Angry, I poke him in the back this time, causing more pain to my finger than his steel-like muscles. “You saw I was walking into my position in line, and you swooped in. If I don’t get ice cream, it’s your fault.”

“Actually, if you don’t get ice cream, it’s because you weren’t savage enough to claim this spot. You don’t get what you want by strolling through meadows, admiring flowers and butterflies, Harper. You have to set your mind to things and attack.”

Maybe I should demonstrate Rogan’s stupid theory on him. My mind is certainly set on kicking him in the balls . . .

“When did you become such a pompous ass?”

“Is that what society is calling confident men now?”

Ooh, he makes me so freaking angry. It’s like we’re back in college, when he got really good at pushing my buttons. But instead of the best makeup sex ever, I’m stuck with celibacy and bottled up anger. Perfect.

Knowing I’m not going to get anywhere with his stubbornness, I take the high road and keep my mouth shut, stewing over my chances of getting ice cream. As we get closer and closer, I start to sweat. I can’t see what Oliver has in the freezer, but I have a sick feeling that the last carton . . .

“Lucky guy,” Oliver says to Rogan. “You got the last one for tonight.”

Son of a freaking bitch!

“Thanks, man. Can’t wait to try it.” Turning to face me with a stupid smile on his face, Rogan drops the ice cream in his basket. “Better luck next time, Miss Sanders.”

That motherfucker!

“You’re kidding me?”

I shake my head, standing in line, waiting for my coffee order to be finished.

“Nope, it’s all true.”

“Wait.” Rylee, the local romance novelist, presses her hand to my arm, invested in my story. “So you’re telling me that during your freshman year in college, you snuck into a bar on Halloween and ended up winning a thousand-dollar prize for your costume and dance routine?”

“Yup.” I shift my hair to the side just as Ruth calls out an order. “I have some pretty sweet dance moves. I put Derek Hough to shame.”

Rylee chuckles. “Wow, what were you dressed as?”

“A referee. Nothing too fancy. I’m telling you, it was the dance moves.” I motion to her computer, which is at her usual corner of the coffeehouse. “You can put that in your book. Feel free to use my name.”

“And when you’re writing about winning a Halloween costume contest,” Rogan interjects, leaning between us to grab his coffee, startling me into heart attack status. When the hell did he get here? “Make sure to mention the character’s boob pops out, and that’s why she won. She got the most cheers for a nip slip.”

I am going to murder him. I clench my fists at my sides as I come face to face with his cocky grin.

“Your boob popped out?” Rylee laughs.

With one hand stuffed in his pants pocket, the other holding his coffee, Rogan nods. “Yup, that whole thing, out on display. Did she mention she was dressed like a slutty referee?”

“Nooooo,” Rylee drags out, turning toward me.

Face heating up, I shift on my feet. “Well, you know—”

“And she never wore a bra back then.” Rogan’s eyes scan my chest as a smile plays across his lips. “I guess she still doesn’t.” I’m going to punch him, right here, in front of all these people. “But since there was no bra and she cut the neckline of her shirt down between her breasts, there was no hope when she started jumping up and down on the bar top. The little prune popped right out.”

Prune?

I gasp and clasp my hands over my breasts as if they’re currently on display. “My boobs are not prunes!”

“Sorry.” He takes a sip of his coffee. “Apricots.” He pats Rylee on the back. “See you around, Riles,” he says, then retreats out of the coffeehouse, giving me zero chance of rebutting his claim.

Apricots . . . more like grapefr—

Hell, who am I kidding? I’m lucky if I can compare my boobs to apples.

“Is this seat taken?”

I glance up to find Mrs. Davenport hovering over me, cane in one hand, coffee in the other. I gesture toward the seat. “Not at all, it’s all yours.”

“Thank you.” She sets her mug on the coffee table in front of the brown leather chairs before slowly taking a seat. Once she’s situated, she exhales and rests her cane to the side before leaning forward to grab her cup. She blows on the hot liquid and leans back in the chair. “Warm day for the season, wouldn’t you say?”

