That Secret Crush Read online

  “Fuck!” I shout and kick a garbage can across the kitchen. “Fuck! I told you not to date her. I told you it was a bad idea.”

  Gaining a little clarity, Eric sits tall and jabs at his chest with the hand that’s holding his bottle. “Are you blaming this on me?”

  “She worked you, man. She used you and took what she wanted—that was her plan all along. I never should have let you hire her.”

  “I never would have had to hire her if you didn’t drop the fucking ball on all the business shit. Don’t blame me, Reid. When we went into this partnership, you said you could handle the business end while I took over the big picture planning. I did my part. You were the one who fucking failed on his end. I stepped in and tried to find the solution.”

  “With a pair of tits,” I shoot back. “You hired her because of her tits, not her qualifications.”

  “Fuck you.” He slides off the prep table, the slap of his sneakered feet reverberating through the kitchen. “We never would have been in this situation if you didn’t fuck us over to begin with. Don’t blame this shit on me, not when you’re just as much at fault. Face it, Reid, we might be good in the kitchen, but when it comes to running a business . . . we both just destroyed our careers.”

  I don’t want to admit that he’s right, and I don’t want to take blame for this, even though a heavy weight is pressing down on my chest, reminding me over and over that this very well might be my fault.

  I should have asked for help.

  I should have interviewed Janelle.

  I shouldn’t have been so lazy when it came to decisions.

  But . . .

  “I trusted you,” I say, hands on my hips, staring at Eric. “I trusted you to make the right decision for the business, and you thought with your dick instead of your head.”

  He tosses the bottle to the side, the glass shattering as it hits the floor. “Yeah, well, I trusted you to hold up your end of the bargain, and you didn’t, so looks like we’re both shitheads.” He shakes his head and starts to walk toward the back door. “Good luck with your life, Reid. Just don’t ever try to run a business again. Anything you do is guaranteed to crash and burn, just like Bar 79.”

  CHAPTER ONE

  REID

  Three years later

  Muscles screaming, back aching, I haul the lobster cage over the edge of the boat and fall backward on my ass from the weight.

  Christ.

  Catching my breath, I wipe the sweat off my brow with the collar of my flannel shirt. I shucked my puffy vest an hour ago, despite the chilly February air.

  Six lobster traps, all full of plump brown crustaceans eager to pinch my cock off. I see it in their eyes, in the way they snap at me with their meaty claws.

  Too bad, fuckers, you’re not getting out.

  Leaning back on my hands, I take in the rising sun as it lights up the sky, bathing it in a beautiful shade of orange.

  Peace.

  On the water, floating in my rickety boat, smelling like a corpse—this is the only place where I can find any peace. Away from my invasive family, far from the never-ending gossip in town, and a good distance from the life I fucking despise.

  Once a top chef, now a poor fisherman who has to work for his parents to make ends meet.

  Put that on my dating profile.

  Ladies will be swiping right in the blink of an eye.

  Lives on a houseboat, smells like crabs—but doesn’t have crabs, win—interfering brothers, and exceptionally nosy older sister. Used to cook but now eats soup from a can, willing to split the check with you but not willing to pay in full—sorry, but there’s only dust in these pockets—rocket of a cock, great fingers, and will eat you for nourishment.

  I’m a real fucking catch.

  Not that I’m looking for love. No, that boat sailed three years ago after an unfortunate incident in New Orleans.

  But on the plus side, at least my dick didn’t turn green. Perfectly peach, at least that’s what Brig likes to tell women. What a fucking douche canoe.

  I stare down at my haul, each lobster with a dollar sign hanging over its antenna, a little cha-ching sounding off in my head with every little bulgy-eyed bastard I count.

