Peter picks me up right on time in a dark green muscle car. He holds the door open for me, and I settle onto the pristine tan leather. “What kind of car is this?”

He props his arm along the top of the door and leans in, pride beaming on his face. “She’s a 1970 Hemi ’Cuda, one of only 666 made. She’s a rare beauty with a ton of horsepower. Just like her owner,” he adds with a saucy wink before closing me in.

I barely contain my nervous giggle as he walks around to slide behind the wheel. I feel awkward and excited—just like in the early days of our relationship—so my plan is to make idle conversation as a distraction. Though, whether I’m trying to distract him from noticing or myself, I have no idea. “Did you restore it yourself?”

“From the wheels up.” He turns the key, and the engine roars to life like an angry beast on the hunt. A couple of hard revs actually rocks the car in place.

“Whoa,” I say, quickly fastening my seatbelt. I brace my hands on the dash as he pulls away from the curb in a way that would flunk a driving student. “So, what—”

“Why did you quit being a financial advisor to be an event planner?”

The suddenness with which he interrupts my inane chatter breaks my train of thought, and I have to take a moment to switch tracks. “I told you, it was stressful. I don’t work well under pressure.”

Taking his eyes off the road for longer than I’d like, he pins me with a knowing look. “You forget that I know you, Wen. And I know that’s a bunch of sh—crap.”

I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. I’m still not one to cuss, but I’ve grown out of being scandalized whenever I hear others doing it. I haven’t seen him in ten years, but I highly doubt Peter Pan, ruffian mechanic and leader of the Lost Boys, doesn’t swear like a sailor on a daily basis. So the fact that he caught himself to avoid offending me is melting my insides and making me feel things I’m not ready to feel for him again. Not yet.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say primly, “and I’d appreciate it if you’d pay attention to the road instead of me.”

“Fine, I’ll let it go for now.” Though he turns his attention back to the stretch of highway ahead, somehow, I become even more aware of his presence, like the space between us is shrinking with every passing second. “But for the record, whether or not I’m looking at you, I’m always paying attention to you, Wendy.” His voice is low and rough. “It’s impossible not to.”

Oh God. How could I have forgotten about the things he used to say to me? The things that reach deep inside and touch my soul, my heart. Peter was always so guileless. It was one of my favorite qualities about him. It’s like he had an inability to lie to you.

Although, being one hundred percent honest all the time had its downsides too. Don’t ask him if he thinks you look fat in those pants because he might just tell you “yep” and then not understand why you storm off in a huff or burst into tears.

But by that same token, when he expressed how he felt about me, I knew it to be the absolute truth. He wasn’t telling me things I wanted to hear. There was no fear of being manipulated for ulterior motives like other girls worried about with their boyfriends. Peter simply told you what he thought, what he felt. All the time, every time.

So now I have to wonder, is he still like that? Or has he learned that a little deception can go a long way in getting what you want from a girl? What are his intentions with these conditions of us spending so much time together? He could still be hurt about how things ended between us. Maybe he wants revenge, to make me feel things and then break it off in some kind of twisted history-repeating-itself game.

I don’t want to believe he would do anything like that. But the truth is I have no idea. And it’s that uncertainty holding me back, reminding me I can’t just return to Neverland after a whole decade and pick up where Peter and I left off, like nothing ever happened. No matter how much I might want to.

We drive the rest of the way in silence. I wish I could say I paid attention to how we got to the large three-story home in the middle of nowhere, but I was too consumed by my own thoughts. But as he pulls off the road onto a dirt driveway, it’s impossible not to notice.

Dozens of cars are lined up in several rows off to the side like a fairgrounds parking lot. People are everywhere—in the front, on the wide wrap-around porch, and spilling from the back onto the sides of the house—carrying Solo cups or bottled beer, laughing and dancing and even wrestling.

“Welcome to the Lost Boys’ Lair.”

“This is what you meant by Friday festivities?”

“This is it. One big party.”

I try to take everything in as he walks around to open my door, and I climb out of the car. “You do this every week?”

“Why not? You have a better idea on how to spend a Friday night?”

Grabbing my hand, he leads me up the porch steps through a screen door that squeaks as it slams shut behind us. It’s not packed enough to be sardine status, but it’s not exactly empty, either. “Do you know all these people?”

Peter looks around like he’s never considered it before. A few seconds and a half-shrug later, he says, “Most of them. Probably. Maybe.”

“All of Neverland must be here,” I say as a couple of girls wearing very little clothing brush by me.