Tiny and ancient, Mrs. Davenport is the center of the town gossip. Everyone reports back to her, and then she distributes information as she sees fit. Whether it goes in the town newspaper or gets spread around by word of mouth, nothing happens in this town without her knowing about it.

Franklin might be the biggest gossip on the streets, but Mrs. Davenport is like the Godfather, sitting in her apartment in Senior Row, watching over the townspeople, wielding her cane like a bazooka.

Unless you want the town to know about everything, watch whatever you say around the old bird.

Weather is a safe topic, so I nod. “Very. I was shocked when I walked out the door and didn’t need a jacket.” I set my Kindle to the side, knowing full well my relaxing morning just turned into a full-on conversation with Mrs. Davenport.

“When you’re old like me, you find wearing a jacket is like wearing underwear: always necessary.”

There’s a visual: Mrs. Davenport in underwear. I hide my shudder.

“Something to look forward to.”

She takes a sip of her coffee and jumps right into the conversation I know she was waiting to have. “You seem to have a weary look about you.” How nice of her to say. “Tell me, dear, what brings you back to Port Snow?”

Crap, I didn’t think she was going to ask that.

“Uh . . . you know, helping out my dad.”

She locks eyes with me over her cup of coffee, the smallest lift to her brow, and smacks her lips a few times. “Helping your dad out? Smells like a lie.” I swallow hard, hoping and praying she can’t see through my wall to my horrible, painful truth. “But who am I to point out the real reason.”

I don’t say a word. Instead, I pick an imaginary piece of lint from my pants. Focus on the pants, not on the wise woman sitting in front of me.

She clears her throat and thankfully changes the subject. “Rogan is looking good in his older years, wouldn’t you say?” Not the subject change I was necessarily looking for, but it’s better than the past. It’s better than ever having to talk about Brandon.

“Older years? He’s twenty-eight.”

“Well, compared to when you two were in college. He’s aged nicely, hasn’t he?”

“Sure,” I answer. If I said no, she would know I was lying. Anyone with eyes can see how attractive Rogan is.

“It’s a shame what happened between you two. Do you think you would ever get back together?”

The great thing about being old is that you can have conversations with no shame. You can ask whatever the hell you want with no consequences. No one is ever going to mouth off to you, because you’re old and you’re just lucky you didn’t pee your pants that day during a nap.

“Um, I don’t think so, but I do wish him the best with his future.”

“Oh, bullshit,” Mrs. Davenport scoffs. “There’s a part of you that wants him to fall flat on his beautiful face while jogging with your dad.”

“What?” I blink a few times. “Jogging with my dad?”

“Yes.” She nods toward the window next to us. “They’ve been jogging together every Tuesday and Thursday for the past few years; it’s why I’m here. I never miss the show. Here they come now.”

I crane my neck to the side, and . . . just as Mrs. Davenport said, there they are, jogging side by side. My dad’s face is red, his gait strong for his age. And then there’s Rogan, wearing sweatpants, a tight-fitting white shirt, and a beanie. His pecs bounce up and down with his stride—his even and powerful stride. I can’t help but glance down at his leg, wondering how it is, if it’s hurting him. He looks just as fit, if not more so, as when he was in college.

And of course that annoys me.

Why couldn’t he be the kind of ex-boyfriend—ex-fiancé—who let himself go after realizing he would never go pro? Instead, he’s come back stronger, hotter, and more confident than before—with a cocky attitude to match it.

“Good show, isn’t it?” Mrs. Davenport says, staring over her coffee, eyes trained out the window.

“Yeah . . . just great,” I answer indignantly, folding my arms over my chest.

Freaking good-looking Rogan and his stupidly big muscles.

I really do hope he trips.

“What can I get you?”

The menu lowers, and I’m met with Rogan’s rakish smile, those blue eyes cutting me in half, his five-o’clock shadow outlining his handsome face.

I’m defeated and tired, and my arms fall to my sides. “What do you want?”

“Wow, you should really work on your tableside manner, Harper. Especially if you want good tips.”