“I can’t see how that’s possible, but knowing you, you’re not going to let up, so I guess we should be going.”

I stand, ignoring his hand, and gesture for him to move forward. Rolling his eyes, he walks out to his SUV and opens the passenger door; my heart skips a beat when I slip inside and catch his thoughtful gaze. He grips the top of the door like he always used to do, but instead of a pair of jeans hanging loose on his hips and a plain cotton T-shirt draped over his shoulders, his wool coat fits snug to his thick biceps, and his dress pants are finely tailored all the way down to his ankles. He might be different from the boy I used to know, but the man standing before me could easily shatter me into pieces with one flash of his roguish smile. “Buckle up, Harp. We’re going for a ride.” And with that, he slams the door shut.

The drive is short, but tense. He makes a quick stop at the local doughnut hut, where he orders one apple fritter, and then drives to . . . the Point.

Tall evergreens span the valley below, blanketing the land in green on a normally brown and dreary November day. Slate rocks border the cliff, and warning signs to stay away from the edge are scattered every few feet. A hiker’s dream, a teenager’s heaven.

When he parks the car, I shift toward him. “You can’t be serious. You took me to the Point? Are you expecting to shove your tongue down my throat?”

“I mean . . . if that’s what you want.” He puckers his lips and starts to lean forward, but I quickly stop him with a palm to his face. Funny thing about Rogan: even though he seems standoffish, barely able to crack a smile, he has a side that’s goofy and playful, and that side is in full force right now.

“Stop that. What are we doing here?”

Not answering right away, he pops open the fritter bag and hands it to me. “For you.”

“Uh . . . aren’t you going to eat any of it?”

“Nah, I don’t eat doughnuts anymore.”

Er . . . what? Rogan used to inhale at least three fritters at a time back in high school. I know he cut down to one a day in college, but none at all? There’s something wrong with that.

“Why would you get me one, then, if you didn’t plan on joining me?”

He shrugs. “I know you like them, and I figured if I gave you something sweet, it would soften the edge in your voice.”

“Bribing me with sugar?”

“Is it working?”

I take a bite. “No.”

“Damn.” He chuckles. “I guess I’m going to have to try harder.”

I take another bite—God, these are so good. “So why did you really bring me up here?”

“I wanted somewhere private to talk, a sort of no-man’s land. I felt like the manor might be too . . . emotional, and anywhere in town would be swarming with eavesdroppers.”

“Especially after the article you had published.”

“Exactly. And my house . . . well, that wouldn’t be a good plan.”

Huh. His house. I never even thought about him owning his own place. Clearly he doesn’t live with his parents anymore, so where does he live? Given all his real estate, the way he carries himself with his nice clothes and his fancy car, I’m going to assume it’s really nice . . . and big.

“Okay, so what’s the point of talking in private?”

Staring out the window at the tops of the vast ponderosa pines spread through the valley below, he lets out a deep sigh. “It’s been seven years, Harp. I think we need to have a little friendly Q and A if we’re going to work together.”

“You want to ask me questions?”

“I want to get to know the person you are now. I think if we have a general understanding, we might work well together. Things might not be as awkward. I know I did a lot of damage, but like I said, if we’re going to be in this town together, we should make the best of it. I don’t want to fight with you; I want to cheer you on, but I can only do that if you let me . . . let me get a little closer than the flagpole length you’re keeping between us.”

“Can you blame me?” I ask, twisting my coffee cup in my hand.

“Not even a little, and I know if you indulge me with a few answers to my questions, I’ll be a lucky son of a bitch. I’m just trying to make things a little easier on us.”

I hate to admit it, but he has a point. Will I always love this man? Of course. Will we ever get back together? No, I think there’s way too much damage done, too many things that were said—but with a little bit of mending, we might be able to get along. And that’s all I really need: to get along with him.

“Okay.”

“Okay?” he asks with a raised eyebrow. I nod, my answer curving up his lips. “Want me to go first?”

“Before we begin, I think we need some ground rules on what kind of questions we’re allowed to ask.”

