up as I move her up and down the length of my cock. Her fingers pull on my hair, her kisses hot and demanding as I thrust hard.
One.
Two.
“Yesss,” she cries out.
Three. She bites down on my lip. My balls seize, and I spill inside her, groaning and stilling as wave after wave of pleasure hits me.
“Hell, Harper.” I breathe out, pressing another kiss against her lips. “I missed you.”
“It was a day.” She chuckles.
“One day too long.” And that’s the goddamn truth. If I wasn’t so terrified of scaring her away, I would ask her to move into my house right now, but I have to take my time with her. There is no way in hell I’m screwing this up again.
With one more kiss, I lower her to the ground, right her dress, and fix my pants. She bends down to pick up her underwear, but I snag it before she can. “Why bother?” I ask, holding it up.
She’s about to protest when a smile crosses her face. “Ugh, you’re right.”
“I know I am.” I take her hand in mine and bring her to the living room, where I have a teapot and teacups set off to the side, a fire roaring, and the mood music quietly playing through the surround sound.
“Tea? I never pictured you as a tea man.” She takes a seat on the couch as I pour her a cup.
With a steady hand, I deliver her tea and offer up milk and sugar, which she turns away. “I like tea in front of the fire.”
“You’re cute,” she says, looking me up and down.
I give her the same kind of perusal. “You’re hot. Especially when you moan my name.” I take a sip of my tea. “You never used to be so vocal.”
“That’s because I never wanted anyone to hear us.”
“And now?”
She gestures to the woods outside the window. “You don’t have any neighbors. I can be as loud as I want.”
Another sip. “I like it.”
“I could tell. I swear you get bigger with every moan.”
I shrug. “Knowing I’m turning you on, it does things to me.” I drape my hand on the back of the couch, tugging on a lock of her hair. The light of the fire casts a beautiful glow over Harper, illuminating her freckles. I’m tempted to run my finger over them and count them but know she wants to tell me something. “So, what do you want to talk about?”
“Just going to jump right into it like that?” she asks good-humoredly.
I nod, my bones shaking with nerves inside me. It almost feels like we’re back in high school and I’m the guy with a crush on my best friend. I don’t want her to turn me down; I don’t think I could stomach it. “I want to get everything out in the open, because starting tomorrow, we are never looking back, always moving forward.”
“Okay, that’s fair.” She looks out the window, her brow pinching together.
I take her hand and entwine our fingers. “Are you nervous to tell me something?”
“Yes,” she admits, turning toward me. “Very nervous.”
“Why?”
“I’m afraid of your reaction.”
I might have been slightly nervous before, but I am full-on shaking in my damn pants now. What could she possibly have to tell me? I shove down my nerves. It’s my job to be there for her right now.
“Don’t worry about me, Harp. I’ll be fine.”
She shakes her head and looks out the window again. “No, you won’t. You won’t be fine at all, but I promised my dad I would tell you, so here goes.” She takes a deep breath and stares down at our connected hands. “You’ve asked me many times why I came back to Port Snow, but I always kind of beat around the bush instead of answering.”
“Yeah, I could tell you weren’t telling the truth.” I scoot in a little closer, setting down my tea, trying my best to show her that no matter what she says, I will still love her. “It’s okay, Harp, you can talk to me.”
“I know.” Her lip trembles as tears fill her eyes. “I’m just so ashamed.”
Fuck . . . why? What happened to her?
“Come here.” I take her tea and set it down next to mine, then scoop her into my lap, holding her protectively against my chest. “I’m here. Take your time.”
She leans her head against my shoulder, her hand falling to my sweater; she grips it tightly. A few minutes pass as we just hold each other, her tears soaking into my clothes. But I say nothing; I just hold her and let her work up the courage to tell me whatever it is she’s hiding.
Finally, she lifts her head and wipes her eyes. “I’m sorry. It’s just a hard thing to admit, but I promise you I’m better.”
Better? What the fuck? Is she sick? My heart seizes in my chest at the thought. Has she been sick this whole time, having to battle it on her own?
I’m seconds away from prying it out of her when she says, “Before I came to Port Snow, I was living with a man, Brandon, in Boston. We’d been together for two years.”
Living with another man? Well, that makes my chest tight for completely different reasons. I don’t want to know about my girl living with another guy, but I steel myself, putting my feelings aside and listening to her.
“At first, we were fine,” she continues. “I was never in love wit
h him, but he was comfortable, and that’s what I needed when my mind was still a wreck. It wasn’t until the last year that he started to get angrier and angrier.”
The breath in my lungs halts; my shoulders and jaw immediately start to throb with tension. Angrier and angrier? That could only mean one thing . . .
“Did he hit you, Harper?”
Biting her lip, she slowly nods.
There isn’t a good enough word to explain how much hatred rolls through me in a matter of seconds. Some man—Brandon—struck Harper. How is that even fucking possible? What gives another human being the right to hurt the one person they’re supposed to be with, care for, respect?
Or what gives another human being the right to hit someone at all?
Unable to control my temper, I set Harper carefully to the side and stand from the couch. Hand flying through my hair, I pace back and forth across the living room.
Someone hit Harper; someone physically abused my girl.
And . . . I’d fucked her up so much that she was drawn to this asshole, thinking he could comfort her.
I drove her to him. If it wasn’t for me and my selfish, self-destructive tendencies, she never would have felt like she needed to seek comfort from someone else. She never would have traveled up and down the East Coast, looking for a piece of me in someone else.
“Fuck!” I scream, my pace picking up, unable to calm down. There is no way, not with pure rage propelling my movements. “He fucking hit you. How bad?”
I turn on her, and that’s when I see it: she’s scared. Shaking on the couch, knees drawn into her chest, she is physically scared . . . of me. I pause midstride and take her in. Pale, reactive, eyes drawn down. I’ve never seen her like this, ever. Harper is strong and confident, doesn’t put up with my shit. She’s always stood up not only for herself, but for others as well. She’s charming, addicting, outgoing. She doesn’t cower, she doesn’t retreat, which means one thing. My reaction is pushing one of her buttons.
The tension in my shoulders shooting down to my clenching fists.
The pure anger and boom of my voice vibrating off the walls.
The strength in my stride, the pounding of my feet.
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