That Second Chance Page 13

  Rogan’s eyes widen right before the smirk on his face grows. I snort and turn back to my food, liking that Ren feels comfortable enough to stand up for herself against Rogan.

  “I think you just took one hundred dollars off your rent,” Rogan says before taking another bite of his salad.

  “Is that all it takes? Insult you and get money off rent?” She chuckles. “If I would have known that, I would have started insulting you the minute I signed the lease.”

  “It’s a onetime insulting discount. Don’t get carried away.”

  “Noted.” She nudges my elbow. “So the restoration committee is coming together this weekend?”

  “Yeah,” Rogan cuts in. “You should come help out. You get free scones and coffee, plus you could meet some new people, other than this guy.” Rogan jabs his thumb toward me. “It might help knowing someone other than a Knightly. Jake is cool; he’ll be there.”

  I grind my teeth together, seeing what my brother is doing.

  “He seemed very nice. And you’re fixing up the picnic tables this time?”

  I move my jaw back and forth before answering, trying to ease the tension building up right below my ear. “Yeah. We’ll be hosing everything down, touching up paint, weeding, basic crap like that just to make it more presentable. Jake will be washing his truck.”

  “Oh, cool, and you need help?”

  “They can always use an extra hand,” Rogan says, butting in once again.

  “Then count me in.”

  After Rogan leaves to meet with a contractor, I move to sit across from Ren rather than by her side. She tilts her head to the side, sipping from her soda, studying me across the table as I munch on my waffle fries. I always get a large order—I’ll work it off somehow.

  “You know, it’s oddly unsettling how much you and your brothers look alike, Reid especially. Those are some strong genes your parents have.”

  “Reid is like a mini-me, always has been.”

  “Yeah, and Brig has that whole bad-boy vibe.”

  I snort. “He’s the complete opposite. Don’t let the tattoos and black pants deter you. The guy is a total softy and a romantic. Always wants to be in a relationship.”

  “Is he right now?”

  I shake my head. “Can’t seem to hold anyone down.” I don’t mention why; the reason is too unbelievable to say aloud.

  “That’s a shame. He seems like a nice guy. What about your other brothers? Are they taken?”

  I lift a brow in her direction. “Why, fishing for a date?”

  Her cheeks turn an adorable shade of crimson. “No, just . . . curious, I guess.”

  “All single.” I pop another fry in my mouth.

  “That’s really hard to believe. You seem like a bunch of guys everyone would be after.”

  I bite my tongue, wanting to tell her to just wait until she starts talking to some of the single girls in town. In person we might seem like a catch, but everyone knows what lurks in our past. Not even the desperate and divorced want to come near us with a ten-foot pole. I may welcome the solitude, but it’s been hard on my brothers.

  I rack my brain for an easier response. “We’ve all known each other so long it would be like dating your brother.”

  Kind of the truth, maybe . . . or they’re all so scared of the “curse” that no woman will even look at us in a romantic—or just plain sexual—way.

  “Oh, I never thought about it like that.”

  She sips on her drink some more. I take the opportunity to change the subject. “Do you miss California?”

  She shakes her head. “Not even a little. I mean, I miss my parents, but not California. It was so smoggy in LA, and packed full of people. I know there are tons of tourists here, but the friendly locals and the atmosphere balance it out. Plus it will die down a little with the season change, right?”

  “Yeah, with school starting soon, the vacation season will slow down. We’ll still get a steady flow of people coming in and out, but nothing like you see now.”

  “That’s good to know.” She pauses. “I’m a little nervous about classes starting up soon. I’ve had a few meetings with the principal and school board, but nothing too serious. I saw my classroom yesterday, and I’ve starting thinking of ways I can make it my own, but I’m more interested in the kids. Are these small-town children going to be brats?” She chuckles but also looks serious.

  “Nah, they’re pretty good, and do you know why?”

  “Why?” She smiles over her straw.

