He laughs, a knowing look in his eyes. “I’m surprised how easily you can forget about my roles in town. I run the events calendar, and I know for a fact the inn isn’t open for dinner that night. Trust me, before I even thought about handing you this card today, I ran down every excuse you could give me. You’re out of options. So you can either have dinner with my family, or you and your father can stay home, lonely and hungry.”

“Wow, what a beautiful picture you paint.” I stare down at the invite, the familiar embossed lettering stirring up an ache deep in my stomach. I miss the days when I could go over to the Knightlys’ house, not even knock, and act like I was one of them. It was my second home, and I want nothing more than to say yes, to relive those moments with them. “Rogan would hate it if I were there.”

“Really? Because from what the newspaper said, I think he would love to have you.”

“I don’t know . . . it’ll be awkward.”

“It’ll be fun. Say yes, because your dad already has.”

I groan and lower my head to the bar. “You are all meddlers!”

“You know, the more you fidget, the more you show how nervous you are,” Jen says, coming up next to me in the living room.

It’s no surprise that the Knightlys went all out this year. There’s a long table in the dining room full of food ready to be consumed, and in the living room is a line of tables draped in orange tablecloths and set with beautiful white dinnerware. Scattered around the house are floral decorations in harvest hues, and in the center of the table is a bountiful cornucopia overflowing with fruits and flowers.

Mrs. Knightly sure knows how to make the holidays feel homey.

“I am nervous, though.”

“Yeah, but you don’t want to give yourself away. Be cool, Harper.”

That makes me laugh. “Easy for you to say. You’re not having Thanksgiving dinner with your ex-boyfriend’s family.”

Jen nods toward the back of the house, where we can hear my dad’s laugh. “Seems like your dad is enjoying himself.”

“He’s always enjoyed your family, especially your dad. He loves all the tales of his fudge experiments.”

“At least someone enjoys them.” Jen rolls her eyes.

Scanning the open space, I bite my bottom lip. Where the hell is Rogan? The last time I spoke with him was through text, when he said he couldn’t “just be friends” with me. I’ve read over our text conversation at least ten times, and with each pass, the idea of falling for him again feels less and less impossible—and entirely anxiety provoking.

But I don’t know if my heart could take a round two . . . or even if I can forgive him for round one.

“He’s supposed to be here. He’s just running late.”

“What?” I ask, trying to act as nonchalant as possible. “Who?”

Jen purses her lips. “You know exactly who I’m talking about.”

There’s no use playing dumb. I sigh and lean against the wall, needing the extra support for my emotionally exhausted body.

“I think he wants more, Jen.”

“Of course he wants more. He’s wanted more from the moment he broke things off with you. He’s just finally starting to do something about it.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of. I’m not sure I can handle that. He hurt me, Jen.” I press my hand against my forehead. “I haven’t had the best track record in relationships.” I glance around, making sure no one is eavesdropping. “My last relationship wasn’t amazing, and it’s the main reason I’m back here, trying to figure out life, which is something I haven’t really told anyone. I would hate to jump into another failed relationship when I’m just starting to find my bearings. Sally is really impressed, and I really think this is something I could truly do.”

“What does that have to do with Rogan?”

“I got lost in him before, based my entire life around him.” I shake my head solemnly. “I can’t do that again. It burned me, bad. He left me with nothing.”

“Then don’t get lost in him. Just because you want a career doesn’t mean you need to sacrifice love. You have to find the balance, Harper. You can have both, and believe me, Rogan would support you in all your endeavors. He’s a different man now.”

I’ve noticed. Back in high school and college, he was madly in love with me, but he was also a little selfish. I loved that he had a goal, a vision for the both of us. But that was also a time when I was supposed to be making my own goals.

I failed.

Terribly.

“I don’t know . . .” Before I can finish my thought, the door opens and Rogan breezes in, a can of cranberry sauce in one hand, wearing his signature black wool coat, black-rimmed glasses, and a pair of dark jeans. At least there’s one thing I know for sure: my attraction to him hasn’t changed.

Mrs. Knightly is the first to greet him, pressing a quick kiss against his cheek. “You made it. How was your friend?”

