That Second Chance Read online

  ALSO BY MEGHAN QUINN

  The Secret to Dating Your Best Friend’s Sister

  Diary of a Bad Boy

  The Dating by Numbers Series

  Three Blind Dates

  Two Wedding Crashers

  One Baby Daddy

  Back in the Game (Novella)

  The Blue Line Duet

  The Upside of Falling

  The Downside of Love

  The Perfect Duet

  The Left Side of Perfect

  The Right Side of Forever

  The Binghamton Boys Series

  Co-Wrecker

  My Best Friend’s Ex

  Twisted Twosome

  The Other Brother

  Standalones

  Dear Life

  The Virgin Romance Novelist Chronicles

  Newly Exposed

  The Mother Road

  Box Set Series

  The Bourbon Series

  Love and Sports Series

  Hot-Lanta Series

  All of Meghan Quinn’s books can be read in Kindle Unlimited.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2019 by Meghan Quinn

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Montlake Romance, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Montlake Romance are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781542092845

  ISBN-10: 1542092841

  Cover design by Letitia Hasser

  Photography by Rob Lang Images

  To my parents and their little gift shop, Under the Nose, in Upstate New York. Your dedication to your community and love for fudge creations truly inspired me to create my own little fictional world around your incredibly ambitious dream. I love you both.

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PROLOGUE

  GRIFFIN

  “Arooooo woooo!” Brig howls, brandishing a Hand Grenade—New Orleans’s famous green tube drink. “Twenty-one. I am twenty”—he pauses and bends at the waist, bowing to my brothers and me—“one.” Breaking into the Running Man, my youngest brother shuffles along the grimy cobblestones, drunk off his ass, just like the rest of us.

  “He’s twenty-one—buy this man a drink,” Reid, my second-youngest brother, shouts to no one in particular.

  “Buy us all drinks.” Brig twirls in the middle of the narrow, deserted street, arms spread, face cast up to the dark sky. Neon signs advertising big boobs and beer illuminate the area around us, encouraging nothing but high-level debauchery on this densely humid summer night.

  When we told our parents we were going to New Orleans to celebrate Brig, the last Knightly brother to turn twenty-one, they had their reservations. And now that I see Brig and Reid spinning in circles together while the usually uptight and silent Rogan takes video of them, I’m thinking they might have had a point.

  Being the oldest brother, I was tasked with keeping everyone in line, but right about now, I’m seeing double, and all I can focus on is finding a giant soft pretzel with extra salt.

  Corralling my brothers like a sheepdog, I say, “Let’s get pretzels.”

  “But we weren’t done dancing. We were just finding our groove,” Brig complains.

  “We need food. We haven’t eaten since the casino, and that was hours ago.”

  Reid pats his stomach. “Best chicken fingers I’ve ever had, and that honey-mustard sauce, ooooeeee, that was good. What I wouldn’t give for a tub of that as a souvenir.”

  “Mom really enjoyed hearing about all the money you lost on roulette,” Rogan says, squinting past the hair that has fallen over his face as he taps away on his phone. As he’s one of the taller brothers, it’s funny seeing him hunched over, typing on his phone . . . talking to Mom. “Said she owes you a wallop to the head when we get home.”

  “Dude,” Reid complains. “What the hell, man? Why are you reporting things back to Mom?”

  He shrugs, which throws his balance askew and sends him off the sidewalk. He catches himself before falling to the ground and chuckles, a sound I haven’t heard from Rogan in a long time. “She slipped me one hundred bucks to give her all the details about this weekend.”

  “What?” I ask, insulted. I attempt walking in a straight line next to Reid but fail miserably thanks to the uneven cobblestones. “She didn’t give me any money for making sure everyone came back alive.”

  “That’s because you’re already the oldest brother. It’s in the job description,” Rogan says, walking past me in his tight, form-fitting clothes, still texting. Of the four of us, he’s the only one with any sort of fashion sense. I tend to stick with regular jeans and a T-shirt. It’s how I’m most comfortable.

  “It’s true,” Brig cuts in, strolling—or more accurately, stumbling—ahead of me. “Being the oldest means you’re our designated voice of reason.”

  “What about Jen? Technically, she’s the oldest,” I answer, speaking of our older and only sister, who was too busy taking her kids to their nonstop activities to come on this trip. Though honestly, I think she wanted to stay as far away from this weekend as possible. I don’t blame her. We’ve been hell on wheels since we arrived. “Shouldn’t she hold any kind of responsibilities?”

  All three of my brothers exchange looks and then shake their heads, laughing. Brig and Reid link their arms through Rogan’s, and the three waltz off like they’re skipping their way down a yellow brick road rather than a derelict, alcohol-encrusted street. I traipse slowly behind them, really focusing on each step I take.

  Do not trip. Do not trip.

  One step at a—

  My phone buzzes in my pocket, breaking my focus. With one faulty step, I fall to the side and stumble against a parked car as I reach for my phone in my pocket. Chuckling, I accept the call, my eyes too unfocused to even make out the name flashing across the screen.

