Chugging the last bottle of water from the bucket of melted ice, I realize I underestimated the amount of work it would be to clean out the pole barn. I bought this property seven years ago, and this outbuilding has served as basically a catch-all for our shit. Anything the boys have tinkered with over the years—a golf cart, one of Lily’s old stock cars, and a rusted out 1953 Indian Chief motorcycle to name a few. Plus, a couple of suped-up riding lawn mowers, and more tires of various sizes than we’ll ever know what to do with.

The sun has started its descent, which means it’s at the perfect angle to shine its fiery rays of hell on me as I’m working, making this that much more unbearable. I’m glad Wendy’s not here right now because I’m soaked through my wifebeater and stink worse than the junk I’m cleaning out. Wiping an arm across my forehead, I grab a truck tire in each hand and carry them over to the stacks I’ve started in the back. I let them drop to the ground, and my effort is rewarded with a plume of dirt rising up to swallow me like a mini sandstorm before re-settling over the cement floor. Maybe I should do some sweeping.

“Why don’t you close the bay door to keep the sun out?”

Turning to search for a push broom, I see Tink perched on the section of counter I’d cleared off earlier. She’s in an orange baby tee with a “TLP” logo on it and a pair of black Dickies with combat boots, which means she’s on her way to the track to work with Lily—or as the public knows her, T.L. Picc, the girl climbing the ranks of the amateur race circuit and fast on her way to becoming the first female driver in the American Stock Car Racing Association.

“Two reasons, sprite,” I answer as I spot the broom that might be dirtier than the floor. “I wouldn’t be able to see since the electrical is totally fucked. I think field mice chewed through the wires, which means I need to get an electrician out here because my name’s not Zeus so I don’t mess with contained lightning.”

She laughs, and it makes me smile. It’s good to hear. Tink’s been in a bitchy mood since Wendy showed up two days ago. It’s always bothered me that she seems to hate Wendy so much. No matter how many times I tried to explain when we were kids that Wendy wasn’t going to take her place in the group, it never made a difference. Tink would cross her arms, purse her lips, and insist she had her reasons.

Eventually I gave up trying to convince her otherwise, but I did demand that she stop being nasty to Wendy. Tink had reluctantly agreed to respect my order as her captain. And if you didn’t count the occasional comment muttered under her breath, she’d done as I’d asked. If I can’t get her to like Wendy now that we’re adults, I hope she’ll still keep her promise from when we were kids.

“The second reason is that if I closed this place up right now, I’d cook like a Thanksgiving turkey.”

Tink scrunched up her nose at that. “Good point.”

“Heading to the track?”

“Yeah, Lil wants to work on her times. Wanna come?”

“Normally I would, but I have to get this place in order.”

“Why, are you nesting or something?” She covers her mouth on a dramatic gasp. “Peter, are you pregnant?”

Peeling off my sweat-soaked shirt, I hold my arms out. “Does this look like I’m pregnant to you?”

She offers an apologetic wince and says, “I don’t know, you might be retaining water right in this area.”

She points in the direction of my washboard abs—yeah, washboard, because that’s what I work my ass off for in our home gym—so I retaliate by throwing my balled-up shirt at her. Instead of Tink squealing in disgust and trying to dodge the gross sweat bomb, she catches it with one hand and arches a single is that all you got eyebrow at me. I should’ve known better. Tink is anything but a typical woman. Kind of hard to be when you’re raised as the only girl of eleven kids.

“Seriously, though,” she says. “Why are you doing this?”

“I need to clear a space to rebuild an old car, just like you said.”

Launching herself off the counter, Tink tosses my shirt behind her and comes up to me with excitement lighting her green eyes. “Holy shit, Peter, that’s awesome! I have so many ideas on customization and how we can supe up the engine so that it’ll beat even Lil’s car.”

“Sorry, sprite, but we can’t do any of that fancy stuff with this one.” Her face falls, and it kinda kills me to know this is about to get worse.

“Why not?”

“Because this car is going to a charity auction with a bunch of old, rich dudes. So no upgrades, no suped-up engines, no fancy paint jobs. Not this time. But we can still rebuild it together, you and me.”

I can see her putting the pieces together, bit by bit, as storm clouds fill her eyes. “This has something to do with Wendy, doesn’t it?”

Blowing out a breath in resignation, I try to put a Band-Aid over Tink’s metaphorical old wound. “She’s organizing the Love for Littles this year. It was her idea to make it a classic car theme and bring us the business. Pretty cool, huh?”

“I can’t believe this,” she hisses. “She’s doing it again. Ten whole years go by, and it took all of two minutes for her to butt her nose into our life and take over.”

“Damn it, Tink, she’s not taking over.” Needing to move through my frustration, I walk over to the bucket of melted ice. I lean over and dump it on my head, hoping that cooling my body will help cool my rising temper, then I shake the excess from my hair. “She’s commissioning us for a job. One that will pay us enough money, or at the very least give us local recognition in the quality rebuilds arena, that we can secure more of the kind of work you want us to be able to do.”

She crosses her arms in a violent huff and shoots fire from her eyes. “That’s not the point, Peter.”

Planting my feet, I return her glare. I’m hot, hungry, in desperate need of a shower, and grouchy from not being able to see Wendy since I dropped her off Friday night. Not to mention the shit that went down with those cops and Hook has been needling me all weekend. I’m in no fucking mood to deal with Tink’s childish issues.

“It is the point. You wanted to work on a car with me, and now we have the opportunity to do that. It doesn’t matter how. And just because we can’t go all out with this one, doesn’t mean we won’t get to do cooler stuff in the future. So you can either get over your shit about Wendy and do this with me, or stay pissed about irrelevant details, and I’ll get Si to help. Choice is yours.”

She punches her fists down at her sides, although I’m pretty sure she’d have rather aimed them at my face. “You’re such a jackass sometimes, Pan.”

As she storms off, I sigh and mutter, “So you’ve mentioned. Several hundred times.”

I’m hoping she calms down at the track and reconsiders doing the job with me. She’s got a week before I’ll have a car in here, so she has until then.