With a smug grin, he answers, “Likely. Come on, the real fun is out back.”

Peter leads me through the main floor that’s set up like the ultimate man cave. The front room is a gamer’s paradise with a gigantic TV—seriously, those Call of Duty guys are life-size—surround sound, and special chairs that vibrate every time the player’s character gets hit. Spectators are cheering and booing like it’s a modern-day gladiator arena and not a farmhouse living room.

The next area may have been a dining room at one time but is now set up with a full bar, complete with stools, a ton of alcohol, and a swarthy bartender pouring drinks into red plastic cups while flirting shamelessly with the steady stream of women. Peter nudges me closer and catches Carlos’ gaze.

“Hey there, Boss.” He hands Peter a glass stein of beer, then flashes his dimples in my direction. “Glad you could make it, Wendy. Beer?”

“I don’t suppose you have Stella back there, do you?”

Thick, black brows furrow together. “Who?”

“Never mind, I’ll just have a bottle of whatever’s easiest.” His smile returns as he grabs me a Bud Light and twists the top off for me. “Perfect, thank you.”

Peter takes a long pull of his beer then salutes Carlos with his glass. “Thanks, man, see you later.”

“Good luck in the games.”

“Games?” I ask.

“Don’t need luck when you’re the best,” Peter answers with a smirk and starts to tug me away.

“Chief’s here tonight.”

That stops Peter in his tracks, but his amusement only grows. “Really?” Carlos nods. “Good. Winning’s more fun against an equal.”

I don’t have time to ask for clarification as he leads me through the kitchen and out another screen door. Music blares through a set of speakers taller than me, and somehow, I can still hear the din of the crowd. The property is large enough that I can’t see where it ends, and there are people everywhere.

A large bonfire seems to be the main focal point with a crowd of at least fifty people around it. Beyond that, tiki torches are lit in smaller groupings around what appear to be… “Huh. Games.”

“Cool, right?” he says, looking out like a king surveying his land. “We have a few pits for horseshoes over there and three sets of cornhole over there. But the real fun is way in the back.”

I follow his line of sight to where a dozen or so people are standing. My jaw drops. “Are those…? Are they throwing…?”

“Tomahawks, hatchets, axes. Whatever you want to call them, the answer is yes. Come on, I’ll show you.”

I’m too stunned to fear for my safety as we approach an area with axes flying at huge wooden targets. I’m also so engrossed in the actual axe-throwing that I don’t notice who’s doing the throwing until I hear my name in stereo.

“Wendy!”

I turn my head to see two large men bearing down on me with arms outspread. I barely have time to brace myself before I’m the filling of a very tight twin sandwich. Despite feeling like my ribs might puncture my lungs if the boys get any more enthusiastic, I find myself laughing.

“Back off before you break her.” Peter yanks them off by their shirts, but it doesn’t dim their smiles a bit.

“Tobias, Tyler. My God, I can hardly believe it. You’re so…so…”

“Huge?”

“Sexy?”

“Huge and sexy?” they finish together.

I laugh at how they’re still speaking in unison like they share a brain. “I was going to say handsome. Is that acceptable?”

“No,” Peter growls at the same time as the twins shout, “Hell yeah,” and it makes me laugh all over again. No sooner do they start bickering about which of them I missed more when I hear another blast from the past.

“I’d recognize that laugh anywhere. Hiya, Wendy.”

Before I even lay eyes on him, the cocksure tone that says he knows just a little bit more than everyone else gives him away. I smile and answer in kind. “Hiya, Silas.” He’s exactly how I would’ve imagined him to be. There’s no dichotomy when it comes to Silas; what you see is what you get—arrogance with the extreme good looks to back it up. Model-gorgeous with sharp features, a full mouth, and a head of shoulder-length hair that makes you think a woman’s hands were plowing through it moments ago. “It’s been a long time. How are you?”

Grinning wide, he winks and says, “Better than any of these dipshits.” Peter’s hand strikes like a snake, smacking Silas in the back of the head. Whack. “Ow, man!”

“Watch your language.”

“Seriously?” he says, rubbing the back of his head.

“Peter, he’s a grown man now, not a ten-year-old boy.”

“I don’t care,” he says, daring Silas to say otherwise with a narrowed glare. “They didn’t swear in front of you before; they don’t need to do it now. A little manners won’t kill ’em. Now apologize to the lady.”

