“Catchy. I’d read that.”
At that moment, Franklin steps up to our table, a sly smile on his face, hands folded. “Enjoying yourselves?”
Eve coughs up a piece of bread.
“Yeah, thanks,” I say, keeping my reply short. No one likes to talk to Franklin because the guy loves to play your conversation on repeat to whoever cares to listen.
“Oh yes,” Eve chimes in, recovering. “These chips are supreme.”
His eyes narrow. We both know what he’s looking for—he wants a compliment on the mustard. It’s like an unspoken rule in town that we don’t let on to Franklin how good the mustard is, though we keep coming back for it.
“Very well,” he says, spinning on his heel and walking back to the deli counter. “If you need anything, holler.”
When he’s out of earshot, Eve says, “Think he heard us talking about his crack den?”
I glance back at Franklin, whose eyes are still narrowed at us.
“I wouldn’t be shocked if he bugged this table so he can hear what everyone is saying.”
“Sounds about right.”
She leans back in her chair with a cup of chicken-noodle soup. “Thanks for being there for me today,” she says sincerely.
I pop a chip in my mouth. “That’s what friends are for, Eve. No need to thank me unless you want to sit on my lap; then I’ll take that as a thank-you.”
“Never going to happen, Knightly. It’s sad that you keep trying.”
“Hopelessly optimistic.”
And that ass of hers is so fucking fine. Sure, we’re just friends, but I don’t think I would ever give up staring at it—or asking for it. It’s fun, constantly having blue balls around her—every man’s dream.
“Ha!” She laughs and swallows a spoonful of soup. “Hopelessly optimistic would be the last way I’d describe you. More like sarcastically pessimistic.”
She has me there. Optimism runs through the Knightly blood, but I’m pretty sure I’ve forgotten how to access it.
“Sounds about right.” I nod and stick another chip in my mouth. “What are you up to tonight? Are you working? I was planning on bothering you at the Inn tonight.”
“Not working but probably drinking with the girls. Rylee is having everyone over.”
“If I put a wig on, think they’ll let me join?”
“Only if you wear a hot-pink skirt too.”
“Done.” I wink and pick up the iced tea we seem to be sharing, taking a swig and then handing it over to Eve. She presses her lips on the rim where mine were two seconds ago and downs the liquid without a second thought. I watch her throat contracting as she swallows, sending my imagination into overdrive as I picture my cock at her lips rather than the iced tea.
Yeah, okay, so I have a fucking crush on Eve.
It’s been impossible not to, but I’ve known the girl ever since I’ve known Eric, since we were ten years old and they moved to Port Snow from Pottsmouth the summer before fifth grade. Eric and I instantly hit it off after we were put on the same baseball team that summer. Eve, on the other hand, was just a tagalong—until I started noticing her on another level. Then I wanted to hang out with her a lot more. It started off with just thinking she was pretty, but when she started to gain confidence and sass me anytime she had a chance . . . fucking hell, I started to crush really hard. To the point that I was the idiot who would tease and make fun of her because I didn’t know how to control my emotions. And it only made her push back.
The tension between us built for years. Eric was oblivious, but I wasn’t. I knew I wanted her, but I never knew how to go about asking her out.
And I missed my opportunity in high school when we had our first dance. It had been my plan all along to ask her to be my date. I wanted to be the guy who stood an arm’s length apart from her and shuffled back and forth, but before I could strap on my balls and ask, Cory Morris stepped up and took her. He was about five inches taller than me at the time—I was a late bloomer in height, though not in the penis—and he won Eve over quickly.
A jealous fool, I spent most of high school pushing her buttons, and she pushed mine right back until we both placed each other squarely in the friend zone. She dated other guys while I dated other girls—and did stupid shit like fuck a girl’s armpit—then went on my merry way to culinary school.
And though we’re both single and living in Port Snow again, the opportunity for romance has passed. We’re destined to be friends for life.
Which is fine, truly. I have no problem ignoring my pesky feelings and staring at my friend’s ass. Well, I mean, I act like I have no problem with it. But there are times when I’m lying in bed, alone, wondering what she’s doing at night, what she’s wearing, if there would ever be an appropriate time for me to let her know about my “pesky feelings.” Probably not.
