“Wonderful, could you show it to me?” I ask.

“We would love to.” Sally stands and takes her binder under her arm. “Carl, would you mind driving?”

“Not at all.” He loops his scarf around his neck, and we all deposit our coffee cups in the trash. I give Ruth a quick wave before heading out the door with my new bosses. We pile into Carl’s SUV; I sit in the front so I can point out more of the locations I’ve chosen on our way.

“Go straight down Main Street toward the Lobster Landing and turn right before the candle store,” Sally directs.

Right before the candle store? Where are we going?

I don’t ask because I don’t want to sound obtuse, like I know nothing about my town. They hired me specifically because I hold the key to Port Snow scenery, not to be clueless.

“Have you been to the Lobster Landing yet to get some fudge?”

Carl pats his stomach. “Too many times. I brought some home to my family last time we were here, and my wife and children both warned me that if I come home without some, I’m not welcome.”

I chuckle. “Sounds about right. Their fudge has been known to turn families against each other and start fights for the last piece.”

“Turn right here, Vale Lane.”

I whip my head, staring down the tree-lined road I’ve traveled too many times to count.

“Oh, Sally, I think you must be mistaken,” I say as Carl turns down the street. “This is a dead end; it leads to Snow Vale . . . Manor,” I finish on a whisper as the home of my childhood comes into view. But instead of a rundown, moldering house, a picturesque, brilliantly white mansion stands before me. My mind goes blank with shock.

“It is! Isn’t it gorgeous? Look at those pillars, and the front porch is absolutely stunning.”

I blink a few times, trying to make sure I’m not dreaming.

I’m not.

There it is: Snow Vale Manor fixed up and shining like a beacon against the evergreen trees that surround it. The lights are on, there are cars parked in the paved—freaking paved—driveway, and the front door is open.

I don’t . . . hell, I don’t know what to say. It’s everything I pictured when I thought about someone coming in and finally restoring the place.

Carl parks the car; I take no time in unbuckling my seat belt and leaving everyone in the car as I hurry across the familiar lawn, straight toward the open door.

In awe, I run my fingers along the polished porch banister. Black steps. Black railing. White siding. It’s all here, exactly how I imagined it.

The porch is covered in new wood, no longer caving in from the years of neglect, and the front doors . . . the windows have been replaced and the gold knobs polished.

How can this be? How did someone buy this house and renovate it?

My breath catches in my throat when I walk through the front door uninvited, but I don’t care. I can’t possibly stop myself as I take in the stunning entryway with its curved staircase and freshly painted white walls. Everything is white besides the stairs and the renovated wide-plank, blond wood floors.

It’s breathtaking, everything about it, from the original gold fixtures, to the crystal drop chandeliers, to the restored moldings.

“Oh, it’s more spectacular than I imagined,” Sally says, walking up behind me. “Do you know if there’s a ballroom?”

I nod, my voice dying in my throat as memory guides me to the doors that lead to the room where I spent the best moments of my high school years, the same room where I said I love you for the first time, and the room where I lost my virginity to the love of my life.

With a shaky hand, I twist the glass knob; the door swings open flawlessly, no squeaky hinges, no sticky door jamb. The bold white walls bounce the light from the windows off the floor and straight to the shining gold-leaf ceiling.

Tears prickle my eyes as I spin carefully around until I find the fireplace. Simple white moldings flank black limestone that flows up to a white mantel—elegant and fitting the era of the house perfectly. How can this be? How can a dream I’ve had for so long come true?

“Can I help you?”

At the sound of his voice, I whirl around; Rogan is standing at the ballroom doors, holding a black leather folder and sporting a pair of dark-rimmed glasses. Wearing a black shirt, black pants, and an expensive watch—he wears business well—the only light part of him being his eyes, which snap right to me. And for a moment, I see a flash of something soft, something vulnerable, before he clears his throat and steps forward.

