That Second Chance

by Quinn, Meghan

  He turns and smiles at me, blue eyes earnest as he pats my shoulder.

  “Thanks, Dad,” I groan, slouching into a chair at the kitchenette set.

  He’s right. Ren is my fucking type, and it scares me. Every time I’m around her, I start to feel something deep in my stomach, something so foreign yet familiar. I like being around her, more than I would prefer, and despite my fears, the whispers of a goddamn curse hanging over me, I still find myself wishing she were here right now, taking shit from my family right along with me.

  “Almost there,” he mutters, hand on the oven door. “Just a few more . . . seconds.”

  Three.

  Two.

  One.

  He whips open the oven door, and with a hand covered in a lobster oven mitt, he retrieves the perfectly toasted garlic bread and places it on a trivet. “Nailed it!” He fist pumps. “Would you look at that bread.” He kisses his fingers and then flicks them to the sky. “Perfection.”

  “Looks good.” I chew on the side of my cheek, thoughts of Ren invading my mind.

  Absentmindedly my dad talks to me as he carefully cuts up the bread using tongs and a knife. “You know, I’ve been doing some thinking.”

  “If you’re thinking about adding more fudge flavors, I’m going to tell you right now, Mom is not going to go for it.”

  “Ah, your mother doesn’t know what’s good for the shop. She’s practically retired by now.”

  “Don’t you think you should join her?” I casually say, picking at a piece of lint on my pants.

  I get wanting to make the fudge—my dad really enjoys it—but as for everything else, I really think it’s time he makes the tough decision of handing over the rest of the responsibilities to the Lobster Landing.

  “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

  My ears perk up as I sit ramrod straight in my chair. Out of all my siblings, I’m the only one who’s shown interest in taking over the family business. Jen is there every day working, but she doesn’t want to do more than she has to because she also has a family with three kids. Reid has zero interest in taking over the Landing, and Brig, well, he has his cars.

  But me, hell, I’ve become so accustomed to thinking that I hold the reins to the family business, when in reality, I’m barely tugging on them from behind my dad.

  I want nothing more than for my dad to step aside, trust me with his “baby,” and finally let me take charge.

  “I’m getting old.”

  I chuckle. “No, not you. You look like a ripe, spry thirty-year-old.”

  He pins me with a sideways glance. “I might be old, but I can still kick your ass.” I tamp down my smile. “Like I was saying, I’m getting old, and I want to spend some much-needed quality time with your mom. I was thinking about doing some organizing when it comes to the company.”

  “Organizing?” A wave of nerves hits me all at once. Maybe a year ago Dad talked about hiring an outsider to run the Lobster Landing, someone with business experience so when he retires, he knows it will be in good hands. Hell if I was going to let that happen, so I stepped up and told him I wanted to be in charge, take over when he was done.

  I just hope he took my offer to heart.

  He places the garlic bread in a napkin-covered basket, meticulously and carefully stacking the pieces on top of one another in a crisscross pattern. “I want to hire some new people.”

  My stomach drops, anger starting to brew in the pit of my stomach. Why doesn’t he trust me to be able to run the Lobster Landing on my own?

  “Some new people? Like who?”

  Finally turning toward me, my dad leans his hip on the counter and crosses his hands over his apron-clad chest, his arms resting just above the small belly he’s grown over the last few years. A smile crosses his face, his eyes glistening with humor under the light of the yellow kitchen.

  “I was thinking I would have you take over the booth this year.”

  In my shock, my eyes widen; my mouth parts. “You want me to head up the Lobster Fest booth?”

  He slowly nods. “I’m getting too damn old to deal with that shit anymore. Figured it’s time I pass the torch, and if all goes well, I was thinking we should hire more front-of-the-store help so you can handle the actual business.”

  “You’re serious. You’re really going to hand the Landing over to me.”

  His smirk grows, the corners of his mouth reaching higher. “Only if you show me you can handle the pressure of the Lobster Fest.”

