“It’s because Rogan is a sucker, that’s why,” Griffin says.
“They’re just too goddamn annoying to deal with in the morning. I’d rather just pay and get it over with,” Rogan deadpans.
“Did you hear that?” Reid asks Brig.
“Yup, made a mental note to always annoy Rogan when I want something. He gives in easily.”
Rolling his eyes, Rogan stands, his seat scraping across the wood floor. “I’m out of here. I have a meeting with Vanessa. I’ll catch you guys later. Dinner at Mom and Dad’s tonight. Be there.”
“Is Mom making stuffed shells?” Brig asks, standing as well.
“Pretty sure, but Dad is making the garlic bread. Promised me,” Reid answers, getting to his feet. “Mom burns it every single time with the broiler, but not this time. Dad is on it.” Brig and Reid give each other a high five. They, along with Rogan, murmur quick goodbyes in my direction before clasping Griffin on the shoulder and walking away.
Well, I guess our little impromptu breakfast is over before it even got started.
I glance up at Griffin as one bit of information sticks in my head. “You have dinner at your parents’ tonight?”
He nods just as his name is called for his order. “We try to get together at least once or twice a month for a family dinner. We had to cancel this past Sunday, so we’re doing it tonight.”
“Okay, that’s good to know because I was going to make that taco potpie tonight, but if you’re not going to be home to eat it, then I’ll hold off.”
“You really don’t have to make anything for me, Ren. Seriously. I don’t ever look for someone to pay me back.”
“I know, but I really want to, so stop denying my taco potpie.”
He chuckles and checks his watch. “Shit, I have to go open the shop. I’ll see you around.” With a quick wave, he grabs his coffee from the counter and heads out of the coffeehouse and down toward the harbor where the Lobster Landing rests, leaving me in his wake, wanting more.
I just saw him last night, but it still doesn’t feel like enough. I feel like we’ve only scratched the surface when it comes to conversation, and I might be crazy, but I swear he’s holding something back. Like when we talk, there is something behind those vivid blue eyes of his that he’s not telling me.
“Excuse me?”
I look up to find a nice-looking lady with a bag hanging on her shoulder, her hair tied up on the top of her head. She’s sporting a pair of leggings and a shirt that says, I write romance.
I wonder if this is Rylee.
“Yes?”
She takes the seat across from me and clutches her bag to her side. “You must be Ren, the new algebra teacher in town, right?”
“That’s me, and I’m going to guess you’re Rylee, the local romance novelist, just based off your shirt.”
She chuckles. “That obvious, huh?”
“Just a little.” I hold out my hand, and she takes it. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“You too. My husband, Beck, is good friends with the Knightly brothers. They were just talking about the new girl.” A blush creeps over my cheeks as I wonder if Griffin was one of the guys in that conversation. “I heard all about your accident.”
“Which version of the story did you hear?” I deadpan.
“The correct version from Griffin.” A thrill runs through me. Griffin was talking about me. “Said you sandwiched yourself between two pine trees and couldn’t get out.” She shakes her head. “I don’t know how you held your cool. I would have freaked out.”
“Oh, believe me, I was anything but cool. I also cut my head.” I point to the small line of stitches still on my forehead. “I didn’t have anything to stop the blood, so I used my T-shirt. Griffin showed up to rescue a crazy lady in her bra screaming to get out of her car. Quite the scene.”
Giggling softly, Rylee appreciatively nods. “Oh, that’s fantastic, and I don’t mean that as an insult. I’m going to have to use a version of that story in one of my next books. You don’t mind, do you?”
I press my hand against my chest. “I would be honored, and feel free to call her Ren as well.”
“Maybe I will.” Rylee points to the corner across the coffee shop. “Well, I just wanted to come over and introduce myself. You can find me in that chair over there every Tuesday and Thursday, writing to my little heart’s content. And before someone goes and tells you the wrong thing, that chair is my inspiration chair. I do some of my best writing in it. But ask people around town, and they’ll tell you it’s my sex chair, even my husband.”
