“Yes, but I want to start.”

He holds up his finger. “One second.” He undoes his seat belt and takes off his wool jacket, followed by his suit jacket. He lays them carefully across the back seat and then rolls up the sleeves of his white shirt to his elbows, showing off the impressive, rippling sinew of his forearms. He might not be playing football anymore, but he sure as hell kept up his physique. Maybe it was all the times he refused doughnuts. “Better. Now shoot.”

He twists his giant body in his seat and positions himself so he’s sort of leaning against the car door. The V of his shirt pops open just a little, so I can see a small expanse of his chest and a patch of short chest hair. Well, that’s new . . . and really sexy.

Christ, don’t ogle him.

I clear my throat and direct my gaze elsewhere. “First question. Where do you live?”

Caught off guard, he blinks a few times. “Well, I wasn’t expecting that.”

“I’m assuming you don’t live with your parents anymore, and since you’re Mr. Real Estate Mogul, I’m curious about what kind of house you bought for yourself.”

“More like a glorified landlord.” He scratches the side of his jaw, contemplating his answer. “I live off Enchanted Elms.”

Enchanted Elms? Like . . . the Enchanted Elms?

“What?” I sit up in my seat. “Wait, there’s only one house on Enchanted Elms. You live in the Elbert Elms Cottage?”

“Yeah,” he drags out, looking apprehensive.

“The same white house with the yellow door and the wraparound porch that looks bigger than the whole house?”

“Same,” he answers, still avoiding all eye contact with me.

“That was the house my dad told my mom he’d buy for her someday.”

Now he’s pushing his hand through his hair. “Was it?”

“You knew that.” He shifts in his seat as my pulse picks up. He bought Elbert Elms Cottage, the house in the woods, tucked away, where the neighbors are moose, geese, and the enchanting elms. It’s a beautiful little fairy tale of a home, and I remember how much my mom loved it.

And Rogan bought it.

He not only bought it, but he lives in it.

“Rogan . . .”

“You know what . . . foliage. Yup”—he nods—“foliage.”

“Rogan, you can’t—”

“You came up with the rules, not me.” He holds his hands up in defense.

I didn’t think the rules were going to come back and bite me in the ass this fast. I have so many questions for him, like . . . why, being my biggest one. Ever since we broke up, it’s like he went around Port Snow and bought every property that had any sentimental value to me. I don’t understand.

“This was a stupid idea.” I cross my arms over my chest and stare out the window.

Playfully, he nudges my leg. “Don’t be salty. There are things I don’t want to talk about and things you clearly don’t want to talk about, so let’s respect that and try to have a little fun with this.”

Unfortunately he’s right. I need to lighten up a little if I’m going to be working closely with him. Time to suck it up and try to skim the surface with this guy, despite once being buried deep in his soul.

“Fine. Your turn to ask me a question.” I rub my hands together. “I can’t wait to say foliage.”

He chuckles. “Come on, be better than that.”

“I will. Go on, ask away.”

Immediately, he asks, “What’s your favorite place you’ve visited over the last seven years?”

Damn it, good question, and one that I can easily answer.

“Greensboro, Vermont.” I wistfully sigh. “I stayed there for about six months, helped a local antiques collector turn over her inventory, and spent the rest of my time exploring the small town. Willey’s General Store is like going back in time. It’s a Walmart but mini-size, has everything you need and more with old, small-panel floorboards and a giant gumball machine in the front. I loved going in there, but the main reason I love the town so much is the cheese cellar.”

“Cheese cellar?” he asks, his blue gaze dreamy.

“Artisanal cheesemakers at Jasper Hill Farm. Gah, Rogue, this cheese is melt-in-your-mouth perfection. Shari, the woman I worked for, and I would go out to the farm every other weekend and stock up on cheese to take back to town, which we’d pair with local wine. I stayed in the apartment above the shop, and she would come up, have a movie night with me, and then go back to her house via Lyft after a few glasses. It was a simple time, and I’ll always cherish it.”

“Wow.” He studies me. “How many towns have you lived in since, uh, college?”

“Oh gosh. I have no idea. A lot. I’ve been up and down the East Coast, staying in small farming towns, larger cities, and exploring every last inch of New England while working odd jobs along the way. I never stayed longer than six months until I settled in Boston. Greensboro was the one town I stayed the longest, because I loved it there, and Shari became the friend I needed at the time.”

He nods, growing a bit somber.

“She kind of gave me a map to guide my travels, places I had to visit, food I had to taste.” Quietly I add, “I might have had a broken heart, but I was able to nurse it with a little bit of adventure.”

He presses his hand on my thigh, his eyes sincere. “I’m glad, Harper.”

Sitting there, we stare at each other, the past swirling between us, the heartbreak, the questions, the answers no one wants to admit to. It’s all there, building between us, and yet when Rogan pulls away, I know the lid on our past will remain closed.

And it very well might remain closed forever.

Changing the subject, I ask, “How did you get involved in real estate?”

I hope it’s not too personal, because I’m truly curious. He’s twenty-eight and owns what seems like half of Port Snow, including one of the most magnificent manors I’ve ever laid eyes on. How did he do it?

“It kind of landed in my lap. I got a job with my dad’s friend doing construction the day after I moved back to Port Snow. I got to work right away, double shifts, learning a lot and doing pretty much anything to keep my mind occupied.” He reaches to the cup holder and takes a sip of his coffee. “I lived with my parents and saved all the money I made. Within six months, I had enough for a down payment on my first property. Got it for a steal because it was in bad shape and no one wanted to live there.”

“What was it?”

He smirks. “The Harbor Walk House. My dad thought I was crazy, and maybe I was at the time—you have to be a little crazy to own it. I spent three months fixing it up, working into the early morning when I wasn’t on the job, and opened it up as a vacation home. Now, I’m booked out two years in advance. The only reason I’m able to fit Lovemark into filming is because I spoke with the renters, and they’re more than happy to let Lovemark come in and shoot during their stay. I also offered them a hefty discount on their rental fee.”

I’m a little stunned and really impressed. I had no idea he was in construction, let alone so successful with his first-ever investment.

“Wow, that’s really amazing. And from there it just snowballed from one house to the other?”

“Pretty much. I lived with my parents for a few years, and I even worked for them when I had off days. And then with every house I purchased, I had a hand in construction and renovation. Thanks to the tourists and need for rental homes, I was able to turn a quick profit and grow.”

“You’ve totally Chip and Joanna’d this town.”

“What?” he asks with a chuckle.

“You know, the show Fixer Upper. Chip and Joanna Gaines brought new life to houses all over Waco, Texas. Don’t you watch the show? Everyone does.”

“I don’t watch TV . . . anymore.”

“What? Uh, I remember a guy who used to record every reality TV show.”

He scratches the back of his neck, looking down at his coffee. “Yeah, after I left Syracuse, I really didn’t give myself a break. I was working when I wasn’t sleeping.”

Even though he was the one who broke us up, I can’t help but feel a little sad about the picture he’s painted of his life. Lonely, angry Rogan working until his body can’t take it anymore, only to wake up the next day and do it all over again. It was like he put himself in a self-imposed imprisonment, never giving himself a break. It paid off, but at what cost? He certainly doesn’t seem any less lonely or angry.

“Why are you really here in Port Snow?” He meets my eyes. “I know it’s not to help your dad.”

“Foliage,” I whisper, gripping my coffee.

His head drops, his shoulders slump. “Why won’t you tell me?”

“Because it’s not something you need to know.” I suck in my bottom lip, tamping down the sickening rush of memories. “How did you find out who owned Snow Vale Manor?”