“It’s so real, according to Brig,” Harper says, chuckling. “He lives and breathes by that thing. Didn’t you hear about the witch doctor he went to the other day to ‘expel’ the curse?”
“He did not.” A snort pops out of me. “Oh shit, that’s amazing. Did the doctor say anything?”
“Sent him home with some oils and bundles of sticks to burn, apparently to clear out his aura. Griffin took the sticks. He said that, as a volunteer firefighter, he couldn’t in good conscience let his brother burn those things in his house.”
“Thank God for Griff. With how chaotic and intense Brig is about the curse, I could easily see him burning down his apartment.”
“Easily.” Harper laughs.
“So,” Victoria says, “are you going to come tomorrow? I think Rylee is serving nonalcoholic beverages as well per my request, if you’re not up for drinking.”
“Oh, I’ll be up for drinking; there’s no doubt about that. And yeah, I think I’ll stop by later on. Better than wallowing away in my apartment, right?”
“Exactly,” Harper says with a smile. “And if you change your mind about going alone, we’re only a phone call away. All of us.”
It’s a nice gesture, but that’s exactly what I don’t want. All of my friends to be there. Even though living in Port Snow has given me a second family, I really wish I had my first family. My mom, my dad . . . my twin brother. But we can’t always get what we wish for, especially when one of those family members doesn’t follow through.
With a deep breath, I look out my car window and stare down the double grave site that rests thirty feet away. Though one headstone is a bit older than the other, they both bear loving words about being a great parent, a wonderful partner in life, and a beautiful soul.
Hands on the steering wheel, I close my eyes and will back the tears that already threaten to spill over.
Dad passed three years ago today, and the wound he left behind still feels raw. We lost Mom the year before Dad passed, and I always think he died so soon after because he didn’t want to spend another year on this earth without her. Their love was magical, what movies are made about. High school sweethearts, they became wildlife photographers, traveling around the world and getting to see some of the best sights I could only dream of until they settled down and decided to have a family in their late forties. But they couldn’t get pregnant, despite many years of trying.
That’s when they pursued adoption and got a call about Eric and me. Our birth mom signed the papers right away, asking for nothing financially, only that we would live a stable, happy life. My parents made that happen. They gave us a community, a loving home, and every opportunity we could imagine, even if we didn’t take it.
Losing Mom was hard enough, but losing Dad . . . it still rips me to shreds, knowing I’ll never hear his deep, raspy voice again or feel his big arms wrap around me. I put my life on hold to take care of the both of them while Eric went off to pursue his dreams. It was a decision we made together, one I don’t regret because I was there when the cancer finally took Mom, and I held Dad’s hand when a stroke took him shortly after. I brought them comfort and peace when no one else could. And through it all, the good days and the bad, the stories they told me, the wisdom they imparted to me, and the sly smiles I would gather every once in a while when they were feeling well made everything worth it. But even though the last few years are ones I’d never regret for a second, I assumed the dreams I put on hold would pick back up, and Eric and I would join forces. But when the time came to claim my future, Eric wasn’t mentally or physically there for me.
It was a tough pill to swallow, realizing just how alone I was, how alone I am in this world, but it hasn’t stopped me. It might have been a small speed bump in my pursuit of making something of myself, but it wasn’t a roadblock. My journey is slower than others’, but I refuse to let any circumstance that comes my way stop me from accomplishing my dreams.
Dark clouds are rolling in, and according to the forecast, we’re supposed to get a blizzard within the next twenty-four hours. The temperature will drop, and standing next to a cold gravestone will become unbearable soon, so I open my car door, grab my keys, and bundle deeper into my wool coat as I walk toward my parents’ grave site.
Dead brown grass and patches of leftover snow from the last storm crunch beneath my feet as I approach. Given the time of year, I don’t bother with flowers or anything that could be buried in snow. Instead I think of all the pretty colors I can plant in the springtime. Mom loved pink tulips, but Dad was always buying her daisies, claiming they were understated, beautiful in their own right. I plan on giving them both. That way, Dad will have to deal with Mom’s tulips planted next to him, and Mom will have to put up with Dad’s daisies.