“Sorry, Wendy,” Silas grumbles, appearing properly dejected. Even though Silas always acted like he was better than everyone else, he still always deferred to Peter’s leadership, and that obviously hasn’t changed. Not with any of them, it seems.

“No apology is necessary,” I say pointedly at Peter before smiling back at Silas, “but it’s appreciated all the same. Are the others around?”

“They’re never far.” Turning around to where people are still throwing axes, he calls out, “Lost Boys, look who I found!”

There’s a pause in the flying axes before I’m surrounded by faces that are familiar yet so different. My heart fills near to bursting as Nick and Thomas hug me like I’m their long-lost sister—or like once upon a time I pretended to be the mother figure they so needed at their tender ages.

From the corner of my eye, I see an axe go flying, end over end. until the blade is embedded dead center of the bullseye. Peter laughs as he walks over to grasp the forearm of the giant who’d thrown it. I didn’t realize my mouth was hanging open until Nick closes it for me.

He’s the definition of “mountain man” personified. Long, wavy brown hair is pulled back in a man-bun tied with a leather thong, his chiseled face is sporting a groomed beard that still somehow looks wild, and tribal tattoos mark his tan skin (I know this because sweet baby Jesus the man is only wearing a pair of worn jeans).

Also, because he’s literally the size of a mountain. At least six-foot-five and whatever someone weighs when he’s that tall and has only two-percent body fat.

“Chief, been a long time,” Peter says. “What brings you to Neverland?”

The mountain smiles and walks down to wrest his axe from the large wooden target. “Figured it was time to check on my sister, make sure she’s not getting herself into any trouble.”

Speaking into his ear so as to not draw attention to myself, I ask Thomas who the man is and what he’s a chief of. Thomas leans down and says, “Remember Tiger Lily?” I nod. “That’s her half-brother, Gray Wolf.”

“He’s chief of the Piccaninny tribe?”

“No, that’s just it,” Thomas says. “He’s not the chief. He would’ve been, but his mom had an affair with an outsider, so he’s never been fully accepted by the tribe.”

“Then chief is an ironic nickname? Isn’t that insulting?”

“Look at the guy. If he was insulted, no one would dare use it. I think Gray was the one who actually started it as a joke. He’s pretty easy-going. Until he’s not.”

I see what Thomas means. The mountain man seems rather jovial, drinking beer and flipping his axe around by the handle as he talks. But I can also sense something else. Like that gray wolf he’s named after is lying in wait, ready to attack the moment something goes sideways.

Peter grabs an axe from a large chunk of wood—the handle is painted black and the metal head a dark green, like his car, with a gold “P” on each side—and turns back to Chief. “The only one of us who sees your sister on the regular is Tink,” Peter says. “She’s always on the track, doesn’t even take time out for Friday festivities anymore.”

Chief grunts thoughtfully and runs a hand over his beard. “Guess I’ll have to crash her pad if I want to see her, then. In the meantime, who wants to see me crush Pan in a battle of the axes?”

Beers are raised with cheers, and people choosing sides and placing bets. There’s so much commotion, I don’t even realize Chief has come up next to me until he speaks. “And who might you be, little one?”

“Oh, I’m—”

“Into blondes, actually,” Peter interrupts with a wink in my direction, and why am I blushing? “Yeah, sorry there, Chief, but you’re just not Wendy’s type. Better luck next time.”

“Wendy. As in the Wendy?” At Peter’s nod, Chief smiles wide. “I’ve heard the stories of your adventures together. Every time this guy gets drunk, he doesn’t shut up about—”

“Blah blah blah, are we throwing axes or gossiping over tea?”

Chief laughs as he walks over to get into position. “Let’s go, Pan. To the winner goes the spoils.”

“You’re on.” Peter flips his axe in the air and catches it smoothly, joining his opponent.

“Wait,” I say to Thomas in a mild panic. “Am I the spoils?”

“No, of course not. Peter would never do that.” I breathe a sigh of relief until I notice the frown marring his face. “At least I don’t think he would.”

“Thomas!”

“Come on, we’ll be able to see better over here.”

My concern is apparently my own as we move off to the side, so we can see all the action. I’m about to press for a better confirmation that I’m not about to be a trophy when Peter reaches back with one hand and drags his T-shirt off in one smooth motion. Every thought in my head evaporates, and my mouth dries up like the Sahara as I watch his muscles ripple, making the ink in his skin come alive.

“You look like you could use another beer.” Silas appears next to me and exchanges my empty bottle for a fresh one. I hadn’t even realized I’d drank it all.

