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.