That Second Chance (Getting Lucky #1)(38)

As much as this is annoying and time consuming, I have to admit it does make my dad happy.

He lifts the napkins resting atop each block of fudge, revealing the flavors one by one.

“Pumpkin-spice latte. Apple-cider doughnut. Orange cranberry walnut. Apple pie in the sky. And the latest addition to the regular crowd, cotton candy.”

My brothers and I cringe at the last one. Cotton candy can’t be good. Cotton candy–flavored anything can’t be good; it never tastes right and ruins the memory of what cotton candy really tastes like.

But I will admit the color and swirl of pink and blue my dad made are pretty impressive. Like a marble countertop made for unicorns . . .

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.