“Good.” He holds out the can of cranberry sauce. “For the table.”

Mrs. Knightly rolls her eyes. “Oh, you shouldn’t have.”

“It’s the least I can do. If you need me to slice it up, just ask.” He glances around the house. When his eyes land on me, I catch my breath, suddenly unable to fill my lungs with air.

Giving his mom a quick peck on the cheek, he makes his way toward me. He wraps an arm around Jen and brings her into a side hug, then reaches for me. Before I can think to protest, he pulls me in and wraps me up into a full-frontal embrace, his chin resting on the top of my head, stirring up a whirlwind of emotions in my chest. I don’t know if I’ll make it out of this house with my heart fully intact.

“Happy Thanksgiving, Harp.”

The sturdiness of his arms around me, protecting me, the deep woodsy scent of his cologne . . . it’s all too much.

Don’t lose it, not here. Not now.

Swallowing down the grief for what we once had, I pull away and put my hands in the pockets of my dress. “Happy Thanksgiving, Rogan.”

His eyes burn up and down my body, taking in my black leggings, deep plum dress, and the mustard yellow scarf loosely wrapped over my shoulders.

“You look beautiful.”

You look so handsome, handsome enough for me to forget everything that happened in the past and start anew . . . but I don’t say that.

I can’t.

“Thank you.” Feeling awkward, especially since our last conversation keeps passing through my mind, I change the subject. “You were with a friend?”

“Yeah, same person I see every Friday, but since it’s Thanksgiving, I thought I’d make a quick visit and bring her some cranberry nut bread from the shop.”

“That was nice of you. Remind me of her name again.”

He chuckles. “Nice try.”

Jen pats my shoulder and walks toward the kitchen, calling out, “He hasn’t told anyone who his ‘friend’ is. We’re all starting to think it’s all in his mind, just like that stupid curse.”

Eyes squeezed shut, Rogan groans.

Oh my God, I can’t believe I forgot to ask . . .

The curse!

At least I have a little fodder now, something other than awkward tension to fill the time while the turkey roasts.

“Ah . . . yeah, that reminds me.” I fold my arms over my chest. “I did hear about that curse.”

He drags his hand over his face. “You can’t believe—”

“It’s so fucked up,” Brig interjects, stepping up to us, holding a glass of apple cider in one hand and a pickle in the other. Um, gross. “This lady goes and casts a curse on us because we broke her palm-reading table. We said we were sorry. I really think it’s the reason I haven’t been able to hold a steady relationship.”

Rogan grips his shoulder. “No, that’s all on you, bro. You’re too clingy.”

“I’m not fucking clingy. I’m attentive. Sorry if being romantic is perceived as clingy these days. Honestly, the dating world is one fucked-up game of trickery and deception. What happened to being open and honest? Like, I can totally tell when you’re using a Snapchat filter. The only hope I have at this point is Griffin. It’s not like Rogan here is making any progress with you.” My pulse quickens at that.

“Dude . . . ,” Rogan scolds.

“Oh, please. Harper isn’t dense. She can see the way you look at her, how your eyes light up the minute she steps into a room, how you suck in a short breath of air when she makes eye contact with you. It’s written all over your face.”

“Beat it, or I’ll beat you,” Rogan hisses in response.

With a satisfied smile, Brig starts to walk away, but not before saying, “He wants you . . . bad.”

Even though the admission is terrifying and thrilling all at the same time, I can’t help but chuckle at the distraught look on Rogan’s face.

At my laugh, the crease in his brow relaxes. “You think that’s funny?”

“Of course. Little brothers may grow up, but they’re still little brothers. That was classic Brig, always blowing up your spot.”

“That’s my life.” He shifts on his feet and winces but covers it up quickly by saying, “Come with me.” It’s the first time I’ve seen him with any sort of pain in his leg. His workout routine must have really helped him heal. I’m tempted to ask, but I hold back, not wanting to bring up the past in the middle of the living room.

Clearly determined to keep me away from his family, he takes my hand and guides me to the stairway.

“Where are you taking me?”