That Second Chance (Getting Lucky #1)(18)

Rogan flips open his folder with one finger and pulls out a pen just as Ruth brings him a cup of coffee. He looks up at her with a sincere smile. “Thanks, Ruthie. Put it on the tab?”

“Always.”

When she walks away, Rogan turns back to me. “Griff likes to leave out details and keep to himself. Heard he had to extract you from your car using the jaws of life.”

With a lift of his brow and a pointed look, he studies my reaction as I roll my eyes.

“Not you too. Being Griffin’s brother, I would have expected you to not buy in to the town gossip.”

“I don’t; I’m just testing out your rage level. I’m sure you’ve heard multiple stories by now. You handled that well. Glad to know you won’t be going on a rampage in the Alabaster Haven while you’re staying there.”

“Oh, you’re going to have to push me a lot harder than that if you want me to go on a rampage.”

“Yeah?” He plays with his pen, twirling it between his fingers. “What’s your hot button?”

“Is this part of the landlord interview? You know I’ve already moved in, right? I put my clothes away in the dresser drawers.”

“I’m not opposed to eviction.” His dry sense of humor and delivery throw me off. The only way I can tell he’s joking is from the small crinkles at the corners of his eyes.

“Playing hardball, I see. Okay.” I take a sip of my coffee and then set it on the table, cradling it with both of my hands as I stare back at Rogan, taking in the strong, classic features, so similar to Griffin’s. Their parents must have incredibly attractive genes. “Hot button? Well, I’d have to say it would be something like destroying my sweets stash.”

“Sweets stash?”

I nod. “I love sweets. Any kind—I need them in my life. I always have a stash in my house for emergency purposes, and if someone touches it, we’re done. Horns grow from my head, and I start spitting fireballs.”

“Fireballs, huh? Not just fire?”

“Nope, straight-up balls.” I point at him. “Remember that if you don’t want your house burned to the ground.”

“Noted.” He starts pulling out paperwork and shuffling through it. While Griffin, I imagine, would have laughed with me or at least chuckled, Rogan is a little more straitlaced, business type. “Do you have a stash yet?”

“Huh?”

He peers up. “A sweets stash. Have you established one yet?”

“Oh, no, not yet. The whole car-between-trees incident set me back yesterday.”

The corner of his lip barely tilts up as he looks back down at the papers. “Well, I suggest you head on over to the Lobster Landing. They’ll be able to set you up with some sweets for your secret stash.” He hands me a business card. “On the back of that is a twenty percent off coupon. Go wild.”

“Wow, thank you. I appreciate it.”

“Now let’s get down to business.”



Lease papers, a coupon for some yummy treats, and a brisk conversation later, I’m headed to take a look at the damage to my car. It’s at the town’s auto shop, which, according to my phone’s navigation, is just a short walk down Main. It seems like I won’t even need a car that much; everything is within walking distance, or at least the bare essentials are.

Now that it’s past ten and all the shops are open on this bright and humid Tuesday morning, the tourists are filling up the sidewalks, excitement beaming from their faces as they talk about the Lobster Landing and catching a boat tour. I’m even more enamored with my new little town as I watch visitors take pictures in front of the beautiful stone library, the rows of pastel buildings lining the harbor, and the kitschy tourist photo opportunities like the giant rocking chair and the lobster bench in front of the Lobster Landing.

I make a mental note to take my own pictures at some point.

I turn down Lighthouse Way, which I know—thanks to some well-written Yelp reviews—leads to the town’s lighthouse and attached restaurant known famously for its lobster bisque. I’ll be trying that as soon as I can, as well as eating my fair share of lobster.

To the right, I immediately spot the auto shop, a large white building with the name BRIG’S GARAGE spray-painted on the side in the same pastel colors seen throughout town. For crying out loud, does everything here have to be so cute?

Two large garage doors are open to the public, displaying a very pristine-looking interior with white walls and chrome tool benches, and that’s when I spot my car, raised up on a platform, looking pathetic with its caved-in sides and broken window. Oh boy. It looks worse than I remember.

“Can I help you?” A man wiping his hands on a red cloth steps up next to me, his forearms covered in dirt and oil. I glance up, and my jaw drops.

What in the hell?

Same blue eyes.

Same brown hair.

Same built body.

But instead of a clean-shaven face and smile lines around his eyes, he has thick stubble caressing his jaw and a tattoo peeking past the neckline of his shirt, and his hair is styled thickly on top of his head, messy in the best way.

“Uh . . .” I can feel myself scanning his younger face, the same face I’ve been staring at for what seems like the whole day. “Are you by any chance related to Griffin Knightly?”