  “You know, I used to look at you fellas differently,” I say, forgetting myself as I speak to the lobsters trying to claw their way out of their boxes. “Instead of seeing you as a cash crop, I used to enjoy thinking of all the ways I could break you down and serve you.” I stare at one lobster in particular—he’s got a bit of feistiness in his eyes. “I used to make one hell of a lobster bisque with your aunts and uncles. The people in Port Snow say the Lighthouse Restaurant makes the best lobster bisque in town, and yeah, that shit is good, but then again, they’ve never tried mine.” He snaps his claw at me. “I get it, fella, it’s barbaric of me to talk about your death, but hey, money is money, and even though you look like a kind crustacean, you’re still getting the pot. Daddy needs funds, and that’s where you come in.”

  I stand from where I’ve been sitting on the deck, thankful for my yellow slicker pants—or else my ass would be soaking wet. I secure the traps, get behind the wheel, and roar the engine. Time to head home. I have fudge duty today.

  Fucking shoot me.

  What makes working at the Lobster Landing a nightmare is not just the nosy locals or the needy tourists but the perpetually lecturing father of mine.

  Every time he sees me, his eyes light up, and he makes a beeline to where I’m working.

  “Reid, how’s it going? Have a good catch this morning? Have you thought about my offer to work with Willy Kneader up in Pottsmouth? Have you picked up your knives lately? Did you see that recipe I emailed you?”

  And the worst question of them all . . .

  “Have you thought about your future lately?”

  No.

  No, I haven’t.

  Thanks for reminding me almost every day how pathetic I feel, though.

  Yeah, I know, I sound like a martyr, and in all honesty, I know my dad has good intentions—he only wants the best for me—but the best thing for me right now is to be left alone. Let me figure things out on my own.

  The ride back to the harbor is not nearly as thrilling as when I’m driving out toward the sea, nothing but waves in front of me, and as I get closer and closer to Port Snow, the same sense of dread that hits me every morning fills me.

  I’m the laughingstock of the town—the fuckup, the failure, the boy who had to come crying back to his mommy and daddy because he was a dumb-ass and trusted a complete stranger with his business.

  My family has told me more times than I can even remember that the town doesn’t see me that way, but who the fuck are they kidding? Damien Turtle came back to Port Snow after his wife was found in bed with his best friend. The locals gossiped about Turtle’s turtle and its supposed insufficiencies nonstop for months! Can you even believe that?

  Poor fucking guy.

  I can only imagine what they’re saying about me.

  I take a deep breath. At least it’s not a green dick.

  Thank God for small miracles.

  I spend the next hour lugging the lobsters out of my boat and into my truck, then hauling them up to the Lighthouse Inn. I drive around back and am just stepping down from the truck when Eve, the restaurant manager and Eric’s twin sister, strides out of the employee entrance to meet me.

  “Jesus, Knightly.” She wrinkles her nose and comes to an abrupt halt. “Did you take a shower in the past month?”

  I scratch the side of my jaw, my unruly scruff grating against my nails. “Splashed some water on my face last week. Are you saying I smell good?” I take a step toward her.

  She quickly retreats and plugs her nose. “I’m saying you smell like death,” she says, her voice coming out nasally.

  “So, that means you want to give me a hug, right?” I hold out my arms, and before she can move even farther away, I snag her and hold her tight against my chest and wet slicker pants.


  She squirms against me, but she’s no match for this honed physique. “Oh my God, I’m going to throw up.”

  Chuckling, I let her go, and she bends over to the side, gasping for air. I lift my arm and take a whiff. I’m not that bad—just a little sea life on these bones, that’s all.

  “You know I don’t have all day, Roberts. As much fun as it is staring at your ass bent over like that, I need to get paid, and I need to get to the Lobster Landing in thirty.” I hold out my hand. “Pay up.”

  “Please tell me you’re going to take a shower before you go to cut up fudge.”

  “No, I plan on horrifying tourists with my putrid stench,” I deadpan.

  “So you admit you smell putrid.” She digs into her pocket. “At least we can agree upon that.”

  “Hey, there are other things we agree upon.”

  She holds out a few bills, which I snatch, fold up, and stick into my flannel shirt pocket.

  “Yeah, and what would that be?”

