“Do you have any thoughts?” Reid asks, picking at his plate.

Leaning back in my chair, I take a sip of my beer and shake my head. “Not a lot of ideas. I’ve done some brainstorming, but I feel like I’m falling short. I didn’t think putting together a theme for our Lobster Fest booth was going to be so hard.”

“What do you mean by a theme?” Ren asks with a cute crinkle in her brow.

I lean toward Ren but speak loudly enough for the group to hear. “Every year, every booth sponsors a group in town to raise funds for. The Lobster Landing gets to sponsor the teachers of Port Snow again this year. Each booth is focused around a fall theme. We’ve done some pretty cool things to entertain visitors, sell our product, and raise money, but this year I’m in charge, and I really want to go all out.” I neglect to say why for a reason: it’s not something I want to get into right now in front of my brothers and Ren.

Trying to understand, Ren says, “So you need to think of something that will raise money for the teachers and something that will be fun and exciting.”

“Exactly.”

The tip of her finger taps her chin as she looks up at the canopy of the maple trees providing a natural ceiling. “Pumpkin carving.”

“We did that two years ago.”

“Ugh, okay. Hmm, how about . . . something with a scarecrow.”

Reid perks up. “We can do a dick-in-a-box-type thing with scarecrows—guess which scarecrow is locked and loaded.”

“Are you fucking insane?” I ask, genuinely concerned for my brother. “You’re eliminated from making any other suggestions.”

“What? Why? That was a great idea.”

Stepping in, Brig says, “Dude, it was disturbing. I’m with Griff on this one.”

“Hey. What happened to younger brothers sticking together?”

Brig’s face says it all. “Not when you say fucked-up shit like that.”

“What about apples?” Ren cuts in. “The classic teacher gift is apples, so maybe you can frame everything around that.”

Shit, that’s a good idea.

A really good idea.

“I like that a lot,” I say, pressing my hand to her arm, my mind starting to whirl with ideas. “We can do apple-cider pairings with treats from the shop. We can do a flight of cider, nonalcoholic, and pair the drinks with fudge, scones, and maybe our cider doughnuts. Charge a flat rate, and half goes to the teachers. For the kids, we can do lobster stamp carvings in the apples, and they can decorate their own bags with them.”

“Like how Mom used to make stamps out of potatoes?” Brig asks. I nod. “Dude, that’s a great idea.”

“We can get ciders from Hollows Eve up north. They have many different flavors we can choose from, like cherry, pear, and raspberry apple ciders. Maybe we can strike up a deal with them to get some donations.” I rub my hands together. “I feel really good about this.”

“And you can decorate with apples, do bushels in baskets, maybe a few fake apple trees climbing up your booth. Could be really cute,” Ren cleverly adds.

“Bobbing for apples,” Reid shouts, one hand in the air. “Bob for a discount on your next Lobster Landing purchase.”

Like the supportive brother he is, Brig leans over and pats Reid on the shoulder. “See, now that’s a good idea.”

Reid smirks. “I was due for one.”

Happy, I stretch my hand out to Ren and squeeze her hand in mine. “Thank you,” I quietly say. “You don’t know how much you just helped me.”

The tips of her lips curve up into a beautiful smile. “I’m glad I could help.”

Cutting in, Reid says, “Now that we’ve figured the theme out, let’s get back to that whole mole thing . . .”

“How long do you think they’re going to keep bringing up the lettuce and the mole?” Ren asks as we sit in front of the fire, s’mores already consumed. Rylee and Beck are in their tent, and Brig and Reid are playing cards at the picnic table, giving the two of us some semiprivate time.

“Most likely they’re going to mention it every time they see you for the next couple of months, but hell, it was worth it.” I chuckle. “Fuck, the looks on their faces were priceless.”

“They’re too easy.”

“They are. Wait until I tell Rogan and Jen; they’re going to wish they were here now.”

“Why aren’t they?” Ren turns a little more in her camping chair, bringing one of her legs up to her chest, bending at the knee.

