“The person you love?” Nervous but feeling bold, I feel my teeth chatter, waiting for an answer.

Rogan cups my cheek, and his face softens. “Yes, the person I love, meaning you, Harper.”

“You love me?”

He nods.

He . . . he loves me. I feel like I knew, have always known, but to actually hear him say it . . . it just confirms everything I thought about Rogan, that we were meant for each other.

“For a really fucking long time. It’s why we’re going to figure out this college thing together. Football is my future, but so are you.”

“But I don’t want to hold you back.”

“You’re not going to, not when you’re the person who pushes me to be better. I wouldn’t be where I am without you, Harper. I need you by my side.”

“You won’t resent me for going to a different school? Penn State was all you talked about all summer.”

Sitting up, he brushes his lips against mine. “I would resent not going to college with you, not having you at my games, cheering me on like you always do. I need you there, so wherever you’re accepted, I’m going.”

I press my lips together, emotion welling in my eyes. “I love you so much, Rogan.”

A smile plays at the corner of his lips. “Shit, Harp, hearing you say that”—he shakes his head—“I don’t think I’ve ever been happier.” He scoops me into his lap and holds on to my butt with one hand, my back with the other, sealing me in place.

I press my palm to his cheek, feeling his light scruff under my hand. “What would we have done if I hadn’t kissed you that first time?”

He chuckles, the rumble coming from his chest spiking my need for him. “I probably would have found a way to make it happen. Face it, Harp, you’ve owned me since sixth grade; it just took me a while to figure it out.”

Lightly, I press my lips against his and rock against him, my hands falling to the back of his neck where I thread my fingers through his silky hair. “I think I was the same way, blind until that kiss, but the need for you was overwhelming.”

“Meant to be,” he whispers, guiding me over his thickening erection. We’re still waiting to have sex, but moments like this make me think that I’m ready; I can’t imagine being with anyone else.

“Promise we’ll be together forever?”

“Yes,” he groans as I sink farther into his lap, grinding a little harder.

I work my lips down his jaw to his neck. “Was that a yes that feels good, or a yes we’ll be together forever?”

Grunting, he flips me on my back and places his hands on either side of my head. Lowering his hips, he starts to move against my spread legs, our clothes making everything a little clumsy. His neck strains, his shoulders thicken, his eyes grow heady with desire.

“Yes . . . together . . . forever.” He bites down on his lip, a light sheen of sweat breaking out across his forehead.

I find the button of his jeans, quickly undoing them, and reach into his boxer briefs, where I stroke his thick, long erection. He pauses and grinds his teeth together.

“Fuck, Harp.”

“Lay down on your back and put your hands behind your head.”

Not giving it a second thought, he switches places with me, and I free his penis from its confines, reveling in how large he is. It’s the only penis I’ve ever seen in person, and even though I have nothing to compare it to, I know it’s huge.

Looking down at him, I grip the base of his cock and squeeze tight, bringing my hand up toward the head. He squeezes his eyes shut just as he whispers, “Fuck, I love you so much, Harper.”

Feeling like my life is full of endless possibilities now, I stroke him up and down, other hand on his exposed belly, just at the root of his penis, playing and teasing him. “I love you too, Rogan.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

HARPER

“Oh, it’s so freaking slow today,” I say, gently banging my forehead against the kitchen wall.

Behind me, Eve pats me on the back. “It’ll pick up after this weekend with everyone wanting to come see the lights and getting ready for the winter festivities. At least people have stopped staring at you.”

“Yeah, they’re just talking about me behind their menus now.” I tear off an order and put it up on the scroll for the chefs. The Lighthouse Inn Restaurant doesn’t have a computer system—we’re old school here, which means I have to write very clearly or the line cooks get angry.

It’s happened before.

“Hey, that’s better than pointing and whispering. If you think about it, Rogan really did you a favor.” She nervously smiles at me.