  “Because everyone is in everyone’s business in this town, so if little Johnny Parker acts out during algebra, you can bet your ass that his parents are going to find out about it, and he’s going to get in trouble.”

  “Ahh, that makes complete sense.”

  “Last year, I saw Scottie Hines, the ninth-grade English teacher, run into Freddy Thompson’s parents in the produce section of the general store. Apparently, Freddy was messing around in class, not paying attention, and talking during a lecture. Well, Scottie told Freddy’s parents while he was picking out a bundle of apples, and holy shit, did they lose it. Not only is it bad for the kid, but it’s also embarrassing to the parents. All the elders were talking about the Thompsons’ bad kid. Gossip spreads like wildfire here, which you already know. The next day, Freddy went up and down Main Street after school washing all the street windows and apologizing to any local he saw for embarrassing his parents.”

  “Oh my God, are you serious?”

  I slowly nod. “Yup. So keep that in your back pocket if any of the kids try to give you a hard time. You have a power over them greater than anything: town shaming.”

  She chuckles, covering her mouth and shaking her head. I like when she smiles, when she laughs, when she has pure joy on her face. It’s beautiful to watch.

  “Town shaming? Man, I bet every parent wishes they had that tool at their disposal.”

  “Well, in Port Snow they do. You know when they say it takes a village to raise a child? It’s so true in this town.”

  “Which is why you barely ever got away with things when you were a kid.”

  “Exactly.” I pop the last waffle fry in my mouth and brush off my fingers with a napkin. I glance at my watch and cringe. “I should get back to work; the second wave of customers is going to be hitting soon.”

  “Yeah, I should probably get going too. I wanted to go check out the library, get a card, and find some books to read. I ordered a few Adirondack chairs I’m going to attempt to put together tonight so I have something to sit on in the backyard. Kind of want to soak up all the ocean air I can before it gets too cold.”

  Does she need help putting together the chairs? I can’t imagine it being an easy task all by yourself. But I’m not going to ask if she needs help. That would mean spending too much time with her when I know I shouldn’t. Hell, I shouldn’t have even had lunch with her to begin with, so helping her with Adirondack chairs is not going to happen. Nope. I will keep my mouth shut and move on with my day.

  “Well, good luck with the chairs,” I say, wincing internally. “Enjoy the rest of your day.”

  And then I take off toward the Lobster Landing, feeling like a complete tool.

  Okay, it’s pretty clear at this point there was no way in hell I could get through another three hours of my shift at the Landing and then mosey on over to my house without even thinking about looking over at Ren’s, wondering if she needed help. I’m not a monster.

  But I didn’t have to show up at her doorstep with pizza and cider in hand either.

  The door opens, and Ren is wearing short red cotton shorts and a black tank top, her hair a mess on the top of her head. Sweat is glistening off her body, and there is a tired look in her eyes.

  Crap, she must be struggling.

  “Oh, you’re an angel.”

  Before I can say a word, she’s taking my arm and pulling me into the house, straight to the back porch, where there are four big boxes piled around and multiple wood pieces sca
ttered across the concrete.

  “Please tell me you came to help me build these things. That’s why you’re here, right? To save me once again?” She’s holding her palms together in a prayerlike pose, shifting from side to side, desperation in her eyes.

  “Nah, just came to drop off some pizza. I’m going to head out and hang with my brothers.”

  “Oh.” She stands up straight. “Really? That’s fun.”

  I roll my eyes and hand her the pizza. Thankful I changed into shorts, I squat to the ground and start picking up pieces. “Of course I came to help. I could hear your struggle from my house.”

  Relief washes over her as she whispers, “Thank God,” and sets the pizza down. “I’ll go get us plates.”

  “Don’t bother. We can eat a slice at a time. I hope you like cider.”

  She lifts the six-pack up and examines it. “I’ll pretty much drink anything at this point to help me forget the last hour of my life I wasted trying to figure out these chairs.”

  “Don’t worry. I can help, but I’m not doing it on my own.” I stare her down.