“Sex chair?” I cough into my coffee. “What does that mean?” And what the hell does she do in that chair . . . in public?
“They think I write all my sex scenes in that chair and only sex scenes, but they’re wrong. Do I get good ideas while in that chair? Of course, but it isn’t all about sex.” She winces. “Maybe not the best conversation to have with someone I just met. I just wanted you to know I’m over there every Tuesday and Thursday, so if you ever want company with your cup of coffee, feel free to say hi.”
“That would be so great. Thank you.”
We part with a smile, leaving me with a warm contentment. I’ve never made friends this quickly. It seems like everywhere I go in this town, people are taking the time to chat. I absolutely love it.
Standing from my chair, I give both Rylee and Ruth, who are now deep in conversation, a wave goodbye and head out to the general store for some grocery shopping.
“Hey, Mom.”
I set my phone on the kitchen counter, propping it up just right so my mom can see me, and go back to opening and unwrapping my dinnerware, silverware, and glassware. It’s been a task getting settled, but I’m not going to lie: unpacking new things has made it fun. This is the first time I’ve actually owned something that isn’t a hand-me-down, and it makes me feel like the grown-up that I am, like I’m finally starting a new season in my life.
“Oh, honey, what happened to your forehead?” FaceTime is my mom’s favorite thing ever. I’ve been avoiding it for as long as possible, but she finally caught me, and I knew the minute she did, she would comment on my stitches.
Telling her the truth is still not an option, not with her constant worrying. Would it be nice to be able to be open and honest with my parents about my new life in Port Snow? Of course, but the car accident in LA is still too fresh in their minds, and I would only cause more unnecessary worry. I’m thriving, I’m making a home of my own, and I’m living with no fear. Maybe a year or two from now I can tell her the real story, but right now, I give her my best lie.
“You’re never going to believe how clumsy I am. I bought a new rug without getting the mat to go underneath, slipped, and hit my head on the counter. It was a few stitches and a quick visit to the emergency room but nothing to worry about.”
It’s the best story I can come up with that can explain stitches and bruising on my forehead.
“What? And you’re all alone? See, this is exactly why I didn’t want you to move this far away: you have no one to take care of you. Were you passed out on the floor? How much blood did you lose?”
Hear that whomping sound? That’s the helicopter mom coming in to hover.
“Mom, I’m fine. It was the corner of the counter, so that’s why it looks so bad. There wasn’t even a lot of blood”—just a ruined shirt—“and I was in and out of the emergency room. I only went because I felt like the cut was a little deeper than expected.” Not going to mention an ambulance took me in. “And everyone in town here is so nice. They’ve been keeping an eye on me.” Not a lie: the Knightly brothers check in on me, and so does Ruth. She asks me how I am every time I come into Snow Roast. That counts.
A worried expression mars her face. “I really don’t like this, Ren. I should be there with you.”
I sigh and stop stacking the plates in the cupboard next to the dishwasher as I focus on the screen propped against the counter and wall. “Mom, you know I love you, right?”<
br />
“Well, of course.”
“Okay, so what I’m about to say is out of pure love.” I take a deep breath. “You need to let me live my life. I’m a twenty-eight-year-old woman, and I can fend for myself. You need to let me do that.”
Her bottom lip quivers, and her eyes start to water. Oh boy, here we go; I can feel another wave of guilt about to hit me dead in the chest, and it’s the last thing I want when I’m on an unpacking high. Then again, if I put myself in her shoes . . .
“I just love you so much, and I don’t want anything bad to ever happen to you.”
“I know, Mom, and I love you, too, but you need to realize you can’t keep me in a bubble forever. This is good for me; being out here is good for me. I love it. It’s quaint and friendly, and there’s this guy . . .”
Her eyes widen, her interest piqued as the whomping of the helicopter fades and she settles into friend territory. A sly smirk crosses her face as she leans more into the phone. I knew that would change the subject.
“There’s a guy? Already?”
