It’s one of the biggest questions I’ve had since I found out he owned it. We spent years trying to figure out who the mistress was, who owned the house, why it was left to rot. And he figured it out, apparently, and without my help. It stings to know he solved the mystery without me, but I guess there are a lot of things we’ve missed in each other’s lives.

He turns in his seat and grips the steering wheel, shooting me a small smile. “That’s a story for another day.” He starts up the car and gestures for me to buckle up. “I’ll drop you back off at Snow Roast. I have things to get done today, and I’m sure you do too, but can we meet up tomorrow to go over the schedule?”

“Oh . . . yeah. That should be fine.”

“Good.” He backs out of our parking spot and heads down the hill, turning up the music to a comfortable volume so we don’t have to talk. I don’t know what to make of him. He’s reaching out, but he’s so guarded. The last time I tried to tear down this wall, I ended up with a broken heart.

His wall might still be intact, but I feel like I just peeked over it, and that drives me crazier than not seeing over it at all. At least when he completely blocked me off, I could ignore him. Now he’s feeding me little glimpses into his life; it’s intriguing and irritating all at the same time.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

ROGAN

“That won’t work. Only these dates for the Harbor Walk House will work.”

She does some circling and makes a note on the side of the production schedule. Her teeth graze the pen in her hand as her eyes travel over the paper in front of her.

“Okay, and the dates for the manor? Those work?” she asks, still focused on the paper.

“Yes. Renovations finish up this week, so it’ll be available.”

She makes a check mark next to the manor dates. “They also loved Holiday Lane and would love to do a scene with all the Christmas lights. Think the residents will be okay with that?”

“Yeah.” I lean back in my chair and play with the watch on my wrist, moving it back and forth. “They would love it, actually.”

“Perfect. Sally will be happy to hear that.”

Sucked into her work, she double-checks the schedule, her pen tapping the paper as she reads. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her this excited about something, something just for her. I hate to admit it, but when we were together, every decision she made revolved around me. Yeah, it meant I got to spend more time with her, so I wasn’t complaining. But I’ve always wondered, somewhat guiltily, where she would be if I hadn’t been in the picture. Would she have a completely different, more successful life? Would she know exactly what she wanted to do?

I glance down at my watch, catching the time.

“Do you have somewhere to be?”

“Just a visit I make every week,” I answer without thinking.

Her interest is piqued. “A visit? With whom?”

“Someone.” I bite my bottom lip, kind of wishing I could tell her, but she’s not ready. Well, actually, I’m not ready.

“It’s two o’clock on a Friday. Who could you possibly be meeting?”

I shrug. “Someone.”

“Is this a foliage topic?”

“It’s semifoliage.”

She lifts a brow. “Semifoliage? I don’t recall going over those terms.”

“Consider it an addendum. Just means it’s not completely off the table for conversation, but I need to ease into it.”

She sets her pen down and crosses one leg over the other, her black trousers pulling tight on her luscious legs. “And how might I ease you into revealing this semifoliage information?”

“Not quite sure. It’s all about timing.”

“I thought friends tell each other everything,” she counters with a smirk.

“Best friends do; regular friends have to work up to best-friend status.”

“But the newspaper announced we were best friends again.” Fucking cheeky woman.

“Hmm, really?” I shift in my seat. “Looks like I need to ask for a retraction then.”

“Are you saying we’re not best friends?”

“Just friends for now. I’m positive we’ll get to best-friend status, though.”

“I guess it’s something to look forward to.”

What I wouldn’t give for a freaking pint of ice cream right now. I can’t remember the last one I had. I buy it all the time, but never for myself. It’s a small request I grant to someone who’s made a huge impact on my life, the same person I visit every Friday at three o’clock.

And as I watched her eat it yesterday, savoring every spoonful, I felt my mouth water to the point that I had to swallow more than normal.

I need ice cream.

Badly.

The last few days of spending time with Harper have been . . . fuck, they’ve been amazing, but they’ve also turned me into an emotional ball of bipolar nerves.

I’m ecstatic when she’s around, like a dog jumping up and down when its owner comes home.

I’m frustrated when she speaks, knowing her beautiful lips are so close yet untouchable.

I’m depressed as fuck when I have to say goodbye.

And then, when I see her across the street, smiling and laughing with someone, I feel really, truly at peace, knowing that I didn’t take away her happiness, that she can still grace strangers with her beautiful smile.

See . . . I’m a fucking mess.

And there’s only one cure: ice cream.

Hoodie hugging my shoulders, the hood pulled over my head, I trek down Main Street in my work jeans and boots after finishing up some sanding on a renovation. I make my way to the general store. Oliver’s specialty ice cream will be sold out, but at least there will be some reliable standbys that will get the job done.

I never eat sweets, but desperate times and all that.

Not wanting to run into anyone—I just want my ice cream—I pull my hood a little farther down and make my way to the back where the coolers are.

Hmm . . . cookie dough. I really want cookie dough. I search the cooler, scanning all the labels. Vanilla, chocolate, mint chip, pecan . . .

“Oh, so you do own normal clothes.”

Shit.

I look over my shoulder; Harper is standing behind me wearing a puffy green jacket, a basket hanging from her arm. She looks impossibly small, drowning in that jacket, but the way her red hair drapes over her shoulders, her eyes gleaming up at me, it takes every muscle in my body to stop myself from wrapping my arm around her waist and pulling her close.

“Can’t sand in a suit.”

“I guess not.”

Her eyes blaze a trail up my body, taking in every last inch of me, sending a bolt of lust straight to my dick. Christ, one look and I’m a goner.

“Get a good fill?” I ask, never letting her perusals go unnoticed.

She blushes and pushes a strand of hair behind her ear. “Are you getting ice cream?”

“Thinking about it.”

“Don’t you have some left over from last week? You know, when you stole the last pint of ice cream from me? Doesn’t seem like you’d eat a whole carton when you couldn’t even bear to eat a bite of a fritter.”

“You’re right. I didn’t even eat any of the ice cream.”

The blush fades away and her temper kicks in, lacing her eyes with indignation. “You took the last carton of special ice cream and you didn’t even eat it? What kind of monster does that?”

I chuckle. “The kind of monster who picks it up every Thursday for someone else.”

Her mouth makes a small O. “Would this be for the same person you visit every Friday?”

“Yup,” I answer, sticking my hands in my pockets and casually rocking back on my heels. “If it’s a flavor she likes, then I make sure to pick it up for her.”

“So it’s a woman you see.”

I slowly nod.

“Well, that’s interesting. Are you romantically involved with this woman?”

“Is that my friend asking, or a jealous ex-girlfriend?”

“Jealous?” She waves her hand in front of her face. “Not even remotely. Just, you know, being a friend. Sorting the good women from the bad.” She leans in with a conspiratorial look. “You can tell me. I’ll let you know if she’s a bad egg. Like Denise.”

Fucking Denise. I shake my head. I would never go near that woman. Way too clingy, and yeah, she may have huge tits, but I’m a sucker for small ones that fit perfectly in the palm of my hand.

“No need to worry,” I whisper. “We’re not romantically involved.”

She nods dramatically and scans the grocery store. “Is she in here?”

“No,” I laugh. “You won’t figure it out, so drop it.”

“But you buy her ice cream.”

“When she wants it.”

She taps her chin, studying me. “Is this one of those trick questions when I think it’s some woman you met while getting your hair cut one day, but in fact it’s a dog you latched onto when doing volunteer work at the local animal shelter?”

“What?” I laugh even harder. “Where the hell did that come from?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” She gestures up and down my body. “You’re a regular Boy Scout with your do-gooder attitude, cleaning up the broken-down houses in town, offering up your properties to Lovemark and not taking much compensation at all—yeah, Sally told me.” Fucking Sally. “So it would only make sense if you were visiting a dog, bringing her ice cream when you’re not running your real estate empire, or apparently sanding. Is that what it is? You’re visiting an old dog in the shelter, feeding her ice cream, wishing you had more time to devote to her?”

“Not even a little.”