“Thanks,” I croak, then clear my throat and try again. “Thanks, Si.”

“No problem.” His lips are quirked to the side, but thankfully, he keeps whatever his thoughts are to himself, sparing me any further embarrassment about my reaction to a half-naked Peter.

I quickly learn that the men are playing the best two out of three games. Nick explains the points system, so I can follow along with everyone else, and then I lose myself in the excitement. There’s something extremely primal about watching a couple of tall, muscular men drinking beer and throwing hatchets, the sheen of sweat making their suntanned skin glow in the firelight. Every time Peter strikes a bullseye, the crowd cheers, and he crows arrogantly with his fists raised.

I find myself laughing and cheering along with everyone else, and it’s such a relief to not be stressing out about work or responsibilities. This is one of the things I miss about being around Peter. When I was with him, I lived in the moment. All the constant pressures and anxiety about my grades and my future, they melted away whenever he was near. It’s impossible not to enjoy life with Peter Pan. He makes even the simplest pleasures an epic adventure, and it’s been a long time since I’ve had one of those.

With a win each, it comes down to this final game. Chief is done, having thrown five times already. They were all bullseyes except for one. If Peter scores three or less on this last throw, he’ll lose. A four will tie them up. But a bullseye wins him the whole thing.

The contest has grown in popularity, with almost everyone on the property now crowded around these two men and their targets. Tink sauntered up a while ago, but she didn’t join me and the rest of the Lost Boys, choosing to stand on the other side with Chief’s cheering section—though I noticed she’s not actually rooting for the big man. As Peter pauses to drink his beer, I see another familiar face.

“Hook,” I whisper. Wearing black from head to toe, a scruffy dark beard, and a somber expression with cutting eyes that challenge the world, he looks like the president of a motorcycle club.

Silas looks over and confirms with a nod. “Yep, that’s him all right. Captain Happy Pants and his Crew of Crazies.”

I study the group of men with him but only recognize Smee, with his reddish-brown buzzcut and Starkey, with his unique shock of white hair and dark eyebrows. The rest look like they could all be featured on America’s Most Wanted, so I’m not about to go and make my introductions.

“Shut up, Si,” Thomas says, crossing his arms and glaring at the man who’s like an older brother to him. “Back up off ’em already. The Pirates have never done anything to us.”

My heart melts as I look up at Thomas’ scowl. My sweet, little Thomas. He might not be little anymore—in fact, he’s downright huge like the rest of them—but it’s nice to know behind the manly-tough exterior is still the tender boy I once knew. Whatever girl snags his attention will no doubt be treated like the center of his universe.

Silas claps a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Sorry, T, I was just joking around. You want me to grab you another beer?”

“Nah, I’m good. Besides, you’ll miss finding out who wins Wendy.”

I gasp. They laugh. I’d completely forgotten all about that stupid comment. Now I have a hoard of frantic butterflies in my belly as I watch Peter get into position. Not that I plan on letting myself be pimped out for any reason, much less a stupid competition, but still.

“Don’t you dare miss that bullseye, Pan!”

The words are out of my mouth before I can hold them back—apparently all it takes is a couple of beers to loosen my tongue—and it causes him to stop and arch a brow in my direction. “Do you really have so little faith in me, Wen?”

I score my bottom lip with my teeth. “No.”

“You hesitated.”

“No, I didn’t.”

Peter points his axe in my direction. “Yes, you did. I think it’s time to up the stakes. Hook!”

“Fuck off, Pan,” he drolls.

I’m not sure why Hook is even in the crowd. He’s the picture of I-don’t-give-a-crap, his expression positively blasé. Walking back to him, Peter grins. “Come on, man, give me your bandana. Promise it’ll be worth it.” A spark of interest flashes in Hook’s glacial blue eyes before he unties the black cloth around his wrist and hands it over.

“Uh oh,” I say, “I don’t like where this is going.” But apparently, I’m the only one because as Peter blindfolds himself, the crowd cheers him on.

“Chief, set me up in front of the target, brother.”

“Oh, this is too much,” Chief laughs, positioning Peter. “You’re as good as mine now, little one.”

Peter doesn’t bother to respond but the deep breath he draws in, like maybe he’s not as sure of himself as he wants everyone to think, isn’t very reassuring. “Count me down.”

Chief leads the crowd with his fingers. “Three! Two!”

“Oh my God, I can’t look.” Clapping a hand over my eyes, I blind myself as much as the man holding the axe and hold my breath…

“One!”