“I don’t have time to deal with your idiocy today.” I lean forward, propping my hand on the table. “And if you think for a second I don’t know it was you who told the drama club to Post-it Note my car the other day, you’re sadly mistaken.” A light smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth. I freaking knew it!

“That time of the year already?” He adjusts his watch. “I thought we had a few more weeks before the high school clubs terrorize the town for Christmas.”

“Stop it,” I whisper. “Stop acting like a dick.”

“I’m not acting like a dick. This is just how I am.”

I shake my head. “No, it’s not. This is not the boy I grew up with.”

“People change, Harper.”

“Yeah, and some for the worse,” I mutter and pull out my notepad. “What do you want? Make it quick; we’re closing in ten minutes.”

“Hmm . . . what do I want, what do I want?” He leans back and peruses the menu, taking his jolly old time.

Irritated, I snatch the menu away. “You’re getting the french onion soup and water.” Before he can change his order, I stomp back to the kitchen and tell the line cooks, who are already cleaning up for the night, that we need one more french onion soup.

Letting out a long breath of air, I grip the counter at the back of the restaurant and tilt my head down. I’m so . . . over everything. My new job starts in a few days, I still need to find some locations, and I’m knee deep in irritation. I’ve seen Rogan more in the last few days than I have since I moved back to Port Snow. If I didn’t know any better, I would have sworn he put some sort of tracking device on me.

If only I knew how to take it off.

While his soup is being made, I reach for a glass and go to fill it with water when it’s snatched out of my hand.

“I’ll be getting my own drink, thanks.”

Rogan’s front is pressed against my back as he places the glass back on the shelf, only to grab a different one.

“What the hell are you doing back here?”

He walks to the soda machine and fills his own glass with water—no ice. “I don’t trust you not to spit in my food. I’ll wait right here until it’s done.”

“Are you insane?” My hands go to my waist. “You can’t be back here. You’re not an employee.”

Rogan bends to look through the kitchen window. He knocks on the counter and calls out, “Hey, Matt, is it okay if I hang out here and wait for my soup?”

“Yeah, do whatever you want, Rogue.”

With a smarmy look, he turns toward me and sips from his water, leaning against the wall, ready to wait.

I point to the dining room. “Go sit down.”

“I’d rather stand.”

I take a step forward. “Go. Sit. Down.”

“I’m good. Thanks, though.”

One more step.

“I’m warning you, Rogan. Go sit down right now.”

He works his jaw back and forth. “You know, I think I’ll just stay where I am.”

Now, I consider myself to be a pretty easygoing person. There isn’t much that bothers me, and I’ve never really lost my temper before. Of course I get angry and get into little fights from time to time, but it takes a lot—and I mean a lot—for me to actually lose my cool.

In this moment, with everything piling on top of me like an avalanche of stress, I feel the moment my will snaps and I lose control. I can pinpoint the exact second I let the crazy out.

And it’s now.

I stomp my foot on the ground, and screeching out what I can only describe as a feral cat cry, I rip the glass from Rogan’s hand and douse his crotch with one swift flick of the wrist.

“What the—”

Rogan backs away as I stomp off into the dining room, shouting to everyone left in the restaurant, “Rogan Knightly just peed his pants! Look out, the wild whizzer is loose!”

I rip my apron off, toss it to the side, and make my way out to the front of the inn. I’m going to owe Eve a huge apology later, but there’s no way I can stop now. I’m on a mission, and it’s to get as far away from Rogan Knightly as possible.

The chilly wind whipping off the ocean hits me first, and then the rain.

Perfect.

I wasn’t even aware it was raining, but it doesn’t stop me. I trudge through the mud, past the inn, and straight toward the lighthouse where my car is parked. I reach for the handle and . . . I left my keys and purse in the restaurant.

Fuck.

Me.

Defeated, I rest my head against the car door and bang my forehead a few times. And here I thought I hit rock bottom months ago. Apparently not.