I fold my kitchen towels—white-and-teal plaid, super cute. “Well, we’re just friends, but he lives three houses down. He’s a volunteer firefighter and helps run his parents’ souvenir shop here. It’s called the Lobster Landing.”
“Oh, sounds enchanting. Tell me more about him.”
I can feel my cheeks start to flame. It’s not very often a man captures my attention, let alone makes me feel all kinds of butterflies in my stomach when he’s around. But Griffin does just that, with the little dimple that appears whenever he smiles wholeheartedly and with his sweet gestures that seem to hit me square in the chest.
This isn’t my first rundown on a guy with my mom. She’s been my go-to gal ever since my first crush. She has the natural ability to set aside her mom pants for a hot second whenever I want to talk about the opposite sex, which is one of the reasons why I love her so much and why it’s so easy to talk to her about Griffin.
“Well, he’s tall, has brown hair. It’s short but kind of messy. He has these amazing blue eyes that almost look like he plucked them straight from the Caribbean Sea.”
“Oh, so really blue.”
I nod. “Yes, so blue. You can see them from fifty feet away—they’re that blue—and they’re hard to look away from. And he’s so sweet, Mom. He helped me move some of my stuff into the house and bought me dinner the other night.”
“He bought you dinner? Did he take you out on a date?”
“No, my car—” I catch myself and swallow hard. “He drove me to Walmart in the next town up because I wasn’t sure where I was going. We stopped for dinner after that. It was a friendly dinner, nothing romantic.”
“But you would possibly want something romantic?”
I shrug. “I mean, I wouldn’t say no if that’s what he wanted.”
“Do you know what he might want? Has he given you any cues?”
I think back to my interactions with Griffin, replaying them in my head. He’s always kept his hands to himself, kept the conversation friendly, never really pushed it to anything romantic at all. I’ve caught him giving me a once-over a few times, but those moments were too small to be anything other than a curious eye.
“Um, not really. He’s super nice, but it’s really all been friendly since we started talking.”
“He’s not married, is he?”
I shake my head. “No. There’s no wedding ring. But you know, I never thought that he could have a girlfriend. Although I feel like he wouldn’t have taken me to Walmart if he was attached.”
“Yeah, if your dad was taking the pretty neighbor to Walmart, we would be having a serious conversation about what’s appropriate and what’s not.”
“That would be weird.” I laugh as I set the kitchen towels to the side and lean on the counter. “I don’t know if I should make a move or not. He’s really nice and can hold a good conversation, but I’m nervous that maybe he’s not interested in me. He could just be a nice guy, and do I really want to ruin a friendship?”
“First of all, if he’s not interested in you, he’s an idiot. You’re the entire package, sweetie, and I’m not just saying that because I’m your mom. And secondly, maybe just take your time, develop a friendship with him; if things progress forward into something more, then you’ll know. But for now, just be friends.”
“As a friend, am I allowed to gawk at him?”
Tilting her head back, my mom laughs, the sound a sweet memory of my childhood.
“Only when he’s not looking, sweetie.”
CHAPTER TEN
GRIFFIN
“There he is, my favorite child,” my mom says, taking both my cheeks in her hands, pulling me down, and plopping a wet kiss right on my lips. “So handsome.”
“You know we can all hear you, right, Mom?” Reid asks, always salty when my mom claims me as her favorite.
She turns toward him, her arm wrapping around my waist. “Well, when you’re the only child who doesn’t split me from front to back during childbirth, you’re bound to be my favorite.”
And there it is, the old front-to-back story.
Everyone groans, except Jen, who chimes in. “I agree with Mom. The twins are my favorite. They still make me want to bang my head against the wall just as much as Braxton does, but at least they didn’t shoot out of my vagina. They were ripped from my body during the world’s easiest cesarean.”
Rogan winces and holds his hand up. “Please, for the love of God, can you not say ‘ripped from your body’? You’re ruining the miracle of childbirth for me.”
Jen scoffs. “Please, like you’re going to have kids one day.”
“What?” Mom spins on Rogan. “What does she mean by that? Are you planning on not having children?”
