I unzip my jacket a little and push down the hood while I take in the beautifully decorated shop. White shiplap walls, old refurbished flooring, red and teal accents—it’s gorgeous. Growing up, it was one of my favorite places, not just because we could score free food but because it really felt like home.

“Oh, I need to get more blueberry pancake mix and syrup.” Before I can say a word, Eve takes off toward the back of the shop, where they have everything blueberry sectioned off. Blueberry bread mix, waffle mix, pancake mix. Blueberry candies, flavored popcorn, and pretzels. And then there’s the blueberry tea and coffee and . . . beer. Tourists go crazy for that section alone. Add all the baked goods and the fudge on top of that, and the Lobster Landing is a staple in the community.

I make my way over to the fudge counter, where Jen is finishing up with a customer. She hands over the box of fudge and smiles before meeting my eyes. “Ahh! Harper.” She scoots around the counter and pulls me into a quick hug. “Where have you been? Are you avoiding me because my brother is an asshole?”

Not even beating around the bush, I nod. “Pretty much.”

“Ugh, believe me, I’d trade him in for you any day.” She rounds the counter again and grabs a half-pound box. “Let me guess, your dad wants some fudge for his birthday?”

“How did you know?”

“Every year. The usual?”

“Yup.”

Jen starts slicing up fudge and stacking it in the box. “Your dad is the healthiest guy I know, so the fact that he always indulges on his birthday makes me giggle.”

“He freezes the fudge and brings it out on special occasions. I’m pretty sure he makes the stuff last a whole year.”

“I can believe that.” She piles a few chunks in, wiping off her knife with every few cuts. “So I heard from Griff that you’ll be helping Lovemark with scouting locations. That’s amazing.”

Unable to hide my excitement, I nod vigorously. “I’m so thrilled. I have a list of places I want to take them around to for the different scenes they sent me. I can’t wait. They’ll be here next week.”

“You’re going to do an amazing job. I just know it.” She wraps up the box and takes me over to the old-fashioned register. “Any scenes with the Lobster Landing involved?”

“Of course. The movie is about a man who’s trying to resurrect his father’s old candy shop before the holiday season, so this is the perfect place to film. I already ran it by Griffin, and he gave me the go-ahead. That’s going to be the hardest part: getting the residents to let Lovemark film in their businesses and homes.”

“What are you talking about?” She rings up the fudge box. “Two dollars.” I know damn well it’s not two dollars, but then again, there’s no point in arguing; I’ve always been privy to the Knightly discount. “People around here would probably pay Lovemark to film in their houses.”

I chuckle and hand over a five, insisting she keep the change. “You’re probably right about that, but I still don’t know who owns some of the properties.” A potential location pops into my head. “Hey, do you happen to know who rents out the Harbor Walk House? It’s the perfect place for a scene I have in mind, but I can’t seem to figure out who rents it out to tourists.”

“That would be me.”

My body stiffens. That voice running my body through a gauntlet of emotions in a matter of seconds.

Anger.

Sorrow.

Excitement.

Turning around, I find Rogan standing behind me in an expensive-looking wool jacket with a high collar and a black scarf. His hair is shorter than the other day. Ha. I push back the smile that wants to form over my lips.

Someone got a haircut . . . hmm.

“The Harbor Walk House is yours?”

He nods.

“But it’s not under Rogue Realty. It’s listed under MFG Rentals.”

He rocks on his heels. “That would be me. Two separate companies for two separate rental businesses. One is for tourists, the other is for locals.”

Even though I want to kick him in the shin right now, I can’t deny that he made something of himself after dropping out of college. That’s more than I can say about myself. Thank Christ for this Lovemark job.

“I see.” I tuck the box under my arm. “Well, have a good day.” I start to walk away when I remember I came with Eve. Crap.

“Are you going to ask me?” Rogan taunts.

“Ask you what?”

He approaches me, while Jen closely listens in from behind the counter. She could have told me he’d walked up behind me . . . the traitor. “Ask me whatever you were asking Jen.”