A small smile pulling at the corner of my lips, I reach their headstones and squat down, grateful that the engraved words are still pristine despite the harsh Maine winters.
“Hey, you two,” I whisper. I lean forward and press a kiss to each of their stones with my hand. “God, I miss you.” I take another deep breath. “Three years today, Dad, and I still can’t get rid of this sick feeling deep in the pit of my stomach from losing you. And Mom, I could really use some of those endless nights where we stayed up talking, gabbing, as you liked to say. But I bet you two are having a blast being together again.” I chuckle. “Do you do all the haunting that you promised when you were in hospice? I specifically remember you saying something about scaring the white hair off Mrs. Davenport. I can only imagine the kind of fun you two would be having with her.”
I twist my hands together and roll back on my heels, still squatting. “I’m sorry Eric isn’t here. He couldn’t get out of work, but I guess you guys know everything that’s going on, right?” I sigh. “I wish he would come back to Port Snow, recharge, get out of the mindless line cook job, and start fresh, but he feels too guilty. After losing both of you, then the restaurant—all the money you invested after selling the house—I’m pretty sure he can’t bring himself to show his face. Not to mention the tension between us. It’s a tension I never thought we would have, but you don’t need to worry; we will figure it out.” I smile softly to myself.
“Anyway, enough about Eric. I’m finishing up school right now. It’s taken some time, but once I have my business degree wrapped up, I’m going to attempt to make something of myself. There are a few businesses in town that I know could use a little help, and I’ll be more than qualified. Melanie over at Sticks and Wicks mentioned needing some help with her books, and Ruth at Snow Roast was talking about a new business venture she wanted to pursue but was too scared to attempt on her own. I thought I could offer her some help.” I pick at the dead grass below my feet. “Working with some of my friends in town would be fun, different, not what I had planned in life, and it makes me feel a little uneasy switching gears from what I thought I would be doing; but when faced with adversity, I always seem to make things work out for me. Still”—I sigh—“between us, it’s scary not knowing my next steps. I thought I had everything planned out, I thought I had a support system by my side cheering me on, but that was all taken away, and now I’m figuring things out on my own, by myself.” A small tear tips over and rolls down my cheek. “The unknown is hard for me to accept, and the loneliness is even harder. I don’t have many people to turn to. Avery is making a life in the city; Harper is back with Rogan, and they’re super in love; Eric barely speaks with me out of pure shame; and I don’t have you two to hold me anymore when the fear of the unknown starts to creep in. And honestly, I’m still having a hard time dropping the dream Eric and I shared, the one we would talk about over the dinner table with you. It felt so real, like it was all going to happen when Eric opened Bar 79. I guess you can never truly count on anything, though, and as you taught me so skillfully, we are not ones to dwell.” I take a deep breath. “So, once I graduate, I’m putting together a résumé, and I’m going to go business to business and blow this small town out of the water
with my intelligence.” I lean in a little closer. “Wouldn’t you just dance in your graves out of pure joy if I started an empire like the Knightlys? Remember that talk we had over s’mores that one night, Dad, when I snuck you out of the nursing home? When you said I should take over Port Snow just like the Knightlys did? I could only be so lucky. Whatever I end up doing, though, I know I’m going to make you proud. I promise.”
A second tear rolls down my cheek, and I wipe it away before leaning forward and placing another kiss on their gravestones. “I love you both, miss you terribly, and will keep working hard to get what I want like you always taught me. Hard work and determination, right, Dad? It might have taken me seven years to get to the point of finally graduating from college—with a broken dream under my belt already—but I wouldn’t have changed the path I took because it meant spending more time with you two, and it gave Eric the opportunity he needed to pursue his goals, at least try to pursue them. And don’t worry, I’ll spruce up these headstones once spring comes.”
I give them a quick wink even though they can’t see it and wipe away one more tear before straightening up. With a brief wave, I turn around and almost jump out of my skin when I find a man leaning against my car, hands stuffed in his worn jeans pockets, a flannel shirt hugging his massive shoulders, and a baseball hat hiding a pair of brilliantly blue eyes I’ve known ever since elementary school.
Reid Knightly.
The sadness of the day, the tearful conversation I just had with my parents, and now seeing Reid standing there, waiting for me—it’s all too much. A wave of emotion hits me as I walk toward him. Burying my face in my hands, I step up into his open arms and let him pull me into a calming embrace, his arms like an impenetrable shield protecting me from the outside world.
One arm is wrapped around my back as the other grips the back of my head, keeping me in place as tears stream down my face and onto his flannel shirt, sorrow and relief escaping me all at once. Sorrow for losing two of the best people I’ve ever known, relief for not having to do this alone.
“Shh,” he says softly. It’s rare that Reid shows an ounce of sensitivity. Going through life with a chip on his shoulder—a rather large one—he’s a sarcastic ass who spends his days mouthing off and hiding behind his jokes. But today is different; this moment is different. “I’m here, Eve,” he whispers into my ear, sending an onslaught of chills down my right arm.
Fresh from the shower, he smells like soap with a hint of sandalwood, a scent I’ve grown to associate with his adult self. When he was young, running around the backyard with Eric and getting into every bit of trouble they could find, he smelled like a sweaty boy having entirely too much fun. Back in middle school, when he and Eric really got into cooking, he constantly smelled like garlic, his favorite food to work with. And in high school before they left for culinary school, he smelled like Axe body spray because at that point he realized smelling like a douche was better than smelling like garlic.
But now . . . now he smells like a man.
Calming myself, I lift my head off his chest and look up at him. The bill of his hat throws a shadow over his eyes, but this close, those blue irises still sparkle. “What are you doing here?”
He shrugs. “Didn’t think it was right for you to be by yourself.”
“How did you know?”
“I knew what today means, and I knew you’d be here . . . and Eric wouldn’t.” He reaches down and brushes away the tears that have pooled under my eyes. “You would do the same if it were my parents.”
I would.
“Well, thank you. It means a lot to me.”
“I also thought it would be a great opportunity to squeeze a hug out of you—you know, since you’re vulnerable and all.”
And there he is.
Scoffing, I push at his chest, trying to put some distance between us, but he just laughs and pulls me in closer. “Oh yeah, give me the good stuff. Just like that, run your hands up my back.”
“Shut. Up,” I say, a laugh popping out of me.
“All this wiggling is getting me hot and bothered. Want to do it in your car?”
“You realize you’re sick, right? A sick bastard taking advantage of a grieving daughter.”
“And as the scum of the earth who is well aware of that, if you need me to hold your boob in this time of need, I can lend a hand . . . even two.”
Impossible.
Stepping away and crossing my arms over my aforementioned chest, I say, “You wouldn’t even know what to do if I said yes to that offer.”
“How little faith you have.”
I shrug. “Word on the street is you fumbled so badly with Lydia Samson that you thought her armpit was her vagina.”
“Jesus Christ,” he moans, dragging his hand over his face. “Can you stop bringing up Lydia Samson? It was dark, I was drunk off my ass, and she kept saying, Yes, right there, right there. She was the sick fuck, letting me pump my dick into her armpit. We were in a closet on a boat, for fuck’s sake.”
I burst out in laughter at the infamous story, which I got secondhand from little old Mrs. Davenport of all people.
He points his finger at me, a stern look in his eyes. “You see? This is why I don’t do nice things, because ungrateful people like you bring up situations like Lydia Samson.”
“You tried to screw her armpit, Reid. That will go down in history as the best story of my life.”
“Then you need to get out more, because that shit is stale.”
I shake my head. “Never. All I have to say is Lydia around our friends, and everyone laughs.”