Rogan shifts in his seat, pulling on his pressed black dress pants. “Are any of us really having kids other than Jen?” he answers with a laugh, but a part of me thinks he might not be joking.
We haven’t said a word about the curse to anyone outside the family. None of us have, except for one person.
Brig.
The loudmouth got drunk one night at the Har-Bahr and told Jenna Davenport—yeah, Mrs. Davenport’s daughter—all about the curse. Word spread like a brush fire, and we’ve had a giant scarlet letter on our shirts ever since, making us completely undatable. None of the local women have approached any of us since . . . and a part of me can’t blame them.
When our mom finally heard about what had happened—one of her bingo friends told her after a few games in city hall—she gathered the four of us and told us to pull our heads out of our asses and stop paying the “curse” any attention, because there’s no such thing. Whenever it’s brought up around her, she shoots it down quickly. As one of the matriarchs of the successful tourist town, she makes sure no one messes with her family. Want to see a mama bear in action? Piss off Karen Knightly; she will rattle your bones with fear.
Mom points to all four of us boys, a stern look on her face. “You will be having children, do you hear me? All of you will give me grandchildren. I don’t care how you make it happen, but after the hell I went through giving birth to you, you are required to pay me back with at least one grandchild.”
Reid, the instigator, takes a large gulp of his beer. “Jen gave you three, so does that mean only one of us has to provide a grandchild now?”
“Oh no, you can’t use my children as your plus one to this family,” Jen says, stepping in. “You had no role in the making of my children, therefore you have no claim.”
“Technically, I have some claim.” I raise my hand to gather everyone’s attention. “I introduced you to Zach, who impregnated you; therefore, I can at least claim Braxton.”
“Nice try,” Jen shoots back and then smiles slyly. “Speaking of relationships, why don’t you tell Mom all about Ren?”
“Ren?” My mom turns excitedly toward me, practically spinning in her deck chair. The wind from the ocean whips behind her, a famili
ar scene since we’ve spent many nights out on the deck of my parents’ house at this very table, talking and joking around. “Who’s Ren—oh, wait . . . is that the girl who fell out of a tree?”
I need more alcohol for this. “She didn’t fall out of a tree, Mom. She ran her car between two trees after swerving to avoid a moose. I helped her out of her car.”
“Carried her up a hill in all of his fireman gear,” Brig adds with a wink.
“A true knight in shining armor,” Reid says. “He took her out last night too.”
My gaze whips to Jen. She doesn’t even hide the fact that she opened her big mouth. “What?” She shrugs. “If you thought I was going to keep that to myself, you don’t know me at all.”
My mom waves her arms. “Wait, wait, wait. Is there a new woman in your life, Griffin?”
“No,” I answer quickly. “I was just helping her, being a good neighbor. There is nothing going on between us, and there will be nothing going on between us, so before you—”
“He broke up our breakfast this morning with her so he could have her all to himself,” Brig says, a smarmy look on his face.
I turn to Rogan, who snorts into his beer, not even giving me a hand with these idiots. He’s the closest to me, so he should have my back right now, but it looks like he’s enjoying my pain way too much.
“I was not clearing you out. You guys happened to leave right after I arrived. I didn’t stay much longer.” I let out a heavy breath and set down my empty beer, gripping the arms of my chair. “Listen, there is nothing going on, okay? So stop bringing it up. She’s a nice girl but not my type. Drop it, all of you.” I stand to go help my dad in the kitchen to a chorus of jeers and mocking oohs from my douche brothers.
I push through the screened-in door, fuming. I swear, this is one of those moments when I wish I were an only child.
When I enter the kitchen, I catch my dad hovering over the oven, eyes laser focused on the garlic bread. There is nothing my dad hates more than burnt garlic bread; it’s why he’s put himself in charge.
“Hey, Dad.”
“Griffin,” he greets me, before falling silent, staring at the oven, until finally: “I think she’s all kinds of your type, and you’re too chickenshit to do anything about it.”
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