“I’d give you twenty dollars to show up at Rylee’s in nothing but a hot-pink skirt, wig, and bra.”
“Twenty bucks?” I mull it over, crunching down on a chip. “Nah.” I pat my stomach. “These abs are worth at least thirty dollars on their own.”
“Abs.” She snorts. “Please, don’t you mean whiskey gut?”
My eyes pop open as I sit straight up in my chair. “Excuse me? Did you just say I have a whiskey gut?”
“I mean . . . don’t you?”
“No. Where the fuck did you hear that?”
“Tony Larkin.”
“Ton—” I take a deep breath and lean in closer. “Tony Larkin has been trying to get into your pants since freshman year. He would say just about anything to make his unibrow seem more attractive.”
She smirks. “Prove it.”
Exasperated, I grab the hem of my shirt and lift it up, showing off my six-pack, one I work on every night. Unlike Rogan, who was born with an eight-pack, I actually have to put in some effort to make mine pop.
I watch carefully as Eve’s eyes roam my exposed stomach, taking in every inch, one divot at a time, until her eyes meet mine. Head tilted, she finally says, “Damn, you’re pale.”
Jesus.
I toss my shirt down and grab another half of a sandwich. “We live in fucking Maine—what did you expect?”
“Not to be blinded.” She blinks a few times. “Warn a girl to put on her sunglasses before you go flashing that around. You’re basically translucent. I think I saw your intestines.”
“Think you’re a regular Kevin Hart, don’t you?”
She fluffs her hair. “No, more like an Amy Schumer. More badass.”
Can’t argue with her there.
“Mom? Dad?” I call out as I enter my childhood home and kick off my shoes.
“Kitchen, dear,” Mom calls back. I follow the scent of homemade marinara sauce down the hall to the kitchen and the attached dining area, which overlooks the bay.
My parents have lived in this house for over twenty years, and even though the pictures hanging on the walls are from the nineties, it’s been updated and renovated throughout the years. Brand-new hardwood floors throughout the main living space, a fresh coat of paint on all the walls, and a state-of-the-art kitchen for all the fudge making my dad conducts on a weekly basis. Thanks to Rogan, they haven’t had to do much of the work themselves. Pretty sure Rogue and Griffin are tied for favorite child.
Dad is at the stove, stirring a giant pot with a wooden spoon, while Mom hovers around him, holding a bowl of homemade dough and glancing over his shoulder. Neither one of them can give up control in the kitchen, which is why we were fed so well as kids.
I press a kiss to my dad’s partially balding head and one to my mom’s cheek before reaching into the fridge for a water and sitting on the counter.
“To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit?” Mom asks, keeping her eyes on my father.
“Just stopping in. Had the day off, so I thought I’d see what you two are doing.”
“You took the day off?” Dad asks, a pinch to his brow. “Since when do you take days off?”
They both know I’m
trying to rebuild my savings, trying to make sure I don’t ever end up hitting rock bottom again. I may have replaced my knives with a lobster cage, but I’m still determined to make sure I never have to live with my parents again, even if it means working at the Lobster Landing until I’m fifty.
“I still went out to sea this morning but asked for a day off from the Landing. Griff was cool with it.” Griffin has recently taken over the family business from Dad, working his ass off to prove he can run it and make it just as successful as when my parents were in charge. He loves working there, selling fudge and baked goods. I, on the other hand . . . no fucking thank you. Dealing with sweaty, grouchy tourists during the summer and entitled locals during the off-season—yeah, I’d rather be out on the boat. And now that Dad has handed over the crown to the family business, he’s no longer training Griffin, which gives him more time to pester me about what I want to do with my life, where I want to take my “talents.” What’s even more annoying is that he speaks to me in such a loving and caring manner that when I get pissed every time he brings up the future, I end up feeling like an even bigger asshole later.
“Why did you ask for the day off? Just needed some time to rest your brain?” Mom asks.