  “That won’t be an issue,” I answer with ease. I practically ran the whole thing last year; there is no doubt in my mind I can handle it this year.

  “Are you sure? Because it seems like you might have your head distracted by pretty little newcomers in town.” He winks playfully.

  “Who? Ren?” I shake my head. “Dad, she’s just a friend.”

  “Is that so?” He tsks at me. “Shame, because I think she could be a hell of a lot more than a friend. Maybe someone who can offer you some inspiration, someone who can offer you the reprieve you need.”

  “And yet you want me to work my ass off to prove to you that I can handle the business.”

  My dad picks up the basket of bread and starts to walk toward the deck. He stops right in front of me and rests his hand on my shoulder. “I know you can handle the business, Griff. That’s never been the issue. The question I have is, Can you handle a balanced life?”

  And with that, the screen door opens and quickly shuts with a slam as my dad yells to the rest of my family that the garlic bread is ready.

  Can you handle a balanced life? What the hell does he mean by that?

  This is stupid.

  Really stupid.

  But it’s Thursday, and I feel like I owe it to her after getting her hopes up.

  I stand at the end of the sidewalk, staring at Alabaster Haven, taking in the white siding and light-blue shutters that frame each window. Now that I’ve gotten to know Ren, it almost feels like this house was made for her.

  There is a light on in the living room, so I know she’s awake, but I bet she’s not expecting company. Maybe I could just ring the doorbell and leave the bag on the front porch. A little ding-dong ditch with a surprise treat.

  No, that would make me look like an ass, just leaving without saying anything to her. She would question me for not sticking around.

  Maybe I’ll just take the ice cream back to my house and eat all my feelings. Appropriate. Because right about now, I have a pool of feelings I’m trying to swim through.

  I like her.

  And I wish I didn’t.

  She’s fun, interesting, sweet . . . fucking charming.

  I pull on the back of my neck with my free hand, strain in my muscles as I turn away from the house, contemplating what I should do. She hasn’t seen me; I can quickly walk back to my place and forget—

  The front door opens, and light from inside the house shines down the walkway, highlighting my back like a lighthouse spotting me.

  “Griffin?” Her sweet voice is laced with confusion as she steps outside, arms folded over her chest. “I was scared for a second some strange man was staring at my house in the dark.”

  Great.

  Way to fucking terrify the girl, man.

  “Yeah, sorry about that.” I grip my neck even tighter. “I, uh, wasn’t sure if you were awake.”

  She smiles. “It’s eight thirty. I like to get a good night’s sleep, but I’m not passing out with Senior Row.”

  I chuckle. “I guess not, huh?” Shifting in place, I awkwardly hold up the bag. “Uh, I brought you some ice cream from the general store. Thursday’s special for the locals.”

  Her lips part as she unfolds her arms, the look of surprise on her face beautiful. “You brought me the coveted Thursday ice cream?”

  “Yeah,” I say, still standing a good distance from her. “I felt bad I tempted you the other day. It’s maple-bacon-doughnut flavored.”

  “Oh my God, really?” She
smiles widely and beckons me. “What are you waiting for? Bring it on in.” She steps to the side, giving me the go-ahead to make my way into her house. I hesitate for a split second.

  Going inside insinuates that I’ll be sharing the ice cream with her rather than just dropping it off, and my intention was just to drop it off. But from the look in her eyes, I can already see that dropping it off is not going to be good enough; she’s going to want to share.

  And she seems feisty. I don’t think I could get away with not sharing . . .

  I take a step forward, and before I can stop myself, I’m walking down the path to her house and stepping inside the brightly lit space.

  I helped Rogan renovate Alabaster Haven a few months back, turning it into a little beach-house getaway, so the gray wood floors and white walls are familiar. What surprise me are the small touches Ren has already made here and there. A potted tree in the corner. A light-blue throw blanket over the gray couch. A small white-and-yellow area rug on the floor, offering up a warmer feel to the space.

  She shuts the door behind me and nods toward the kitchen. “Let’s dig in.”

