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.