That Second Chance (Getting Lucky #1)(6)

From the back of the shop, I bring a fresh cash drawer to the old-fashioned register resting at the front of the shop. It’s original to the store and still fully functioning, adding an extra bit of historical charm to the space.

“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.”