“I take no responsibility for Braxton’s bad behavior. You know that’s Brig and Reid’s doing.”

“But he likes you best.”

“Can’t blame the guy for having good taste.” I wink at Jen just in time to see her roll her eyes.

“Dad got the new fudge catalog in.”

Oh Christ.

It’s the worst piece of mail that could ever arrive at my parents’ house. It’s like Christmas Day for my dad but pure horror for the rest of us.

A bound booklet of seasonal fudge recipes from the supplier, full of colorful graphics, it sweeps our dad, the consummate dreamer of confectionary creations, right off his feet.

Highlighters are uncapped.

Notes are taken.

Endless fudge fantasies are created.

And the family is put to work not only making the fudge but eating it.

Oh, woe is me, right? Poor Griffin has to eat fudge. Well, when you’ve been eating it for about thirty years, there’s a limit to how much fudge you can actually digest.

I’ve reached my limit, and so has Jen.

Brig and Reid still have a few more years under their belts.

And Rogan . . . well, the guy is a health nut and refuses to put any sort of sugary substance in his body. He hasn’t eaten a bite of fudge since 2007.

“Mom couldn’t hide it before he got the mail?”

Jen shakes her head, arranging flavor after flavor of our famous fudge on the marble counter, ready for taste testing and purchasing. “She knows better than to hide that thing again. Last time, when he found it in the trash, he didn’t let up for days about how she was stifling his creative flow. And he said he wanted to try out a few new recipes before the big Fall Lobster Fest.”

Sounds about right.

The Fall Lobster Fest is one of Port Snow’s largest attractions. It kicks off the season of pumpkin-spice lattes and apple-cider doughnuts, and every year, my dad goes all out, catering toward fall flavors, coming up with the theme for our booth, and creating an atmosphere of elegance and sophistication, showing off our wide variety of goods and the popularity of the Lobster Landing. It’s a huge deal, something I’ve always helped with but never headed up, something my dad still holds on to, unable to truly trust anyone to take it over.

Moving on to the small bakery case beside the fudge, I wheel over the rolling baking racks that have fresh-from-the-oven baked goods our in-house baker, Craig, creates at three in the morning . . . every day.

Scones.

Cinnamon buns.

Cider doughnuts.

And all the turnovers your little heart desires.

It’s one of my favorite parts of setting up the shop, the smell of fresh baked goods. Not to mention the specialty pies in the back just waiting to be boxed up and paid for.

“So what’s the damage?” I ask, placing the scones on a white display platter with tongs. “How many new recipes are we going to have to try?”

“Mom said only five.”

“Only five? But we have thirty flavors already.”

Jen gives me a pointed look, not even halfway through unloading all of the fudge. “You think I don’t know that? Mom said Dad was going to put some flavors in the fudge graveyard.”

Ahh, the fudge graveyard, where old flavors go to rest. We only bring the dead flavors back out for special occasions. “Good.”

“Yeah. Mom put the kibosh on adding any new flavors when we hit the thirty mark.”

“That’s why we love her.”

The bell that hangs over the front door chimes as Brig struts in, a breakfast sandwich in hand. The bell was installed when my parents first opened for business over thirty-five years ago, but now it’s only heard during the early hours of the morning, when it’s just my siblings and me—the store is usually too packed and noisy at any other time.

“Morning,” Brig calls out, wearing the same lobster-emblazoned shirt as Jen and me, though his is a little more form fitting. “Thought I’d stop by to see if you guys need any help?” Casually, he makes his way around the shop, inspecting every detail. Running his finger along the clear glass bakery coolers, taking in the unique lobster shirts hanging on clothing racks, and even trying on our famous lobster-shaped oven mitts.

Jen and I both do a double take, our mouths hanging slack with shock.

Brig never comes in just to see if we need help, and never this early. He’s usually sleeping in at this hour, or at the garage, restoring old Mustangs, which he’s somehow turned into his full-time job.

Taking the lead, I ask the question on the tips of both our tongues. “Why are you really here?”