  “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

  We spend the next few minutes sorting out all the wood pieces, along with the nuts and bolts that correspond with each piece. I don’t know what she was trying to do beforehand, but whatever it was made the whole process exponentially more confusing.

  “I’ve never put furniture together before. My dad always did it for me.”

  “You don’t say,” I tease. Playfully she nudges me with her foot. “It was quite ambitious of you, though, to try to put four chairs together all by yourself with zero experience. I’m impressed.”

  “How much more impressed would you have been if you came over here with pizza and cider only to find me lounging in said chairs, already built?”

  “I would have asked you to head up the restoration committee.”

  “Oh, no you don’t, Griffin Knightly. Don’t you dare pawn off your leadership roles on me.”

  I chuckle. “Well, clearly I can’t.” I motion to all the pieces scattered everywhere.

  “Hey, I had good intentions. Is it my fault I couldn’t find the directions at first? Who tapes them to the inside of the box anyway?”

  “I feel like a lot of companies do.”

  “It’s stupid. What if I threw out the box without even knowing? I would be that person searching on the internet, hoping and praying there is some kind of building manual online.”

  “Nothing wrong with that.”

  She pops open a cider and hands it to me. I pause my work to take it, happy with the sorting I did. “Thank you.”

  “No, thank you,” she says sincerely. “For some reason, I feel like that moose knew what it was doing by jumping in front of me on that country road. He gave me a friend in a new town.”

  Friend. For some reason that title doesn’t leave me all too thrilled, and I kind of regret even using the term with her out loud. Is it strange to want more? To desire more when I know deep down inside that no matter what I want, I’ll never get it?

  “You’re lucky I was the one who rescued you that day.”

  “Yeah?” She opens the pizza box and brings a gooey slice to her mouth. “Why’s that?”

  I avert my eyes from her luscious lips. “If Tracker was on call, he would be at your doorstep every day.”

  “Well, aren’t you?” she asks with a smile. When I give her a look, she chuckles to herself. “Who’s Tracker?”

  “The town man whore. He’s a damn good firefighter, but he’s been known to make his way through hordes of unsuspecting tourists.”

  “Oh, really?” She wiggles her eyebrows at me and leans forward. “You know, for someone who doesn’t like town gossip, you sure do partake in it a lot.”

  I shrug. “It’s in my blood. I can’t help it.”

  “That’s understandable. Now, tell me more about this Tracker. Does he lure girls in with his firefighter stories and then take them back to his bunk in the firehouse?”

  I cock my head to the side. “Why does that sound like a bad porn?”

  She pauses midchew, thinking. “You know, it really does sound like a bad porn.” She leans forward even more. “But that’s what he does, right?”

  “You’re scary accurate. He hangs out at the Har-Bahr, picks up women with war stories from the fire department, and then takes them back to his house, which is right next to the firehouse.”

  “Classic move. Good for him.” She eyes me over her pizza slice. “Do you ever borrow any moves from Tracker’s book?”

  “To pick up women?” I shake my head. “Yeah, no. Don’t really have any interest in that stuff.”

  “Oh,” and then, “Ohhhh, I’m sorry, I had no idea.”

  “No idea what?”

  “That you’re gay. I totally stereotyped you as a macho-man firefighter who dated all the ladies. That was wrong of me. I’m sorry.”

  “What? I’m not gay, Ren.”

  “Oh.” Her face turns a shade of red I’ve never seen before. She takes a giant bite of her pizza and dodges my gaze, chewing frantically. Once she swallows, she says, “I’m so embarrassed right now.”

  “You should be embarrassed.”

  Her eyes shoot up to mine, where they find a huge smile on my face. The embarrassment quickly washes away and is replaced with disbelief and humor. Eyes wide, her expression one of pure revenge, she chucks her napkin at me. “You ass!”

  I swat her napkin away and laugh. “The look on your face was great.”

  Now she’s pointing her finger, a threatening bounce in her fingertip. “Oh, you better watch your back, Knightly. I have no qualms about payback. I’m vicious.”