My parents weren’t great friends with Eve’s parents, who were quite a bit older, but they were still cordial and kind and would have them over for dinner on occasion. So when Eve and Eric lost both their parents, they were there for my friends, but I wouldn’t expect them to remember the days they passed.
“Today’s the anniversary of Jay’s death.”
“Oh dear, how could we forget?” Mom says just as Dad turns around to face me for the first time.
“Is Eric in town?”
I shake my head. “No, but I did go out to the cemetery. Eve was there by herself. I gave her privacy while she talked with her parents, and when she was done, I took her out to lunch so she wasn’t by herself.”
A look of pride washes over my mom’s features. “That was very sweet of you, Reid. Where is she now? Would she like to come over for dinner? I would hate for her to be alone tonight.”
“She’s getting ready to go over to Rylee’s. They’re having a girls’ night over there. I’m going to head up to the LI after dinner, just in case she decides to show up. I don’t want any dickheads trying to take advantage of her right now.”
“Is that what the hip kids are calling the Lighthouse Inn now? The LI?” Dad asks.
“Yup. Dare you to say it in front of the town elders.” I wiggle my eyebrows, trying to entice him.
He doesn’t fall for it. “And risk getting my ass handed to me? I’ll pass.” Stirring the pot again, he says, “Did Eve say why Eric didn’t come back?”
“Work, I guess. But I doubt that was the truth.”
Silence falls in the kitchen as a big pink elephant comes stomping into the small space, blowing his trunk and announcing his entrance.
The restaurant.
The failure.
The broken friendship.
The reason why Eric Roberts really isn’t back in Port Snow.
Because of me.
Mom clears her throat. “Have you spoken with him lately?”
I lift the bottle of water to my lips, stalling for a few seconds. “Nope.”
A year ago, my parents would have followed up my answer with encouragement to reach out to him, to mend the broken friendship. But by now they know it’s a lost cause, and they let my answer slowly float through the air.
“Well,” my mom says, taking some flour and tossing it on the center island. “Why don’t you help me make some biscuits then?”
I hop down from the counter and press a kiss to her cheek. “You know I don’t cook anymore, Mom. I’ll be upstairs if you need me.”
With a parting glance at the spaghetti sauce—just from the scent, I know it needs a touch more basil—I speed out of the kitchen, make my way up the old set of stairs that I’ve climbed far too many times to count, and take a quick glance out the window, where light flakes of snow start to descend to the ground. Will this snow ever end?
My parents always try to get me involved in the kitchen in a not-so-subtle way. They want me to jump back into my old life, and I always turn them down. Those days are behind me.
I’m a different man now, with a different path. But despite my vow to never make another meal, every fiber of my being longs to chop a fresh crop of vegetables, to smash herbs between my fingers and take in a deep whiff.
My heart craves the kitchen, but I just can’t bring myself to feed it.
CHAPTER FOUR
EVE
“Want another?” Rylee asks, wobbling up to me with a pitcher of piña colada in her hand. She’s gone with the whole tropical theme tonight—Hawaiian shirt, steel drum music, and blow-up palm trees included.
And I would be remiss not to mention the tiny umbrellas that garnish our drinks.
“I’m good.” I hold up my hand, feeling a little tipsy. I want to hold on to that feeling, but I don’t want to get wasted; I just want to ease the ache in my stomach. I might put on an act, force a smile, and show everyone that everything’s okay, but in reality, the burn of my dad’s death, of this day, has set a fire in the pit of my stomach. Even though the company is nice, I’m at the point where I’m ready to just be alone. At least I think that’s what I want.
“You sure? I bought lots and lots of booze, so feel free to drink it all.”
I chuckle as her words slur. Good luck, Beck. “Not concerned about drinking all your booze.”
“Well, it’s here if you want it. You know Beck doesn’t drink, so someone is going to have to make a dent in it.”
Harper comes tottering over to me, wearing her bikini top and a pair of sweats. “Wowee, these drinks are strong. Wouldn’t you say?”
“Please tell me Rogan’s picking you up tonight.”
“Oh yeah, I told him we could do it on the counter again after I was done here.”
Lovely.
She holds up her phone. “He keeps texting me to see if it’s T-minus naked time yet.” She leans in, rum heavy on her breath. “I FaceTimed him in the bathroom and flashed him a boob. Let’s just say . . . he’s on his way.”
“Flashed him a boob, huh? Classy.” I wink.
She flips her red hair. “That’s me, pure class.” She stares down at my cup, hooks her finger on the lip, and pulls it closer. When she sees it’s still halfway full, her eyes widen. “Hey, how come you didn’t get a refill?”
“I want to be able to open my eyes tomorrow without wearing sunglasses.”
“What are we talking about?” Ren, Griffin’s girlfriend, asks. As a new-to-town algebra teacher, she was driven off the road by a wayward moose, but Griffin came to her rescue. It was a long and interesting courtship, especially since Griffin had to get over losing his wife, but they are adorable together, and I’m so glad Ren is a part of our little group.
“Eve here wants to be able to see tomorrow,” Harper says, jabbing her thumb in my direction.
I shake my head. “I’m just not getting super drunk, that’s all.”
“Griffin sent me a text asking if I was drunk and if I wanted to get frisky later.” Ren giggles. “I sent him back a GIF of an old lady humping the ground. Gave him the green light.”
“Wow, looks like the Knightly boys are getting lucky tonight.”
“Maybe Reid can get lucky.” Harper nudges me with her pointy elbow.
“Stop that.” I swat her away. “That’s never going to happen. He’s a good friend. He actually . . .” I swallow hard, wondering why I’m about to say this, blaming the alcohol. “He actually surprised me at the cemetery today. Told me he didn’t want me to be alone and then took me out to lunch. It was nice.”
Ren clasps her hands to her chest. “See? I just knew that boy had some of that sweet and kind Knightly blood inside of him. He isn’t always a smart-ass.”
“Oh, you should have known him growing up,” Harper says, taking
another long sip of her drink, her cheeks puckering before the reminiscing begins. “He was always getting on Rogan’s and Griffin’s nerves. It was like he was born with this special knack for driving his brothers crazy. A negotiator, a poke-the-bear kind of guy, a weasel when he knew what he wanted. The number of times Griff and Rogan had to pay him off not to rat them out to their parents . . . you know, I think that’s when he really started saving for the restaurant. Funded by his brothers.”
I wouldn’t doubt that.
“Yeah, he would come over to our house and brag about banking another twenty from his brothers for not tattling. I mean”—I shrug—“you have to hand it to him: he knew how to mine his brothers for cash and did it well.”
“Ahh, you’re just saying that because you’ve always had a crush on him,” Harper says with a wave of her hand.
“I don’t have a crush on Reid. He’s one of my good friends. And yeah, he’s hot; I would be stupid to say he isn’t, but we’re just friends.” That might be a lie, but we won’t go there right now.
“That’s what they always say.” Harper bumps my shoulder with hers just as Rogan comes through the door. “Gah, look at him. That jawline, God, I just want to nip at it.”
Rogan scans the room. When he spots Harper, his face immediately lights up, and he makes his way to his girl.
I’m not going to lie—having someone in my life who would look at me like that, like I’m the center of his universe, it wouldn’t be the worst thing. I’ve dated here and there but never had anything too serious. I haven’t had much time, especially when I was taking care of my parents, and now that I’m finishing up my degree, any and all romance has been put on hold—and I’m okay with it.
But there’s one thing I wish I had—the companionship, the intimacy my parents once shared. I always admired how deeply in love they were and thought I’d have the same kind of relationship. I know, I know, I’m young, and there’s still plenty of time, but that doesn’t make me want it any less. And I guess I get some companionship with Reid, but intimacy—not so much. Yeah, he flirts and talks about my ass probably too often, but I know what I am to him: his best friend’s sister, the girl he grew up with, pulling on her pigtails and pushing her into rain puddles. He’s treated me more like his tomboy friend than he’s ever treated me like a woman, and that’s fine, because that’s our relationship. At least that’s the way everyone in town, including him, sees our relationship. But deep down—so deep I can barely admit it to myself—I’ve been harboring a crush on that boy for as long as I can remember.
That Secret Crush Page 4