“Camping isn’t Rogan’s thing. He likes his creature comforts, and sleeping outside in a tent holds no appeal for him. As for Jen, she has three young kids, and if she’s going to spend time away from them, it’s not going to be in a canvas triangle out in the woods. She’s going to spend the money on a nice room at a fancy hotel in Bar Harbor or Ogunquit.”

“Ahh, that makes sense. I think I would probably be the same way, even though I love being outdoors, especially out here. The trees make it feel so private. When we would camp on the beach, it was wonderful falling asleep to the waves, but you always felt exposed, almost naked out in the open.”

“I could see that. The trees provide a sense of protection.”

“Exactly.”

Ren has to be one of the most down-to-earth women I’ve ever met—honest and true to her word. She said she likes camping, and she was right. She showed up prepared and ready for the outdoors, not a drop of makeup on her face or one of her usual dresses in sight.

And if she hadn’t been told she didn’t have to bring camping gear, I’m almost positive she would have brought everything necessary. Just from the conversations we’ve had so far, it’s obvious how much we genuinely have in common, and it’s obvious how my resolve keeps slacking where she’s concerned.

“Do you have a favorite camping story?” I ask. “Or maybe an embarrassing one?”

She chuckles. “Oh, I like how you threw that in there, or an embarrassing one. Let me guess which kind of story you would rather hear . . . hmm.” She taps her chin.

“Hey, if you tell me an embarrassing camping story, then I’ll tell you one of mine.”

“One of them? Meaning there are more than one?”

“I grew up with three brothers. Of course there are multiple embarrassing camping stories.”

She rubs her hands together. “Well, if that’s the case, then I’m ready to spill.” She points her finger at me, a slight tilt to her head. “But you promise you’ll tell yours right after mine? None of this ‘just kidding’ crap, right? A story for a story.”

“Promise.” I give her a curt nod.

Not satisfied with my answer, she holds out her pinkie to me. “Pinkie promise.”

“Are you twelve?”

“It’s the only way to ensure a story for a story. Only heathens break pinkie promises. Are you a heathen, Griffin?”

This girl, I swear.

“No.”

“Then you should have no problem doing a pinkie promise with me, right?”

I hold my pinkie out to her, a grin pulling at my lips. “No problem at all.” We shake, followed by a gleeful clap from Ren.

“Your story better be good, Griffin, because I’m about to deliver some embarrassing stuff. Top-notch blushing kind of tale.”

She’s so goddamn cute.

“I’ll deliver. Now lay it on me.”

She sits up in her camp chair, turns it to face me completely, and then crosses her legs, her little body folding together.

She’s so relaxed and happy; it makes me think that even though I’ve been out of the dating cycle for a while, I’m doing something right.

Not that we’re dating.

A cold chill runs through me, the thought of pursuing something with Ren exciting and scary as fuck.

I want her.

But I don’t want her to get hurt.

I want to know what it’s like to spend a night with her in my arms, and right about now, I don’t think there is any way I can stop myself from staying away.

“Are you ready?” she asks, her eyes fixed on mine.

“Ready.”

“Okay.” She clears her throat, and I get ready for what I can only assume is going to be one amazing story. “I was fourteen, an impressionable age for any girl. I was camping with my family up in Idyllwild, one of my favorite places, but this time, my parents decided to try out a new campsite because it was next to a pond.”

“Seems nice.”

“It was. So nice, and we returned many times after.”

“So whatever happened couldn’t have been that bad.”

“It took me a year before I went back,” she confesses. “A year before I felt like I could revisit those bathrooms.”

The way she says bathrooms with such menace in her voice—I can’t help but chuckle.

“I was young, naive, and ignorant about my actual shower time. I thought I was a two-minute-shower kind of girl, when in reality, I was a ten-minute-shower kind of girl.”

“Oh shit,” I mumble, unable to hide the smile pulling at my lips.

“Midshampoo, the shower cut out, and I didn’t have any more quarters. Head soaped up and body drenched, I reached for my towel . . .”