  “Hello, this is Griffin Knightly,” I answer. “I’m drunk and am prone to saying stupid things. How may I help you?”

  There’s a soft chuckle at the other end, and my heart starts to race immediately.

  Claire.

  “Hey, you.”

  “Wifeeeeeey!” I stop pursuing my brothers and lean back against the car. Honda Civics: very comfortable for drunk leaning.

  My brothers’ obnoxiously loud laughter fades as my wife’s voice comes through the phone.

  Soft and sweet, just like her skin.

  “Mmm, you sound like you’re having a good time.”

>   I lean my head against the roof, not caring about who its owner might be. “I am. We had Huge Ass Beers—that’s what they call them—and then made our way through some Grenades, and I also had some white frozen drink at the casino that tickled my fancy.”

  She chuckles. “Oh, you’re really drunk. I can always tell because you start adding a little bit of a British accent in your voice.”

  “Is that so? Cheerio, mate, and good day to you.” I dip my head as a greeting even though she can’t see me.

  “Oh, I miss you. Have you started calling people wankers yet?”

  “No.” I sigh, the liquid mixing around in my stomach. Oh boy. “Not yet, but I can feel it coming on.”

  “Are you going to remember to get on your flight home tomorrow?”

  “Yeah, no problem. We’ve got this.” I yawn and shut my eyes briefly, the ground spinning beneath me. “The white drink was really good.”

  “And how were the cocktail waitresses at the casino?”

  “Not as pretty as you on a Saturday night with that old-lady turtleneck thing you like to wear.”

  She laughs some more. “Good answer. I’ll let you go—I just wanted to make sure you’re still alive.”

  “Yup, totally alive, and so are my brothers. Brig, though . . . not sure how much longer he’s going to last. He’s starting to really belt those Disney songs.”

  “I can only imagine what he must sound like.”

  “Not good, babe, not good.”

  “Okay, well, maybe you guys call it a night soon. You don’t want to get into any trouble. New Orleans can be a shifty place if you’re not paying attention.”

  “Don’t worry, babe; we got this under control. I love you.”

  “I love you too, Griffin. Be careful.”

  “Always.” I hang up the phone and put it back in my pocket before staggering after my brothers, who didn’t get very far.

  While unsteadily jogging after them, I trip over a protruding cobblestone and accidentally hurtle myself onto Rogan’s back. He stumbles beneath my weight and tips into Reid, and just like a domino, he slams into Brig, who falls to the ground with a giant crack . . . of wood?

  And sure enough, Brig is sprawled out on a rickety pile of broken wood. My foggy brain strains to comprehend the picture.

  “Oh fuck, my back.” Brig rolls off the wood and clutches himself in pain. “What is that? There are splinters everywhere. I can feel them.”

  “Dude, you broke a table,” Reid points out while I bend down in a clumsy attempt to check Brig’s vitals.

  “Shit, did I?” He sits up, and a giant smile stretches across his face as he swats me away, his sandy-brown hair tousled from his fall, those blue eyes we all share wild with excitement. “Alcohol has given me Hulklike superpowers. Look at that thing—I smashed it to smithereens.”

  We all take in what’s left of the table, and I have to admit he really did a number on it.

  “That’s not from Hulklike superpowers,” Reid points out. “That’s straight up from your fat ass eating twelve beignets this morning.”

  “Excuse me.” A thin voice breaks up our banter, and we turn to see an elderly woman step out from a shadowy alleyway. She’s draped in velvet robes, and her face is twisted in anger. “That was my table you smashed.” Her hands are covered with henna tattoos and shake slightly as she points to what’s left of the table.

  Once again, we take in the damage, really trying to give it a good once-over, our alcohol-soaked brains attempting to comprehend what we just did. “Oh shit, that was your table?” Brig asks. “Was it important to you?”

  “It was where I conducted my work.”

  I feel a stab of guilt at her words. “Yeah, it’s where she conducts her work, dumbass.” Reid falls to the ground and tries to put the table back together but fails miserably. “Uh”—he glances over his shoulder, two table legs in his hand—“what do you do exactly?”

  “I’m a palm reader.”

  I groan inwardly as my guilt quickly dissipates. A palm reader? More like a professional con artist. I mean, how could they possibly be legitimate? Oh, look at that line; it means you will live a long, happy life. And this line right here—you’re going to be married. Oh, and right here, this says you’re going to have a pool.

  Talk about the most evasive “storytelling” you’ll ever witness.

  “Really?” Brig looks a little too excited, still sitting in the gutter, covered in New Orleans’s finest sewer water. “Will you read my palm? I feel bad I broke your little table, and I want to make it up to you.” Pulling a twenty from his wallet, he waves it in the air as if to say, Come and get it.

  “Dude, she’s not going to tell you anything you don’t already know. You’re a nitwit who can’t see past his own damn feet,” Rogan interjects with an eye roll, voicing what no one else will say.