“Yes, hi, we’re from Lovemark and couldn’t help but admire your home,” Sally says.

He quickly glances at me. “Thank you.”

Thank you?

Thank you?

As in, thank you for admiring my home?

How?

When?

Tears fill my eyes as I turn away, unable to look at him anymore. I quickly wipe at my eyes and try to steady my rapidly beating heart. Don’t lose it, not in front of Lovemark.

“Crap, Elizabeth, Carl, we have that meeting with Thomas Froth over in the harbor about using his boat.”

“Ugh, okay. Harper, would you be able to talk with . . .”

“Rogan Knightly,” Rogan answers for her.

“My apologies. Harper, would you be able to speak with Mr. Knightly about our idea for this space? We would greatly appreciate it.”

Plastering on a smile, I turn toward them and nod. “Of course. Go on ahead.”

“What about a ride?” Carl asks.

“Oh crap, we are terrible.”

“I can drive her back to her car,” Rogan says, his eyes trained on me. “That’s not a problem.”

“You’re a lifesaver,” Sally says, giving Rogan a firm handshake. “I hope we’ll be in touch. It was a pleasure, Mr. Knightly. Your house is just breathtaking.”

They say their quick goodbyes and head out of the house as fast as they came in.

A smartly dressed woman appears at Rogan’s side, and Rogan turns to her. “Gina, you can head home early. I’ll speak with Miss Sanders about Lovemark’s interest in Snow Vale Manor.”

“Thank you, Mr. Knightly.” She hands him a stack of old-looking papers, but his gaze never wavers from mine. “Have a good night too, Miss Sanders.”

I give her a curt wave, unable to really do anything else. Once the front door shuts, leaving me alone with Rogan, I crumple to the floor and cover my face with my hands, tears falling past my fingers and down my cheeks.

Why would he do this? Why would he take our house and turn it into something of such beauty? After he tore us apart, why would he resurrect the literal foundation of our relationship but not want to resurrect our love?

The floor quietly creaks as he approaches. He sets down his folder and papers and squats next to me, hand on my back. I jolt from his touch.

“Don’t,” I say, wiping my eyes and trying to scoot away. “Don’t touch me.”

“Harper, talk to me.”

Standing, I brush off my bottom and shake my head. “How . . .” I suck in a deep breath. “Why did you . . .” I motion to our beautiful surroundings. “You . . . you made a dream come true, our dream, but you act like you wish I never came back to town. Why?”

He grips the back of his neck but says nothing. The strong, loving man I’ve known for most of my life has turned into a stoic, emotionless human.

His silence is deafening, but I can’t help when I ask, “Why? Why did you do this?”

“I don’t know,” he says solemnly and walks toward the large window that overlooks the front porch.

That’s not what I was expecting, though from his closed-off stance, I know that’s the best I’m going to get.

Instead of focusing on Rogan and what could have been, what we used to have, I pull myself together and turn my attention back to the house and the job I enjoy. I clear my throat and take a deep breath. “Lovemark is looking for a space to film a lavish ball scene. I suggested the inn, but it wasn’t grand enough for them. They would like to film here.”

“They can do whatever they want in this space. It’s for rent to the public for events.” Rogan turns around, his face an emotionless mask. “I’ll have Gina send you the paperwork.” And just like that, we’re back to business, as if we’re not standing on the same spot where we first made love . . . where Rogan proposed to me, asking me to be his forever.

“That works.” I shoulder my purse. “You don’t have to drive me. It’s a quick walk into town.”

“I can drive you, Harper.”

“I’ll be fine.” I pick up the papers that are shoved in his folder, realizing for the first time that they’re the letters we found under the floorboards. My breath catches in my throat as I carefully run my fingers over the words that captured me so long ago.

When you’re with her, do you think of me?

I picture us dancing one day, the chandeliers glittering above us in our ballroom.

A dog, that backyard needs a dog.

When are we going to have the life we always dreamed of?

Your Forever Girl.