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 like 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.”