  With a smack to his stomach and a sharp eye, I step in front of him so he can’t make the situation any more awkward than it is.

  The palm reader eyes the bill quizzically and then snatches it from Brig’s fingertips and sits next to him on the street. I stifle a sigh as Reid, Rogan, and I step closer, our broad shoulders forming a brotherly barricade. A part of me wants to stop this, to pick Brig off the scum-laden streets of New Orleans and drag him to the pretzel joint, but with how invested he looks, I know he’s going to be unmovable.

  Brig holds up his hand. “Take a picture, Rogan, and send it to Mom. Tell her she’s about to find out if I’m going to give her any grandkids.”

  Rogan rolls his eyes and takes a picture while the palm reader gently takes Brig’s hand in hers. Eyes closed, head tilted to the sky as if looking for answers, her fingers dance across Brig’s skin.

  “Oh, that tickles,” he whispers.

  Silently we stare at her, watching her lightly sway with the wind breezing through the narrow streets of the French Quarter.

  She takes a deep breath in through her mouth, eyes still shut, fingers now pressing deeply into Brig’s palm.

  “I see . . . brothers.”

  Oh, for Christ’s sake. Right there, see what I was talking about? Professional con artists, stating the absolute obvious.

  “I have three of them,” Brig says, getting into it.

  “Hell, I’m not drunk enough to watch this,” Rogan comments with a long groan and irritated stance. The palm reader flashes an eerie glare in his direction, sharp and calculating, before returning to Brig’s hand.

  “They’re protective, with big hearts.”

  “You betcha!”

  I roll my eyes. How long is this going to take?

  “They’re going to get you into trouble one day.”

  Brig turns his attention on all of us. “You motherfuckers. I knew you would double-cross me eventually.”

  The palm reader spouts off a few more generic things, Brig interjecting with his commentary the whole time, though I block the rest of the reading out. From what I can tell, it’s all bullshit. The lady is clearly just trying to make a few bucks off of drunk tourists.

  When she opens her eyes, they settle on the three of us watching over our little brother. “Who’s next?”

  Like the moron he is, Reid holds his hand out excitedly. “Please, for the love of all bare boobs on Mardi Gras, tell me I’m going to run my own restaurant again someday. I really need a break here, lady. Give Daddy the good news.” He bounces on his feet, pumping himself up for what I can only imagine is going to be one massive fabrication from this professional liar.

  Rogan scoffs, the most outspoken among us, and presses his hand against Reid’s chest, backing him away from the palm reader. “You’re kidding, right? You didn’t tell Brig anything we didn’t already know. Why would we want to pay you another twenty dollars to hear about how we’re . . . I don’t know . . . wearing shoes, when we could be spending that money on soft pretzels with extra salt?”

  Can’t agree with him more. “Yeah, we’re not interested. I’m sorry my brother smashed your table, though.
I’ll keep a better eye on him.” I nod my head toward the lit-up street behind us. “Come on, dude, let’s go get a pretzel.”

  “What I speak is the truth,” the palm reader insists, standing up and squaring her shoulders.

  “Yeah, we know, because you said the obvious. He has brothers who are going to get him into trouble.” I roll my eyes again. “Pretty sure our three-year-old nephew could have predicted that.”

  “Yeah. Sorry, lady.” Rogan helps Brig to his feet. “You’re a hoax.”

  “Here.” I reach into my pocket, wanting to solve the problem quickly and get the hell away from this lady. “Here’s forty more dollars for a new table. I’m sorry Brig’s beignet butt smashed it.”

  Looking irritated, the lady comes closer. “What I do is not a hoax. It’s sent to me straight from the cosmic forces above.”

  A strangely chilly gust of wind whips by us as we all take a moment to glance around, silently communicating about the batshit crazy woman in front of us. And almost in unison, we throw our drunk heads back and guffaw.

  Midchuckle, Rogan holds on to Brig for support and gasps, “Cosmic forces! Shit, that’s good.” He wipes at his eye.

  She shoots a venomous glare in our direction, spending at least five seconds apiece on each of us, never wavering her stare, only letting it grow more and more intense. We fall silent, our laughter blowing away with the wind.

  Sheesh, she’s fucking scary.

  “You’ll regret this,” she sneers.

  Okay, this is getting to be a little too intense. Time to get out of here. But Reid seems to have other plans, his anger taking over. Classic Reid. I can see it in his shaking shoulders, in his clenched jaw: the anger he harbors for other reasons has surfaced and is about to come out.

  “Oh surrrre.” His voice drips with sarcasm. Typical Reid. Placing my hand on his stiff chest to calm him down, I start to guide him away.

  But not quickly enough . . .

  Another gust of wind blows past us, this one stronger than the other, pushing me back a step as street trash whips around us. When I turn to the lady again, she’s standing with her arms spread, head tilted toward the dark sky. Her velvet robes blow angrily in the strengthening wind.

  With bone-chilling conviction, her words pour forth: