It’s tradition; whenever my dad finalizes the new fudge flavors he wants to introduce to the store, he charges into the shop, playing a low drumroll on his phone—used to be a boom box—and sets down the cooler with a thump, drawing everyone’s attention.
He proceeds to lay out a white tablecloth and delicately puts the fudge out on display, utilizing different plates and silver trays while labeling every flavor with a miniature card in a silver holder. And to top it all off, he always buys fresh flowers from Daisy’s to “accentuate” the colors in the fudge. My dad’s words, not mine. It’s like a fudge coronation, and every Knightly is required to join in on the festivities.
That’s why all my brothers are filing in from the back door, annoyed looks on their faces, most likely from having more important things to do with their day.
But when the fudge-testing siren goes off, we are all required to report to the Landing.
Once everything is set up, my dad clasps his hands together. He blows a kiss at my mom, then turns to his kids. He nods at each and every one of us and then spreads his hands out to the side.
“The new fall flavors.”
Thankfully, we only have to go through this once every season. Dad has made some adjustments over the years and finds that seasonal flavors sell much better on a limited-time basis along with the originals. He also adds in one new flavor to the regulars every week, replacing an old one.
From the looks of it, we have five new flavors to taste.
“Uh, do I need to remind you to clap?” my dad asks all of us, a pinch in his brow. “The new fall flavors,” he repeats.
Trying to hide our annoyance, all of us clap, making my father’s face flood with absolute delight.
As much as this is annoying and time consuming, I have to admit it does make my dad happy.
He lifts the napkins resting atop each block of fudge, revealing the flavors one by one.
“Pumpkin-spice latte. Apple-cider doughnut. Orange cranberry walnut. Apple pie in the sky. And the latest addition to the regular crowd, cotton candy.”
My brothers and I cringe at the last one. Cotton candy can’t be good. Cotton candy–flavored anything can’t be good; it never tastes right and ruins the memory of what cotton candy really tastes like.
But I will admit the color and swirl of pink and blue my dad made are pretty impressive. Like a marble countertop made for unicorns . . .
Christ, that was a girly thing to think.
Motioning with his hands, he says, “Now, if everyone would form a line and grab a testing plate, I will get you your samples, and then you can start scoring everything on the cards provided.”
Yes, this is a process—a long, drawn-out process in which we need to fill out questionnaire cards for each fudge flavor. It’s time consuming, but it’s also the main reason why we’ve been able to maintain so much interest in our company, because like every other shop owner in Port Snow, we take the goods we sell seriously.
Once I get my plate, I pull up a stool next to the kitchen door in case anyone working the counter needs my help. It’s lunchtime, so the shop has slowed down, but around one thirty or two o’clock, we’re going to get another rush of tourists looking to satiate their sweet tooth after lunch.
Rogan pulls up a stool next to me and lets out a heavy sigh. “I’m not eating this.”
“I know.” Rogan refuses to taste test, the health freak. I usually let him copy my card.
My dad retreats to the back office when we’re taste testing because he likes to read the cards rather than listening to our immediate reactions. It’s also why we need to go into detail when filling out everything.
Pumpkin-spice latte is the first flavor I taste, and I immediately cringe. Never been a pumpkin fan, so this makes me gag.
“That bad?” Rogan asks.
“There’s way too much spice.”
Jen coughs on my other side and takes a sip of water. “Oh shit, that’s a lot of nutmeg.” She turns to our mom, who’s cringing as well. “Did he taste test these?”
“I have no idea, but what I do know is pumpkin-spice latte is going to have to go back to the drawing board. That was terrible.”
Needing to get the taste out of my mouth, I try the orange cranberry. Now this is good.
“Good?” Rogan asks.
“Very.” We start filling out the card, Rogan putting a version of my answer on his own.
“How’s the new neighbor? She hasn’t been throwing any ragers, has she?”
I shake my head. “Not unless they’re really quiet ragers.” At the mention of Ren, my mind immediately goes to the ice cream we shared the other night. After I cleaned the bowls, I headed to the front door and gave her a curt wave, telling her I would see her around. She thanked me for the ice cream and didn’t shut the door right away once I left. Instead, I could feel her eyes burning a hole in my back as I walked past the houses that separate ours.
That night, I had a dream about her, a dream so vivid, so freaking real, that it scared the crap out of me. Ren wrapped up in my arms, looking out over the ocean. I counted the freckles on her cheek while she asked me questions about what fall is like in Port Snow.
I woke up feeling anxious and . . . happy.
I’ve spent the last few days trying to avoid her everywhere I go, which has been damn hard. This is a small town, and it seems like we’re almost on the same schedule. But I’ve done a good job so far.
School should be starting soon; she’ll be busy teaching kids algebra, and I’ll be here at the Lobster Landing, testing fudge, with nothing to worry about.
“She seems nice, you know,” Rogan murmurs.
“Who, Ren?” I ask, feigning confusion.
“Yeah, Ren, you jackass.”
I take a bite of the apple-pie fudge. Shit, this is good too. “She’s nice.”
“Pretty too.”
More like beautiful, but I won’t go there.
“Yeah, I guess so.” The words fall off my tongue, feeling wrong. “I mean, yeah, she’s pretty.” There, that’s a little better.
“Killer tits.”
My head snaps up, a sharp dent in my brow as I take in the smirk on Rogan’s face. Such a fucker.
He pokes my shoulder, being the annoying little brother Brig usually is. “Just admit you like her.”
“She’s nice; a friend, maybe, but that’s it. Drop it.”
Rogan shakes his head, not believing me for a second. Hell, I don’t even believe myself. “Want to get some lunch after you finish testing? You’re going to need some protein in your stomach after all of this.”
“Yeah, there’s no way I’ll survive the rest of the day otherwise.”
The short walk to Jake’s Cakes doesn’t take very long since both the Landing and Jake’s truck border the harbor, but the line to get to the truck is obnoxious.
Good for Jake, inconvenient for us.
That’s until Jake spots us as he delivers two plates to Mr. and Mrs. Burnett—he hand delivers to locals so he can catch up—and holds up two fingers to the both of us. “The usual?” he calls out. We nod at him and go take a seat.
It’s one of the pluses of knowing everyone in town: we help each other out when the streets are crowded with tourists.
Rogan and I make our way to a recently vacated picnic table and stake our claim, lucky we found a spot close to the water. Hell, lucky we found a spot at all.
The yellow-striped umbrella casts a nice amount of shade over us, the sun directly above, shining brightly through a light haze of clouds. The humidity is high today, along with the temperature, making the whip of the wind off the water necessary.
My back toward the truck, I lean my forearms on the pink shellacked picnic table and let out a long breath. I haven’t had a day off in a while, and I’m starting to feel it.
“You look like hell,” Rogan says, pushing up the sleeves of his dress shirt. I have no idea how he’s not sweating through his business attire right now.
“I feel li
ke shit.” I drag a hand over my face. I’ve been pulling long shifts at the Landing and then working on call at night for the fire department. It’s been a little much lately, and it’s showing. Not to mention the fact that when I do get a chance to catch some sleep, my mind immediately starts drifting off toward a brunette that I can’t seem to get out of my head.
“You should have Reid pick up some more hours.”
“Or you can come in, you know.”
Rogan shakes his head. “You know I’m an irritable fuck working there. I’ll scare away more people than actually make sales.” It’s true; Rogan has always been the exception when it comes to working at the Landing. He was dealt a shit hand in life—not that I haven’t been—and instead of moving on, he’s dwelling on the past every day, and sooner or later it’s going to catch up to him. Until then, as a family, we tiptoe around him, never wanting to set him off, especially since he’s the moodiest out of all of us. An irritable bastard most of the time.
“I’ll get Brig to come in a few hours.”
“Or you can get Reid to come in some more,” Rogan repeats. I start shaking my head, but Rogan holds up his hand. “Dude, you have to stop coddling him. He needs to do more work.”