  I nod at her shirt. “How great your tits look in that maroon collared shirt.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Never going to happen, Knightly.”

  I hold up my hands in defense. “Slow down there, Eve. You act like I want to fuck you or something. That’s far too presumptuous. You’re my best friend’s twin after all, so that would be like fucking Eric with a wig on.”

  “We’re fraternal.”

  “You sound the same.”

  “He’s a man.”

  “Yeah, it’s really unfortunate that you have such a baritone voice coming out of such a hot body.”

  She swats at me. “Get out of here. I’m done with you.” She calls through the back door, “Joe, lobsters are here,” and then turns back to me, a smile on her face. “I told you to get out of here, Knightly.”

  I take a few steps backward. “You want me—you know you do.”

  “It’s disgusting how confident you are.”

  “Confidence is sexy in a man.”

  “Confidence is annoying in you,” Eve says as Joe pops out the back door and gives me a nod before taking in the lobster. “I’ll catch you later, Knightly.”

  “See ya, Eve.”

  I hop back into my truck and make the drive down to the harbor to my houseboat, which I rent from Rogan. The small two-story boat caught my attention when he was first remodeling it. With its perfect location out in the harbor, it’s as far away from the town gossip as I can get. Rogan was going to use it as another tourist rental property, but I convinced him to let me rent it from him, though the fucker doesn’t give me a cut on rent. Well, a little cut, but not as much as I was hoping.

  With not much time to spare, I take a quick shower and put on my signature white shirt with the Lobster Landing logo plastered on the front. I throw on a matching baseball cap and worn jeans before heading out the door.

  The walk to my family business is short but just long enough to give me some unfortunate time to think.

  I claim Eric as my best friend, but in all honesty, I can’t remember the last time I spoke with him. He’s still living in Boston, where he found a job as a line cook at a three-star restaurant, and he’s still trying to chase the dream—one I gave up on a long time ago, probably the moment I walked back into town with my tail tucked between my legs. After we lost the restaurant, we had a falling-out, a big one. I blamed him for bringing Janelle into the mix. He blamed me for not keeping up on the books in the first place. I blamed him for not helping with managing the finances. He blamed me for not helping out with promotions. We pointed fingers, we swung fists, and we planted a giant stake into our friendship, dividing us and sending us our separate ways.

  I occasionally send him a text about some stupid local gossip, and he sends me GIFs on my birthday. It’s nothing like it used to be, and I don’t think it ever will be.

  Eric and I used to be attached at the hip, but Eve and I have a better friendship at this point.

  But that’s life. You lose friendships; you gain some.

  I lost a big one, and I only have myself to blame.

  CHAPTER TWO

  EVE

  “Are you doing anything special tomorrow?” Harper, my best friend, asks, bringing her drink up to her lips.

  Victoria, our good friend from grade school, rubs a napkin over the bar before resting her arms on its peeling top. The polish has worn off over the years, and instead of sanding down the bar and refinishing it, the owner has decided to let the bar top “show its character.” The Lighthouse Inn is one of many places to rest while you’re visiting Port Snow. The food is subpar, and the accommodations could use some work, but the scenery is epic and why it’s a sought-after tourist destination.

  “I was just about to ask that,” Victoria says, stirring a lemon in her water. Uppity and very particular about everything in her life, Victoria runs the town library and the historical league, is a published historian, and owns way too many dresses from the 1850s. But she has a kind heart, and we love her for that.

  “Just the usual.” I shrug, mindlessly wiping down the bar top with a wet rag, not really cleaning anything in particular but giving myself something to do on the slow night.

  I hate this bar. I hate wiping it down every night, serving the same old locals and helping tiresome tourists when they ask for sightseeing information. This wasn’t exactly how I envisioned my life turning out: me serving up outdated cosmopolitans and bottom-shelf vodka cranberries. But when you sacrifice your dream for someone else, this is what happens. Good thing I was never taught to wallow in self-pity, though. No, I’ve been proactive with my life choices, and I always strive for more. I can taste it, my freedom, and it’s come from nothing more than sheer hard work and determination. Seven years of juggling my time, seven years of long days and even longer nights spent studying, but graduation is around the corner, and I have plans to use my degree.