“That’s fair. What are your rules?”

“No relationship questions. I don’t want to know about your conquests or tell you about mine.”

“You’ve had conquests?” His brow furrows.

“What did I just say?”

“Sorry.” He quirks his lips to the side and is silent for a second. “Like . . . how many conquests?”

“Rogan!”

“Okay, I’m sorry.” He lets out a deep breath. “No relationship questions. What else?”

I tap my chin, really giving this some thought. If I’m going to jump in headfirst without a life vest, might as well try to make the water as shallow as possible.

“No postmortem. I don’t want to rehash what happened to us; that’s off-limits.”

“Done. Anything else?”

“Hmm . . . let’s have a safe word.”

“A safe word? Like a kinky-sex safe word?” He wiggles his eyebrows at me, which I quickly cover with my hand.

“And no sexual innuendos or gestures. It’s not proper friend protocol.”

“Not true. Friends joke about sex all the time.”

“Not sex with each other.”

“Fine,” he groans. “What about the safe word?”

Wow, he’s actually giving in. “We can use the safe word if we’re ever asked a question that we don’t want to answer.”

“Okay, so what should the safe word be?”

Reaching into the bag, I pick off another piece of the fritter and chew. “Let’s see, it needs to be something we wouldn’t normally say to each other.”

“Well, since frisky talk is off-limits, why don’t we have ‘sex’ as the safe word?”

“No, I don’t want you whispering ‘sex’ to me every chance you get. I know you, Rogan Knightly.”

He leans his head against the back of his chair. “Apparently. Okay, how about . . .” He drums his steering wheel with his index fingers, a habit he used to have when we were younger. He picked it up from Griffin, and I hate to admit it, but it’s kind of cute. “How about ‘dongle’?”

“Dongle? What is that?”

“You know, another word for a computer adaptor. D-o-n-g-l-e, dongle.”

“Thank you, spelling-bee champion.”

He holds up three fingers. “Three years in a row.”

“And still obnoxious about it. Too bad you couldn’t get past regionals.”

“Well, if my best friend helped me instead of making fun of me for being able to spell, maybe I would have.”

I shake my head, a smile on my face. “Don’t blame me for your shortcomings, Knightly.”

“You know my comings are anything but short.”

“Hey,” I snap. “No sexual references.”

“Oh, has that started?”

“Yes!” I answer, flustered—all I can think about is just how not short he really is. “All rules are currently being enforced.”

“Okay. So ‘dongle’ is our safe word—”

“You know, dongle sounds an awful lot like something else,” I point out. Honestly, every time he says dongle, even spells it, I think of a penis, and thinking about a penis around Rogan is not a good idea. I might be heartbroken, but Rogan has only gotten hotter as he’s gotten older. Which is very dangerous.

“Who has the dirty mind now?”

I ignore that. “‘Hydrangea,’ then. That’s our safe word.”

“No, too girly.”

“Do you really need a masculine safe word?”

“No. Gender neutral would be appreciated, though.”

I huff. “Why are you being difficult?”

“This is a safe word for both of us, so we have to come to an agreement. I’m not being difficult; I’m taking this seriously.”

He’s being difficult. Classic Rogan.

“Fine. How about ‘pineapple’?”

“Overused. ‘Whitney Houston.’”

“The singer? Nope. I like her music too much, so I might bring her up. ‘Beetlejuice.’”

“What if we say it three times?” He shakes his head. “No, I’m not playing with those odds.” Oh my God, he’s so ridiculous. “‘Pop-Tart.’”

“No. ‘Subway,’” I counter.

“No. ‘Limp Biscuit.’”

I groan. “No. ‘Neon Rainbow.’”

“No. That’s a damn good song, though. How about . . . ‘foliage.’”

“Foliage?” I test it out. “I think that could work. It’s not part of my everyday vernacular. Yeah, let’s go with foliage.”

I hold out my hand, which he quickly takes, giving it a firm shake. “Foliage it is.”

“So now all the rules are out of the way, can we get down to the questions?” he asks.