“Because they’re all sick fucks like you. I was sixteen, it was the first time a girl told me to push my pants down, and I was a little overzealous. Everyone should just be happy I was out of my room at that point.”
I cover my mouth just as a snort pops out of me. Oh, Reid. Everyone knows he had his hand perpetually on his penis the minute he found out he could have fun with it—whenever he wasn’t hanging out with Eric or cooking. The Knightly clan would blast him for constantly being in his room to the point that he stopped caring and would actually announce what he planned on doing. His poor parents.
“The horniest of the Knightlys.”
He shrugs unapologetically. “When you’re the most well endowed, you have to do something with all that extra testosterone raging through your veins. It was better to take care of business than go on Hulk-like smashing sprees.”
“Most well endowed?” I roll my eyes. “Please, everyone knows that’s Griff.”
False, everyone knows it’s Reid.
I can remember back in high school when all the girls would talk about the Knightly boys and rate them based on sex appeal and the rumor mill. I would never tell Reid this—why inflate his cocky ego more than necessary?—but Lydia Samson was terrified of how big Reid was when he pushed down his pants and spread it around that he was huge. She really made him screw her armpit because she was too nervous to let his willy anywhere near her lower half. His size was later confirmed by Diane Rebar and Heather Maker, then Nancy Vaughn, who swore she would never go near another Knightly brother after her sexual encounter with Reid.
If the legend is true, then Reid Knightly is a force to be reckoned with in the bedroom.
Do I believe it?
Maybe, but then again, word spreads like wildfire around here, flamed and wafted far past the truth, making every story you hear less and less believable.
“Griff.” He laughs and shakes his head. “Okay, Eve, keep telling yourself that.” Reaching out, he tugs on a lock of my long brown hair. “Want to grab a bite to eat?”
My stomach aches at the thought of food. I’m starving.
“What were you thinking?”
“Franklin’s Deli. His new homemade mustard makes my nipples hard.”
Just because I can, I reach out and rub my hand over his thick pecs, feeling the sharp nubs beneath my palms. He stands there, chest puffed out, almost proud to prove that in fact h
is nipples are hard from thinking about mustard.
“Not lying. Hard as fucking stones.”
I pull my hand away. “There’s something seriously wrong with you.”
“Yeah, you’ve known that for over fifteen years now, and yet you still hang around me.” He rocks on his heels, grinning.
“Because it’s either you or Mrs. Davenport. Options are slim around here, Knightly. Don’t think too much of it.”
He steps up and pulls me into another hug.
“A leg up on the Daven-ator, that makes me one lucky son of a bitch. Come on, my treat.”
CHAPTER THREE
REID
Typical Eve.
Whenever I say my treat, she really makes sure to go all out with her order. Two different sandwiches with the specialty mustard that Franklin, the dickhead, upcharges now—“Supply and demand,” he likes to point out to grumbling locals—two different soups, a bag of sea-salt-and-vinegar chips, and three cookies, not to mention a bottled water and a bottled iced tea.
With her smorgasbord spread before us, I didn’t even bother ordering anything, knowing full well she’s not going to eat all of this. I pick up a sandwich half and take a large bite.
Shit . . . this mustard is so fucking good.
We’re sitting in the front window, the deli’s prime spot, where every passerby can see us. I swallow my bite and whisper, “Why is this mustard so goddamn good? I swear, I would drink a whole goddamn bottle if I could.”
She leans forward as well, making sure Franklin—the worst gossip in town—can’t hear us. “I think he puts crack in it, legit stirs it in.” She twirls her hand in the air, stirring a fake bowl.
“A crack den posing as a deli.” I snap my fingers. “I could see it.”
“There’s some gossip we should spread around. I can see the headline in the newspaper now.” She holds up her hand and waves it across the imaginary paper. “Crack Den Deli. Flamboyant Mustard Extraordinaire at the Helm.”
That Secret Crush Page 3