That Second Chance (Getting Lucky #1)(5)

There’s no way . . .





CHAPTER ONE





GRIFFIN


Two years later . . .

Beep, beep, beep.

“Ughhhhhh,” I groan into my pillow. The blaring sound of my alarm went off just as my dream was getting good. Why does it always seem to go off when I’m about to win an unspecified major award? I’ve always won something, but I never get to find out what kind of prize it is. Who knows? It could be the leg lamp from A Christmas Story.

But hell if I’ll ever find out.

Pressing the stop button on my phone, I roll onto my back, my eyes adjusting to the morning summer light drifting through the sheer white curtains hanging in my bedroom.

Like every morning, I glance to my right and take in the untouched pillow, the empty nightstand, the opposite side of the bed forever cold.

Even though it’s been two years, the pain is still there.

The guilt.

The weight of what-ifs playing over and over in my head.

What if she hadn’t had such a strenuous job?

What if I missed a sign?

What if I had been there?

What if I’d never gone to New Orleans?

I shake the negative thoughts out of my head, not wanting to start my day in another emotionally distraught stupor.

I swing my feet to the side of the bed and press the palm of my hand to my eye, wiping away any leftover sleep. Taking a deep breath, I hop out of bed, my feet landing on the newly refurbished hardwood floors of my little Cape Cod–style house. Padding across the floor, the summer heat not yet suffocating the top floor in the early-morning hours, I make my way to my bathroom, flip on the shower, take a leak, and then glance at myself in the mirror.

Old.

Yup, I look fucking old.

I lean forward and inspect myself, letting the shower heat up.

I’m thirty, but I don’t feel thirty.

My bones ache.

My ankles crack with every step I take.

My back is two bunker gears away from giving out on me.

And those wrinkles near my eyes. Fuck, they’re bad. Deep and angry, aging me at least ten years.

My throat pulses, making me let out a few rasping coughs straight from my semiblackened lungs. Two days ago we put out a fire in an abandoned warehouse along the harbor, and I’m still feeling the effects.

Usually my voice recovers quickly after I put out a fire, but this time, it seems like the smoke settled in my throat. Grainy and weathered, that’s how I sound.

Sighing, I step into the shower, letting the water cascade through my short brown hair and down my back, but only for a few seconds—I don’t grant myself much time to get ready in the morning, since I prefer to sleep.

I’m in and out in five minutes, drying off and then putting on my usual summer uniform of jeans and a crew neck shirt with a giant lobster on the front. In bold lettering, it reads, The Lobster Landing—my family’s gift shop.

The gift shop and bakery is famous, not just in Port Snow but throughout Maine. My parents have built their little fudge shop into a confectionary and artisanal haven, patronized by locals and tourists alike. It’s a must-see attraction on Maine’s tourism website—number three, to be exact.

And not only is it our family business, but it’s mine to run now; well, at least unofficially it’s mine to run. Someday it will solely be mine. My parents still handle the books, but day-to-day operations come down to me. Which is why I’m up early every day—sometimes after a long night of firefighting—heading into the shop to make sure everything is ready for a fresh batch of tourists.

Taming my short strands, I run a quick towel through my hair, throw a little pomade in my hand, do a quick style, and brush my teeth, and I’m out the door.

The morning haze lifts off the soaked grass from light showers the night before, the sun barely peeking up past the crest of the ocean as Port Snow natives mill about, preparing their shops and restaurants for the day’s traffic.

The walk to the shop is short and brisk, the familiar sounds of the waves crashing into the rocky harbor like a joyful prelude to what the day will bring. My spirits can’t help but lift as I approach the Landing. It’s the only white building on the block, covered in white shake shingles with vibrant red trim, showcasing a distinct teal door. Quaint flower boxes full of blossoming red and green hues spill from its windows, and I’m reminded of just how far we’ve come, the kind of legacy my parents built for future generations of Knightlys.

Jen, my older sister, is there to greet me when I reach the front door. She’s sitting on the kitschy lobster-shaped bench in front of the shop, legs crossed, coffee mug in hand—she doesn’t believe in to-go cups—and one of her fingers twirling her long brown hair, which is held tight in a ponytail.

“Good morning.” She stands when I reach her.

“You could have opened, you know.”

She takes a sip of her steaming coffee. “I know, but I didn’t feel like it. Zach’s in charge of the kids this morning, so I wanted to enjoy some silence. It’s his turn to deal with the twins from hell and their demonic brother.”

Unlocking the front door, I let my sister in first, a smile on my face. “Braxton is demonic now?”

Jen goes straight to the fudge counter, where she starts unwrapping all thirty of our unique flavors, including key lime pie, maple walnut, and candy explosion—to name a few—while I head to the back office. “I swear to God, it’s like living with you fools all over again. Even though he’s only five, he already has the Knightly-brother blood running through his veins. And let me tell you this”—she pauses and points at me—“the minute that boy starts sticking my underwear in the freezer like you four cretins used to, he’s moving in with you.”