I shake my head. “Not going to waste my time. Not when you’re clearly out to make my life a living hell. I don’t want to give you the satisfaction of having anything to lord over me. Not when I’m really enjoying what I’m doing. I don’t want you screwing it up.”

“Who says I would screw it up?”

“Hmm.” I tap my chin. “I don’t know, maybe every person in this town. Ever since I came back, you’ve made it your mission to unwelcome me.”

He shakes his head. “Not true. I was pleasant at Ren’s birthday party.”

“Pleasant is a loose term.”

His eyes narrow. “What are you trying to say, Harper?”

The challenging tone in his voice, the darkness in his eyes . . . this is the Rogan I quickly became accustomed to after his accident. The Rogan who picked me apart and destroyed me. It’s not the Rogan I grew up with, the one who had hearts coming out of his eyes whenever I saw him, the one who would do just about anything to make me smile.

I miss that Rogan.

“I’m saying you’re an asshole, and even if the Harbor Walk House is the perfect location for one of the scenes in the film, I’d rather spend every waking hour looking for a new location than giving you the benefit of ‘helping’ me.”

He rubs his hands together, a cocky look crossing his face. “That’s rather immature of you, wouldn’t you say?”

“Immature? Me?” I point to my chest. “I’m the immature one? This coming from the guy who throws a hissy fit at the bar because someone thinks we’re together.”

“Hissy fit?” he scoffs. “Glad to see you haven’t stopped overexaggerating.”

I step forward, getting in his face—or at least the best I can. “I don’t know how I ever thought I could marry you, now I see the man you are today.”

He doesn’t even flinch, doesn’t move a muscle. He just slips on his leather gloves, never breaking eye contact. “I guess it’s good that I broke it off then, huh?”

How fucking dare he?

With one final stare down, he pushes past me, but not before I say, “I’m not going anywhere, Rogan. I’m here to stay, and you’re going to have to deal with that.”

“You act as if that’s going to be a problem for me.”

And with that, he takes off out the door, the bell above chiming his exit.

Nostrils flared, face flushed, I turn to find Jen cringing.

“I feel like that could have gone worse?” she offers tentatively.

“Oh yeah? How?”

She folds a fudge box together. “I don’t know. He could have thrown down the gauntlet and declared war.”

“Jen.” I point to Rogan’s retreating back. “That’s exactly what he just did. And trust me when I say there’s no way in hell I’m going to let him win. If we’re going to live here, I’m going to make sure he regrets ever making me love him.”

“Yeah, I’m here. I’ll give you a call back once it’s in my hands.”

I pocket my phone and head toward the back of the general store to the ice cream section. It’s Thursday, which means Oliver has made his specialty ice cream, and word on the street is he made Oreo Mint Crunch. Eve and I have plans to annihilate the carton tonight while binge watching The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel. I was instructed not to come home without it.

Hurrying through the aisles, I bypass a few patrons and skip through the cereal section as I see someone from the corner of my eye one aisle over pick up their pace as they head back to the ice cream as well.

Nervous, I walk a little faster, unsure of how much ice cream is left. Oliver’s ice cream is no joke in Port Snow, and if you don’t show up on time, you’re out of luck. As the person to my right picks up speed, I look ahead to find a line already forming in the back. Shit.

I power walk toward the end of the line just as a large frame slips right in front of me, taking the spot behind Mr. Gunderson.

Well, that’s rude. He cut right in front of me.

It isn’t until I gather myself that I realize the offender is wearing the same wool jacket I was admiring two days ago.

Rogan.

I should have known.

I tap him on the shoulder. He turns, gives me a once-over, and then resumes his position, not giving me the time of day. “Excuse me,” I say, tapping him harder. “You just cut in front of me.”

Not facing me, he answers, “Are you ten? I didn’t ‘cut’ in front of you.”

“Yes, you did.”

“No . . . I didn’t. You weren’t in line yet; you were heading in this direction, but you weren’t in line. I had every right to take this spot.”