“Need this?”

Ugh, why?

Why can’t he leave me alone?

Turning around, I find Rogan, wearing his jacket, holding out my purse and squinting against the rain pelting him in the face.

“Hard to make an escape without keys.”

Angrily, I snatch my purse from him and fumble for my keys. When I notice he’s still standing in the rain, watching me, I say, “What are you still doing here? Leave.”

“Throwing water on me? Is that what we’ve come to?”

My head snaps up. “You can’t be serious right now.” I open my car and toss my purse inside before slamming the door shut and facing Rogan. I poke his chest. “You’re the one who started all this, driving me to the brink of insanity.”

He stands tall, unflinching. “You’re the one who laid down the first threat.”

“I did not! I’m just trying to live my life, Rogan. I’m trying to have a life beyond the one we shared, and you’re making it extremely difficult to do that.”

He studies me, his thick eyelashes coated in droplets of freezing rain. “Why are you really here? It sure as hell isn’t to help out your dad.”

“That’s none of your business. Didn’t you forget? You’re the one who broke my heart, which means you don’t get to ask those kinds of questions anymore.”

Ignoring me, he presses on. “What happened? Are you really here to start fresh or are you just passing through, trying to make my life a living hell?”

“How on earth can you say that?” I yell, tossing my hands in the air. “You’re making my life a living hell. And for what? Because you can? Because you haven’t taken enough from me already?”

Through gritted teeth, he says, “I don’t want you here, Harper.”

Taken aback, I blink a few times. “You don’t want me here? Well, too bad, Rogan. I’m sorry if it messes up your life, but I’m not going anywhere, no matter how hard you try to push me away.”

I turn and swing my car door open but stop when I feel him come up behind me, his chest practically pressing against my back. A chill shoots up my spine, and for a second, fear and panic eclipse me—until I remember, this is Rogan. No matter how mad he is, he would never physically harm me. He leans forward and speaks quietly in my ear; I can barely hear him over the rain. “You can hide all you want, Harper, but I’m going to figure out why you’re really here.”

I take a deep, shaky breath. “Why? What does it matter to you?”

“Because . . .” He pauses, his chest rising and falling against my back, his proximity heating me up inside, a stark contrast to the chilly, almost freezing rain that’s covering every last inch of me. “Despite what you might think, I do care.”

That makes me laugh. I turn to face him but quickly regret it when his large frame presses me against my car, his hand going straight to my hip. Flashbacks of being in this same position hit me hard in the chest. I hold my breath, wondering what his next move will be and pushing back the memories, the same ones that sometimes creep into my mind late at night.

Chills race up and down my spine. “If you cared about me, then you would leave me alone. Just leave me the hell alone.”

His eyes search mine, and I hold back the tears that threaten to spill over from the intense gaze holding my heart in place. I remember falling so deeply in love with those eyes, seeing them in my dreams, waiting for them to connect with me over fields of people as they chanted his name.

Finally, he pushes off me and turns his back. He flicks the collar of his jacket up, sticks his hands in his pockets, and walks back toward the restaurant, leaving me shocked and bewildered.

In my car, I sink back into my seat and cover my face with my hands as I finally let the tears fall, my already-shattered heart splintering from the memory of those eyes searing straight into my soul.

Please, just let him leave me alone. I don’t think I can be near him anymore without losing my ability to hold it together.

Please . . . please just let me be.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

ROGAN

Freshman Year, Syracuse University

I can barely move.

Every muscle in my back is shot, my arms are noodles, and my legs feel like fifty-pound lead weights. Every step I take across the darkening campus is a giant feat.

“You look good out there, Knightly,” Duncan, a sophomore, says as he claps me on the back. “You’re giving Harrison a run for his money. A few more months in the weight room, and you’ll be running circles around him.”

I plaster on a smile. “We’ll see.” Turning away, my dorm so goddamn close, I grimace as I make my way through the parking lot, surrounded by more of my teammates.