I hate this fucking conversation, especially when it comes up with Rogan, who owns a good portion of the town and built himself from the ground up. He pushes me harder and harder on the subject, zero empathy in his voice.
“He’s lost, Rogan.”
“Yeah, well, we’ve all had our hardships, and you don’t see us doing nothing with our lives.”
“He’ll figure it out.” I chew on the inside of my cheek, hoping I’m right.
A year ago, Reid had to move back to town because the restaurant he started in Boston with a few college friends didn’t pan out. Their CEO squandered all the money, leaving Reid with nothing and no choice but to return to Port Snow to work at the Lobster Landing.
It was a tough pill for him to swallow, especially when he’d spent his entire savings on starting the restaurant.
We don’t talk about it.
Ever.
“And about Ren . . .”
“Can we please not.” I drag both my hands down my face.
“Don’t let what happened in the past dictate the way you react to someone in the present.” Apparently my plea for sanity flies in one ear and right out the other. “You already suffered your loss.”
“Rogan, stop,” I grit out.
“And what about those unread letters from Kathy you keep stuffing in your kitchen junk drawer?”
My head snaps up. “How the hell do you know about those?”
Rogan coolly fidgets with the wristband of his watch. “I saw them the other day when I was at your house. Why haven’t you opened them?”
“Why would I?”
“Because they’re from your dead wife’s mom, and she’s taking the time to stay in touch.”
I shake my head. “I don’t want to talk to her, not when . . .” I bite my lip. “Not when I’m the reason her daughter died.”
“Griffin, you know that’s not true.”
“Isn’t it, though?” I hiss. “You were there; you experienced the mind trip we went through in New Orleans. Tell me Claire’s passing has nothing to do with that.”
He doesn’t say anything. Only the slight tic of his jaw tells me he’s thinking about what to say next.
Finally, he says, “I don’t know what to believe, man. But what I do know is that you’ve suffered a loss, and it’s time to move on. Ren is the perfect girl to start something up with.”
“No.” And I mean that. At least, that’s what my head is saying; my heart might be vying for another option.
Something behind me catches Rogan’s attention; a sly grin spreads across his face. “Would you look at that,” he mutters under his breath and then lifts his hand to beckon someone behind me. “Hey, join us.”
Before I can turn my head, I hear her voice. “Are you sure? I don’t want to intrude.”
You have got to be fucking kidding me.
“You’re not intruding at all.” Rogan nods at me. “You can have a seat next to Griffin. Go on—move over, Griff.” There’s a spark in Rogan’s eyes that makes me want to reach across the table and punch him square in the eye.
Her perfume hits me first, and then a little playful nudge of her shoulder. “Hey, haven’t seen you around in a bit.”
Because I was avoiding you . . . because I can’t get you out of my head.
Because I’m stupidly desperate to find out what your lips taste like on mine.
I turn to see Ren holding a platter of original Jake Cakes, a small order of waffle fries, and a giant soda—it makes me smile, knowing she took my advice on lunch, but that smile quickly fades when I see the mint-green sundress she’s wearing. The straps are thin and delicate, hanging over her shoulders, the V in the front showing off way more than I would have expected from an algebra teacher, and her skin looks like it’s been kissed by the sun over the last few days.
With her hair pulled back into a high ponytail, a light coat of mascara on those long eyelashes, and a gloss on her lips, she looks gorgeous, and with Rogan staring me down, watching my every move, I know he can tell just how affected I am in her presence.
“Uh, yeah, been busy with work.” I cough and turn away, catching the smirk on Rogan’s face right before Jake walks up to us, a tray in hand.
“Hey, boys, it’s about time you stopped by.” He sets down a plate of cakes in front of me along with waffle fries and a drink and then gives Rogan a salad.
A fucking salad. It’s his usual, which Jake only makes for a few choice people.
Jake grips the empty tray to his chest as he spots Ren beside me and holds out his hand. “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Jake.”
Ren takes his hand, and I watch carefully as Jake’s eyes stay trained on Ren’s. That’s right, buddy—keep your focus on her face and nothing else.
“Hi, I’m Ren. I’m the new algebra teacher. It’s really nice to meet you.”
Still holding her hand, Jake smiles. “Oh yeah, Brig was telling me all about the hot algebra teacher.” Ren blushes immediately. “Didn’t Griffin come to your rescue?”
“Not something we need to talk about right now,” I cut in, not wanting Ren to live through that moment again. That’s old news by now.
Jake looks between the two of us, the young, fun-loving guy slowly curving his lips up. “Oh shit, are you two dating?”
“What?” My eyebrows shoot up to my hairline, and I scramble to stop any sort of gossip before it begins. “No, just friends. Neighbors. Acquaintances.”
From across the table, Rogan gives me a sarcastic thumbs-up.
“Oh, sorry about that, man.” Jake turns back to Ren, who has kept her eyes fixated on her plate in front of her. Shit, I hope I didn’t hurt her feelings. “If you’re not dating Griffin, maybe—”
“The restoration committee,” I shout before Jake can say what I think he was going to say. My outburst startles Ren; she jumps in her seat. I smile at her and then turn back to Jake, who has the same knowing smirk on his face as Rogan. I’ve known Jake for a long time; he’s really good friends with Brig, and he’s almost like a fourth brother to me. The ribbing I’ll get later is going to be bad, very bad. “Uh, I think we’re going to focus on your section this coming weekend. Make sure it’s ready for the upcoming Lobster Fest. Make sure you have paint.”
Jake slowly nods. “That’s not a problem. Anything else you need from me?”
I shake my head. “I think that’s about it. Thank you.”
“And I should expect you . . .”
“Five in the morning. Ruth is bringing the coffee; I’ll have the scones.”
“Sounds good. See you then.” Jake turns his attention back to Ren. “It was nice to meet you. If you need someone to show you around town, let me know.” With a wink, he takes off back to his truck, leaving me irritated.
“Goodness, y
ou startled me.” Ren playfully swats my shoulder. “Why did you have to scream like that?”
“Did I scream? I think it was more like talking loudly. Wouldn’t you agree, Rogan?”
He pops a bite of lettuce in his mouth. “Sounded like screaming to me.”
Who the fuck’s side is he on?
I hastily change the subject. “How are the crab cakes? Good, right?”
Ren nods, mouth full. She chews and swallows before answering. “These are so freaking good. You were right the other night; these are perfect.”
“The other night?” Rogan gently pries.
Oblivious of Rogan’s needling intentions, Ren nods happily. “Uh-huh. Griffin brought over some of Oliver’s famous ice cream to my house, you know, the secret stuff only locals know about, and I asked him all about his favorite places to eat. It’s why I’m here. I wanted to see what the big deal was all about. Glad I came, because these crab cakes are the best I’ve ever had.”
My head is down, eyes focused on the food in front of me, but all I can feel is Rogan’s stare, his questioning gaze beckoning me to look up.
“You brought her ice cream? You know the rules about my properties, dude. No ice cream.”
“What? Really? Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry, Rogan, I mean Mr. Knightly. I didn’t mean—”
“He’s fucking with you, Ren,” I say before she has a panic attack. “And for the love of God, do not call him Mr. Knightly. We don’t need his head any bigger than it is.”
“I don’t know.” Rogan takes a sip of his water. “Mr. Knightly sounds really good on the ears, especially since I’m her landlord.”
I level with him. “Don’t be a dick.” I catch Ren’s worried gaze. “Call him Rogan, and eat whatever the hell you want in the house. There are no rules.”
“Do you know that for sure? Have you read the fine print?” Rogan pushes, a spark igniting under his ass I haven’t seen in a while. My guess is it’s from seeing his older brother squirm. I’m usually levelheaded and unfazed, but around Ren I turn into a hot fucking mess.
“Oh, I read the fine print,” Ren says, a forkful of crabmeat ready to be consumed. “It said Rogan Knightly is a jackass.”
That Second Chance Page 12