That Secret Crush (Getting Lucky #3)(52)

“So why don’t you just take it?”

This is where it gets awkward for me. I turn my glass, my hands refusing to stay still. “It’s either both of us or neither of us.”

“Wow,” Eric says, looking to the side. “That’s pretty ballsy of your dad.”

Chuckling, I nod. “Tell me about it. But I agree with him. It’s taken me a bit to come to the realization, but I was good because you were always there, pushing me to be my best.”

“Bullshit.” He pops a chip in his mouth. “You’re a good chef—”

“Was a good chef. Was is the key word there. I don’t cook anymore.”

“What do you mean, you don’t cook anymore?” Even through the tense air between us, there’s definite concern in Eric’s eyes. “Cooking was your life. Are you telling me you gave all that up?”

“Yup.” I lean back in the booth and drum my fingers against the table. “I snag lobsters now and pick up shifts at the Landing. I don’t even cook myself meals anymore. Ever since we lost the restaurant, I haven’t been able to do much more than make ends meet.”

“Shit.” Perplexed, Eric unbuttons the top of his chef coat. “How come you didn’t say anything to me?”

“Uh, in case you haven’t noticed, our relationship hasn’t exactly been great. When I got back from New Orleans, and we realized we lost the restaurant, too much shit went down between us. I wasn’t about to dump all my woes out on you, especially since you’d just lost your dad a few months earlier.”

“But you’re my best friend. Even with everything that happened, you could have turned to me.”

I shake my head. “No. Too fucking ashamed. Still am. The only reason I’m here is because I felt a tiny bit of excitement at the idea of starting over again.” I drag my hand over my face, hating that I have to admit all of this, but I might as well—what do I have to lose? “I’ve been lost, man. I’ve felt like the loser brother, the one that can’t seem to accomplish anything, and I hate that. I hate that I’ve let myself get to this point.” As the confession leaves me, the meaning behind it builds with each second.

The loser Knightly.

The one who failed.

The brother who couldn’t amount to anything.

“Yeah, I’m not quite where I want to be either. A line cook at a three-star restaurant who lives with three other guys in a two-bedroom apartment . . . that doesn’t scream wild success either. But this gig pays the bills, and after everything we lost, I can’t be a risk-taker anymore.” He glances up at me, his meaning clear in his hazel eyes.

“I get it.” He doesn’t have to say it out loud; the writing is on the wall: starting another restaurant is too big of a risk—and one I don’t think he’s ready or willing to take.

“It’s nothing personal.” He says that, but it feels incredibly personal. “I’m barely surviving as it is, and I can’t afford to not have a job, to lose everything again.”

“Who’s to say we would?”

“We couldn’t get it together the first time,” he says. “What makes you think we can get it together this time?”

His words sting, but they also ring true. What was I thinking, coming here?

“Forget I even asked.” I know that it’s over, that our dream isn’t going to happen.

“I’m glad you did,” he says, looking just as dejected as I’m sure I do. “But hey, you need to get behind the burners again, man.”

I shake my head. “Nah, I’m good. Fishing makes a living, especially during tourist season.” I check my watch. “You should get going. I’ve taken up too much of your time.”

“Okay, yeah.” The plate of nachos hardly touched, we both stand, and Eric holds out his hand. I give it a good shake as he says, “Don’t be afraid to reach out again.”

“It goes both ways.” I give him a sad smile.

After we say our goodbyes, I go out to the truck and text Brig, letting him know I’m ready to get the hell out of here. I should have known this was going to be a waste of my time. Yeah, it may have been nice to see Eric again, but there’s still so much shit between us. Too much shit. And even though he said he didn’t want to take the risk, I think that what he really meant was that he didn’t want to take the risk with me.



I pull into the harbor, the salty sea air doing nothing for my goddamn mood. We got back to Port Snow last night, but instead of calling Eve to see if she wanted to hang, I went straight to bed and woke up early this morning to hit the waves. I made a good catch, but the solitude I normally crave has only put me in a worse mood.

I know why—it doesn’t take a psychologist to break it down. There was a glimmer of hope at the end of this monotonous tunnel I’ve been trudging through ever since we lost the restaurant. And with one sentence, Eric squashed it all.

He didn’t want to take the risk . . . with me. That simple, sickening truth circles through my head.

Brig did a number on me in the truck, trying to get me to tell him what happened, what was said, but I kept silent until he gave up, leaving me to focus on the road. But it didn’t stop him from texting the whole family—including Dad—that I was in a shit mood, so they probably all know what happened.