Shock and then insult pass through his eyes, and he clutches his chest as if I just wounded him. Spinning onto one of the red leather-upholstered stools that offer a small seating area near the coffee and tea, Brig gasps. “Can’t a darling brother come in on a Monday to see how his siblings are faring and to offer an extra hand during this busy tourist season?”

Jen and I exchange glances. “No,” we say at the same time.

Dramatically, Brig rolls his eyes, stacks his feet on the stool next to him, and stuffs the last bite of his sandwich in his mouth. “Saw a travel group last night over at the Lighthouse Restaurant,” he says through his full mouth. “A bunch of girls getting their master’s and taking a break from a tough summer buried in their books. I happened to overhear they were coming to the Landing for scones this morning. Wanted to help with the rush.”

Yeah, “the rush.” I’m sure that’s the last thing on my lovestruck brother’s mind. Of all the Knightly brothers, Brig is the hopeless romantic. He’s relentless and thinks he’s going to find love in some off-chance way when he’s least expecting it.

And yet he’s still single, still looking for “the girl” and driving us crazy while he searches.

“You’re such a liar.” Jen finishes up with the fudge; its arrangement is rainbow inspired today, the colors all flowing together, beautiful and appealing.

For how old the shop is, it really has its charm, partly because of the displays my mom so carefully designed and partly because my parents have restored every historical piece of architecture in the joint while keeping everything up to code. Wood-beamed ceilings, bay windows at the front, original hardwood floors, and white shiplap bordering the walls, giving the entire space a light, coastal feel.

Brig smiles like a fool. “Hey, I can’t help if I think I saw my soul mate last night. Red hair, big brown eyes, freckles for days . . . she was stunning, just sitting there, looking like a goddamn fiery angel.”

“Why do you keep going after tourists?” Jen asks.

“Because you never know when you can turn a tourist into a lifer.” Brig wiggles his eyebrows like an idiot before growing serious. “And no one local will even give me the time of day.”

Rolling her eyes dramatically, Jen eyes me from where she’s making coffee. “And what about you, Griff? Any tourists who’ve caught your eye lately?” Brig’s comment doesn’t escape me; I know full well what he’s talking about, why not one single local girl will even consider going on a date with him, but Jen refuses to acknowledge our “beliefs.”

Keeping my head down, I make a noncommittal sound and focus on showcasing the pastries. Raspberry scones, blueberry scones with lemon icing, and apple-cinnamon-chip scones. Just keep focusing on the scones.

“Griffin, I’m talking to you.”

“And I’m ignoring you,” I answer honestly, not wanting to get into another one of her “you have to get back out there” conversations.

“It’s been two years.”

I’m well aware of how long it’s been, believe me. Every day I wake up to an empty bed, a wifeless home. No pink slippers flopping around the house; no You’re Foxy mug being sipped from in the morning and at night; no sweet, addictive laughter bouncing off the walls of my home during a late-night Scrabble match.

Instead I face empty silence, growing lonelier and lonelier with each passing day.

“I know,” I mumble, the dull ache in my chest, which I live with on a constant basis, growing.

“Why won’t you at least let me set you up with Jessica, the head of the PTA? She’s been very vocal about her interest in you. She’s asked me multiple times to set up a blind date—and you know how unusual that is in this town. Besides, you would like her, Griff. She has two kids, both darlings, nothing like my demonic spawn, and she’s really good at yoga, which means she’s flexible.”

I shake my head. “Not interested.”

“Griffin, I hate seeing you so alone. It hurts my heart.”

Taking a deep breath, I plaster on a fake smile. “I’m not alone; I have you fools.” I clear my throat and put an end to the conversation. “Now, come on, we still have some work to do before we open.”

Jen doesn’t move right away; instead, I can feel her gaze stuck on me. “I talked to Kathy the other day, you know.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, taking a deep breath, not wanting to get into this with Jen again, not wanting to hear the lecture that follows after, the one where Jen tells me that even though my wife died, her mom didn’t, and I should still talk to her.

“Jen,” I warn.