  Exciting plans.

  “Do you want company? Rogan and I can come with you.” After years of being separated from her high school sweetheart and enduring one of the most tragic breakups I’ve ever witnessed, Harper finally got back together with her longtime love, Rogan Knightly, a few months ago. And they are sickeningly cute together.

  I’m not jealous of their love. Not even a little.

  Okay, maybe a tiny bit.

  But my happiness for her definitely wins out. Even though Harper is two years older than me, she took me under her wing when we were young. We bonded over the insufferable Knightly brothers and were always running into each other over at the Knightly house. We spent many nights hanging out in the living room while the boys were forced to clean the kitchen after a big meal, talking about everything and anything that came to mind and solidifying our bond for life.

  I shake my head. “No, that’s okay. I’ll just be a sobbing mess anyway.”

  “You shouldn’t have to go alone.”

  Yeah, I agree—Eric should be there with me, but when I asked him if he was coming home this weekend, he said he couldn’t get the time off. I want to believe him—I truly do—and most of me does. But a small part of me believes that if he asked, if he actually spoke to his manager about the importance of this weekend, he would be here.

  But like always, Eric just pushed the hard stuff under the rug and walked by without a second glance. Despite being twins, we sure do have different ways of dealing with the unfortunate and devastating moments in our lives. While I take situations head-on, Eric hides.

  It’s why he and Reid barely speak anymore.

  It’s why he avoids my phone calls and texts.

  And it’s why he hasn’t been home since Dad passed.

  Losing Dad and then, only a few months later, losing the restaurant put a pretty big rift between the two of us. Yeah, we still talk and support each other, but I can tell Eric can’t bear to see me face to face, not after the promise he broke, the promise that was supposed to set our future . . . my future. Unfortunately the night they closed Bar 79 was the night I lost my confident bro
ther forever, and I know him well enough to understand that seeing me just reminds him of everything he’s lost.

  “It’s really okay. I’m good. But thank you.”

  Victoria frowns. “Well, I think Rylee was planning on having the girls over tomorrow night. If you need a drink or three, you should come join us.”

  Rylee is the local romance author; she met a guy at a wedding she was crashing for research and ended up marrying him. Beck Wilder . . . sigh, the rebel from out of town. Superhot with a heart of gold. They have triplets, and every month, Beck takes them over to her parents’, which lets them host a blessedly kid-free get-together with friends.

  “Who’s going to be there?”

  “Ren, Harper, Zoey, Rylee, of course, and myself.” Victoria brings her hand to her chest. “And I think Jen Knightly.”

  “Ruth isn’t going?” I ask, thinking of the local coffee shop owner, who’s become a key member of our growing group.

  “I think she has a date,” Harper says with a smirk.

  “Oh yeah? With who?”

  “She wouldn’t say, but I’m pretty sure it’s a guy she met online. She’s been messaging back and forth with him for a bit. She’s pretty excited.”

  “Good for her,” I say. “She’s been hung up on Brig Knightly for a while, so I’m glad she’s finally venturing out.”

  “Poor thing has no idea everyone in town knows. Well, everyone but Brig. And I agree; she needs to move on. Sure, Brig’s going to be my brother-in-law soon, but he’s a blind idiot when it comes to love.”

  “Which is so strange, don’t you think?” Victoria asks, taking a small sip of her drink, fingers poised on the straw, one pinkie sticking up in the air. “That man is living out his very own romantic comedy, and yet he can’t figure out how to find love and hold on to it.”

  “Don’t you get it, Victoria?” I lean across the bar and glance around the room to make sure no one’s listening. “It’s the curse.”

  “Oh good gracious,” she huffs with an accompanying eye roll. “The Knightly curse, can’t ever forget about that.”