After the wonderful night when Rogan announced to the entire bar that we never have any intention of getting back together, I told Eve everything that happened. I was a bawling mess, crying in her arms as she patted me on the shoulder, gave me a hug, and told me she already knew; the gossip train hit her before I could even make an attempt to tell her everything.

Of course, there were embellishments, like Rogan standing on top of the bar, me sobbing at his feet, begging for him to stop. Yeah . . . good times.

“Rogan did nothing but firmly plant himself in the asshole category.” I lean against the wall and peek into the dining room, checking on my tables. “Seriously, he’s Captain Asshole, leading the brigade down Shithead Lane. Who does that?” I scoff. “Doing me a favor, my ass. He was doing himself a favor, letting everyone know that even though I was back in town, he wanted nothing to do with me.” I fold my arms over my chest. “Honestly, I think the town should take a vote. Someone who humiliates another person that much should be voted off the island.” I make a whistle sound and jab my thumb over my shoulder. “You’re out of here, buddy.”

“I would love that, being able to vote people out of this town. Franklin would be the first to go. I can’t stand that guy.”

“Ugh,” I groan. “Don’t get me started on Franklin. Like, stick your nose in someone else’s business, and when I say I want my turkey sliced thin, I mean thin, you . . . motherfucker.”

Off to the side, Eve snorts. “You tell him. Slice it thin, you motherfucker.”

“It’s just deli meat etiquette.” I throw my hands up. “Not everyone wants chunky meat.”

I stuff my order pad in my apron and take a deep breath. “I’m going to go check on table eight. They’re out-of-towners and can’t seem to drink enough water.”

Pitcher in hand, I head toward table eight, where the three strangers are sitting. It’s the best table in the place, with a window that overlooks the peninsula bay.

“I don’t know, Sally, there don’t seem to be any sandy beaches here; it’s all slate rock,” the man says, pulling at his navy-blue cap.

I pick up his water glass to fill it as Sally, a petite redhead, scoffs, “There have to be. I can’t imagine there being no sandy beaches.”

“Have you looked around?” the other woman with the freckled cheeks asks. “It really is beautiful, just . . . rocky.”

I pick up Sally’s water glass this time and clear my throat. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to eavesdrop, but if you’re looking for a sandy beach in Port Snow, there’s one at the end of Seagull Lane.”

“Really?” the lady asks. “Whereabouts is Seagull Lane? Close to here?”

“Just down the hill and right off Main Street. Curves around a forested lot, so it’s a little deceiving, but when you drive to the end of the street, you’ll see the beach access. In my opinion it’s the prettiest beach in Port Snow. A close second is Turtle Cove, which is on the other side of the harbor, a few blocks from the Lobster Landing. Turtle Cove isn’t white sand, though; it’s covered in tiny pieces of slate rock that turned into what looks like sand. The water has carved out a little cove, and it’s perfect for whale watching during the season. Absolutely gorgeous.”

“Sounds breathtaking,” Sally says and looks to the other two at the table. “What’s your favorite winter spot?”

Water pitcher at my hip, I pause for a moment, considering. “Well, it depends. What are you looking for? If you’re searching for the best place to enjoy a warm drink, I love Snow Roast, but there’s a little booth that sells Snow Roast’s coffee set up at the town park. A hundred yards down from that, there’s a bench that offers the perfect view of all the evergreen trees covered in freshly fallen snow. If you want something a little bit more picturesque, there’s a spot right down the road from here, a plateau that not only gives you a beautiful view of the wintery lighthouse but also offers a lovely view of Port Snow’s Main Street. But if you want a forests-and-holly-berries feel”—I point at them knowingly—“this is a secret, but behind Brig’s Garage is a grove of huge pines that act as a canopy. Brig set up a firepit and custom-built log benches. You can sit there all night and hear nothing but the crackling of the fire and the faint sound of waves in the distance. Stunning.”

Sally studies me for a moment, then turns to her two companions. They all exchange glances before the man looks up at me and holds out his hand. “I’m Carl, this is Sally, and over here is Elizabeth. Can you tell us your name?”