  I follow her to the back of the house, where the gray cabinets of the kitchen and white quartz countertops go well with the little teal touches of her dish towels and accents. When we went to Walmart together, I didn’t bother hanging out with her while she was running up and down the home aisles, picking out all the things she needed, but when she pulls out two white bowls and silverware, I realize just how much she purchased that night.

  I take a seat at the counter-height bar in the kitchen and hand the bag over. While she scoops the ice cream into our bowls, I study her for a brief moment. Her brown hair in waves hanging over her slight shoulders; her face devoid of makeup, revealing a very small trio of freckles on her right cheek. How would it feel to connect them with my finger running gently along her soft skin?

  Once she’s done scooping, she hands me a bowl and a spoon and then grabs her own, digging in without pause. She closes her eyes, letting the ice cream melt on her tongue as she groans. When those pools of mossy green connect with me, a curve in her lips forms. “Oh my God, Griffin, this is so good.”

  I swallow hard, ice cream still in the bowl.

  Watching her eat, watching her reaction . . . it was . . . yeah, it was “so good.”

  Trying to shake some clear thoughts into my head, I turn to my bowl and take a big spoonful. She’s right; it is good. Really freaking good.

  “Oliver must be a genius, because this ice cream tastes like heaven. Is it like this every Thursday? Does he ever repeat flavors?”

  I nod. “He does. He has a bit of a rotation he goes through, especially for people who miss a flavor one week.”

  “Well, Oliver is a good man, and so are you.” She sincerely looks at me, a scoop of ice cream resting on her spoon. “Thank you. This was very sweet.”

  I shrug it off, feeling awkward all of a sudden. “Consider it a little welcome to Port Snow.”

  She smiles over her bowl. “Are you the welcoming committee as well? On top of being in charge of restoration and the camping club, being a volunteer firefighter, and working at the Lobster Landing?”

  I chuckle. “Not officially.”

  “Ahh, I see.” She rounds the counter and sits on the stool next to me, setting her bowl on the counter. I got a whole pint of ice cream, and she had no shame in splitting it in half, giving us both a hefty serving.

  I’m impressed. She doesn’t shy away from food. I like that.

  “How do you have time for all of it?”

  I keep busy; it’s what helps me not dwell on the past. Always doing something, always moving, always pushing forward. If I don’t, then the past eats me alive; my regrets consume me.

  But I can’t say that to her. It would open up the conversation that I don’t have with anyone, not even my family. Or at least I try to avoid it as much as possible.

  I swallow some ice cream and lick my lips, enjoying the sweet and salty flavor. “I have a really good calendar on my phone.” I wink and take another bite of my ice cream.

  “Calendar, huh?” She chuckles. “So I think we have the ice cream being the best sweet in town—”

  “Uh, excuse me?” I playfully whip my head around to face her. “Try that again. What’s your favorite sweet in town again?”

  Her eyes widen, her mistake dawning on her pretty face. “I mean fudge. The best sweet in town is fudge from the Lobster Landing.”

  I nod in approval. “Very good. Now continue.”

  “Close one.” She comically wipes her forehead. “Okay, so we have the sweet down. I need to know where to get the best breakfast, lunch, and dinner. And don’t spare any details. I want to be in the know.”

  Her lips curve up, and I can’t help but match her expression. “You want the real stuff?”

  She slowly nods, licking some ice cream off her spoon. My eyes trained on her mouth, I stay fixated on her for far too long as I lick my lips, embarrassment taking over when she smiles even wider.

  Christ.

  Clearing my throat, I turn away and stare down at my bowl, trying to pull it together even though the rapid beat of my heart is throwing me off.

  Focus, Griffin.

  I swirl my spoon around in my bowl, my gaze turned down. “Breakfast depends. If you’re looking for something fast, the Lobster Landing scones, and I’m not biased; they’re just fucking awesome. But sit-down would be breakfast over at Moose Manor right off Main. It’s a bed-and-breakfast, but they have a large dining area open to everyone. Their berry-granola pancakes with local maple syrup will have you weeping into your napkin.”