  “Vicious? Is that right?”

  “Oh yeah, relentless, actually. You could be screaming for mercy, and I’d still get revenge.”

  The way her eyes light up with excitement, her features coming alive—it does something to me, something I haven’t felt in a while. It’s as if for the first time in two years, my body is waking up from a deep slumber, lighting up inside.

  She’s playful.

  She’s fun.

  She’s beautiful.

  She’s everything I would look for in a woman . . .

  And everything I should stay away from.

  But I can’t seem to stay away. Every day I wake up wondering if I’ll run into her, if I should bring her some fudge on my way home to restock her secret stash of sweets. When I’m at Snow Roast, I’m constantly looking around, wondering if she’s there. At the Lobster Landing, I’m gazing at every face in the crowd, hoping she’ll pay me a visit.

  And when I do see her, butterflies take flight in my stomach, excitement consuming me. It’s the type of feeling I never could have anticipated when I was pulling her from her car, and yet here I am, on a Tuesday night, bringing her pizza and building her furniture.

  “You aren’t acting very scared.”

  I lean back on one hand, pizza in the other. “Not to be a dick, but you’re what, five foot three? There is not much to be scared of.”

  “Hey!” She jabs her finger into her thigh as she speaks to add emphasis to her fury. “Small packages pack a big punch. Don’t underestimate me.”

  I nonchalantly shrug. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

  “You’re playing with fire, Knightly. You should be very scared.”

  Oddly enough, I’m terrified right now as she smiles mischievously at me, but for completely different reasons.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  REN

  Okay, this might have been a bad idea.

  When I said I wanted to help around town and meet new people, I wasn’t expecting to feel like a walking zombie on a Sunday morning.

  The sun isn’t even up, so I flip on my phone light and make my way down the street toward Main. Every light in Griffin’s house is off, and I swear, if this was all one big joke, and I’m the only one hightailing it down the streets of Port Snow to do some town beautification, I’m going t
o be pissed.

  But what a good hazing prank.

  No! I will be pissed.

  A little chilly, I pull the sleeves of my sweater down over my hands and make the turn toward Main, the waves crashing against the rocky coast echoing in the quiet early-morning air.

  It’s so peaceful at this hour, just the sounds of the ocean and the occasional squeaky shop sign swaying in the breeze.

  I make my way down toward the harbor; beyond the rows of beautiful potted plants hanging from the wrought iron streetlights, there’s a high-powered lamp lighting up the picnic tables and a man with a water pressure gun spraying down the area. There is a small group of people gathering to the side, holding on to cups of coffee. I’m relieved to see this wasn’t a hazing moment.

  As I draw closer, I can make out some familiar faces: Brig, Rogan, Jake, Ruth, Rylee, and her husband, Beck. They’re all huddling together while Griffin power washes the concrete. How long has he been out here? It’s 4:55 a.m.; the picnic tables already look dry, and it seems like he’s on the last portion of the concrete.

  Does this man ever sleep?

  He stayed at my house the other night until eleven helping me with my chairs, a project that was much larger than I’d ever expected. I’d really wanted to do it on my own, but once I’d seen all the pieces I had to put together, I’d realized the instruction manual wasn’t lying when it called for two people to do the job. Imagine that.

  We spent the night ribbing each other, joking around, and arguing only a little when it came to putting some pieces together.

  It felt right, like we’ve been friends forever.

  Quickly Griffin has become the guy I’ve started to lean on in this town, the guy I want to see everywhere I go, the guy who always makes me happy when he’s around.

  I just wish there were a little more between us.

  I’m not so naive I don’t notice when he looks at me with that primal male stare, the one that soaks up every inch of my body, the one that speaks of naughty thoughts, but for some reason, nothing ever happens.

  After every interaction, he takes off with a quick wave, departing abruptly without much to say. It’s odd. We have such a good time, and then all of a sudden, it’s like something hits him in the head, and he can’t flee quickly enough.