I’m fucking nervous.

The idea of Harper in my house makes everything a little too real, like this is my one shot to impress her. It’s why I took the day off, feigning meetings, and spent the whole time getting my house ready, buying new linens, washing them so they don’t look new, hanging random things, making sure the house looks perfect. Not only is this my house, but it’s also the house Harper’s late mother wanted to live in. I want Harper to walk in and feel right at home, like she was meant to live here all along.

It’s why I got her favorite apple spice candle at Sticks and Wicks this morning, and it’s why I made homemade spaghetti sauce even though it was a pain in the ass and I had to throw out the first batch because my salt container fell into the boiling pot.

And then there was my outfit. It felt weird, dressing up just to stay at home, but wearing nothing but a pair of shorts didn’t seem appropriate—even though I know Harper is super curious to see me shirtless. It’s all in her eyes as she peruses my body. At least I have that going for me.

After multiple outfit changes—yes, I was that guy—I settled on a light-blue sweater, dark jeans, and no socks because, I’ve been told, there’s just something about a barefoot guy in jeans. Don’t ask me why; I don’t get it.

And even though my prosthetic will show, I’m hoping she’ll look past it and see the man I am today and open up to the possibility of us . . . forever.

I glance around the house, checking for anything that’s out of place. White throw pillows on the gray couch look great. Wide plank flooring swept and mopped. Black-framed pictures of family and Port Snow are freshly dusted. Music is quietly playing in the background through the surround system. And like a good little candle, it’s burning away, giving off a fresh apple scent that has even me wanting to prance through a goddamn orchard.

Tires crunch down my driveway; headlights beam through my front window. She’s here.

Anxiety rolls through my chest. Fuck, I hope she likes it here.

Please let her like it here.

Taking a deep breath, I open the door and lean against the frame, arms crossed, watching Harper get out of her car, wearing a long black coat and an awestruck smile as she takes in the tall elm trees that create a ceiling above us. She takes a few moments to soak it all in, and even though it’s dark, the lights from the house illuminate the scene, creating a private world in the shelter of the elms.

When she reaches the porch, she finally makes eye contact with me. “Rogan, this place is . . . it’s just so beautiful.”

I lift myself off the doorframe and hold out my hand to her. I can’t quite see what she’s wearing under her coat, but from the lack of fabric around her legs, I’m going to assume she’s at least wearing a dress. My pulse quickens.

Once her hand connects with mine, I guide her through the door, my breath held tightly in my chest as she gets her first glimpse inside.

Pausing at the door, I close it behind her as her eyes wander around the house. From the floors to the vaulted ceilings and exposed old beams, she takes everything in, a smile playing on her lips, a glint in her eyes.

“Wow,” she says breathlessly, removing her jacket.

Fuck, I could say the same about her. She’s not wearing a dress but one of those romper things instead. Short shorts, cinched waist, deep-V neckline that falls past her breasts, and when she turns to hang her coat on a little peg next to the door, God help me, I spot the romper’s open back, exposing her lightly freckled skin.

There is no way I’m going to be able to be decent tonight, not with her dressed like that. Hell, I’m seconds away from pushing her up against the wall and showing her just how much I want her in my life again.

When she turns back around, she takes my hand in hers and walks toward the center of the house. “It’s so beautiful in here. How much have you renovated?”

She wants to talk renovation right now? Wearing that?

“Uh . . . what?” My eyes are glued to her breasts. There is no way in hell she’s wearing a bra, not with the way her nipples are poking out. She’s always had pert little breasts, but in this outfit, fuck, my mouth is watering just for one little taste.

She pulls my chin up, and I meet her eyes. “Hey, I’m up here.”

“Yeah, I know where you are. I’m just choosing to look elsewhere.” I pull at her hand, bringing her close to my chest, where I can easily run my hand up her bare back. Fuck, so soft, so smooth. “This was a dangerous outfit to wear, Harper.”

“You think so? I thought it was rather conservative.” She gives me a wry smile.

“Bullshit. You knew exactly what you were doing. You want to drive me crazy, don’t you?”

“Just wanted to look nice.” She pushes away and walks along the back of the couch, her fingers trailing along the fabric. “And I’m pretty sure you knew what you were doing by not wearing socks with your jeans.”

“Bare feet don’t even come close to that romper.” I almost said bare foot but caught myself. Not right now.

She shrugs and makes her way around the main living space; I follow closely behind like a lost puppy dog.

“So tell me what you did. Is there anything original still in the house?”

“Why don’t we start in my bedroom? I can tell you all about what I did in there.”

She shoots me a side eye. “We aren’t going anywhere near your bedroom.”

But I bought brand-new linens for you.

“Kitchen counters, then; those can be fascinating. Or the dining room table, even the back of the couch. Want to talk about those? Unless”—I point to the hallway that leads toward the back of the house—“you need to take a shower? I can show you the tile and give you a detailed history of it all while you soap up.”

“When did you become so horny?” she asks, one hand on her hip, showing off the length of her gorgeous, silky legs.

“I’m a man, Harper. I’m always horny.”

She laughs. “If that isn’t the truth.” She nods toward the kitchen. “Show me around, come on.” Groaning, I take her hand in mine and lead her to the open-concept kitchen, where she eyes the floating shelves, deep-teal cabinets, gold hardware, and farmhouse sink.

“You have got to be kidding me, Rogan. This place is absolutely breathtaking. Marble counters? You’re so fancy.”

“Not fancy, just like dressing my house up a bit.”

Glancing up, she takes in the exposed beams of the ceiling as well as the little rounded kitchen nook set into a bay window, which brings in an abundance of natural light in the morning.

“You did all of this? Designed everything?”

I give in to her questioning. “Yes. I also did all the renovations myself. I always have my hand in every house I own, but this one I did on my own.”

“Seriously?”

“Well, Griffin helped every once in a while, when the job required two men, but it was mostly me. I knew this was going to be my home, so I wanted to do everything myself, even if it took me a while.” I give the house a once-over. “It was worth it . . . especially seeing your reaction.”

When renovating, I always imagined what it would be like to invite Harper over. I never thought it would happen, but I still wanted to create a home she would love. And now, like magic, she’s here, appreciating all the little details I put into the house.

“You should be really proud of yourself.”

In this moment, right now, I am.

Clearing my throat, I head toward the oven and peek inside. Bubbling cheese sits atop the lasagna, browning in just the right spots. From the counter, I grab the pot holders and take out the pan, setting it on top of the burners to cool.

From behind me, Harper wraps her arms around my waist and presses her cheek against my back. I set the pot holders down and twist in her embrace, encasing her in my arms. The scent of her perfume—flowers and cherry—circles around me.

Looking up, Harper slides her hands up my chest, past my neck, to my jaw; her thumb strokes my cheek. “You impress me, Rogan.”

I start to shake my head when she stops me.

“I’m serious. You’ve come so far, and I think that’s something you need to recognize. Have you ever really sat back and thought about all you’ve been able to accomplish?”

Never.

“That’s not the kind of person I am. Not anymore.”

“Well, you should. You act like you haven’t accomplished much, that you’re nothing but a ‘landlord,’ but you need to realize what you’ve done for this town, for yourself . . . it’s incredible. You’ve created real homes, revitalized the town, and all with simple hard work.”

“It kept me busy,” I say offhandedly. She might be right, that I’ve come a long way, but it still doesn’t seem like much—not when I don’t have anyone to share it with.

“You’re never going to admit all that you’ve done, are you?”

“Showboating isn’t my thing.”