  “That good?” She chuckles.

  “Really fucking good. Light and fluffy with so much flavor. They’re my absolute favorite, and the rest of the Knightly boys agree.”

  “Oh, family approval—that’s serious.”

  I nod. “It is.” I take another bite of ice cream and turn back toward her, my pulse evening out, my body’s response to being so close to her leveling to normal. “Now, lunch . . . that’s tricky.”

  “Oh yeah?” She faces me as well, excitement blazing in her eyes. “Why’s that?”

  “Depends on what kind of lunch person you are. Salad, soup, or sandwich.”

  She shakes her head. “I want the true, true answer.” She clenches her fist to her chest, passion and humor mixing in her expression. “If you were on death row and had to choose your final meal, your final Port Snow lunch, what would it be?”

  I slowly nod, my eyes going to the ceiling, considering. There are so many great options in Port Snow, but one thing comes to mind as I think about my last lunch.

  “It has to be the crab cakes over at Jake’s Cakes. He has a food truck parked by the harbor—have you seen it? There’s a row of bright-pink picnic tables lined up with yellow-striped umbrellas next to the truck.” I shake my head. “If you want to experience melt-in-your-mouth crab cakes with the best side of waffle fries you’ve ever eaten in your life, that’s the place to go. I would choose the traditional cake, but he has so many different variations, like buffalo wing, Greek tzatziki, and crab cakes with bacon jam.”

  “Bacon jam?” She scrunches her nose.

  “Trust me, it’s good. But the classic Jake Cake is the best in my opinion. I would go for that, a side of waffle fries, and a giant Coke.” My stomach growls even though I’m currently eating ice cream. I might have to make a stopover at the truck soon.

  “The classic Jake Cake, okay.” She taps the side of her head. “Got that logged in. Now what about dinner?”

  “Dinner is easy: Get the large bowl of lobster bisque with cheesy bread on the side over at the Lighthouse Restaurant. There’s nothing better than a bowl of their lobster bisque after a long day. Plus the restaurant looks over the ocean; you get a great view of waves crashing into the rocks right below. It’s a great place to get dinner.”

  She sighs. “You make everything sound so magical.”

&n
bsp; “You’ll find that the people in Port Snow take great pride in their town, so you’ll never get anything half-baked from them. It’s like an unspoken promise that we give it our all, never letting a bad review pop up on any tourist sites. We’re the number-one town in Maine to visit right now, and we plan on keeping it that way.”

  Her head tilts to the side, studying me as she pushes her empty bowl out of the way. “You know, it’s a really nice thing to see someone as young as you have such an investment in his town. You always hear these stories of kids wanting to escape the small town they grew up in—”

  “Oh, don’t get me wrong. There have been times, especially when I was a teenager, that I wanted nothing to do with Port Snow, but once you’re a bit older and you can appreciate the charm and hard work that goes into creating such a beautiful place, it’s almost impossible not to want to help out.”

  “So would you call yourself a lifer?”

  I stand, taking both bowls of ice cream and dropping them in the sink, where I quickly rinse them. Ren has her chin propped up on her hand as she watches my every move, her eyes fixated on my arms. My body heats up once again, a chill thrilling up my spine, reminding me that it’s late and a very attractive woman is sitting across from me in a tantalizing tank top, a smirk on her face.

  I dry my hands off and set the towel down on the counter. “Am I a lifer? Yeah.” I nod. “I’m a lifer. I don’t have any plans to go anywhere else.”

  She sits back and props her hands on the counter. “Me neither.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  GRIFFIN

  “Stand aside, stand aside.”

  My dad comes striding into the Lobster Landing, his voice booming, pushing through the crowd in the front as he makes his way to the kitchen area in the back, where he sets a cooler on the countertop.

  And this isn’t just any cooler; this is the cooler.

  The cooler that has probably been around longer than I’ve been alive.

  It’s red, with a white handle that’s turned cream with age, and on the front, written on years-old duct tape, are the words Fresh Fudge.