“On the Storm Ridge.” It was one of the pair of tour boats that had been part of Tiffany’s Great Revitalization Plan. Poor Trys, who was a loner at heart, was now hosting tourists on five-day cruises.

“It’s booked to the gunwales and gone half the week so I can’t stay there with him,” Logan reminded her. “But Reid and Emma are taking her family on one of the tours so I’ll stay at the house with Storm while they’re gone. See? Once the math shakes out, I’ll be here for ten sleeps. Max.”

“Are they leaving Storm with you?” She pulled her bottom lip in a wide, Yikes.

“I thought we agreed to keep things civil.”

She rolled her eyes.

“I’m not cooking for you,” she stated. “I’m not picking up your socks and washing your underwear.”

She was accepting her fate was what she was doing. Damn it, Gramps.

“Buy your own groceries,” she added. “Don’t swear in front of Biyen. Don’t even think of getting between the two of us. Ever,” she warned in a dangerous voice. “And don’t get Gramps drunk. A beer at the end of the day is fine, but—”

“That was one time. I’ve barely had anything to drink myself since then.”

“That is not the story those flats of beer cans told when Biyen did his bottle drive for school last Saturday.”

“Those were Emma’s,” he lied shamelessly. Sophie knew Emma drank wine because they often polished a bottle between them. There wasn’t a lot to do here. Drinking was a popular hobby.

“I’m saying if you want to have a piss-up, do it elsewhere,” she warned. “This isn’t a party house.”

“Aye-aye, Cap’n. Anything else?”

“No shop talk. If you want my professional opinion, call me in and pay me for it. But not today. It’s my day off. And who is minding the hardware store if you’re here?”

“Trys. I’m going to give that kid a try, by the way. The one you said was looking for a summer job. But Trystan has Storm so I should get back. I’ll bring my stuff over Sunday.”

“Can’t wait,” she muttered, and stomped the shovel into the earth once more.

*

If there was one thing that revved Logan’s engine, it was a scantily clad woman wielding tools. Heavy gloves and a low-neck top; naked arms operating a hammer drill; safety goggles and a ponytail… They all did it for him. When a tanned, flexed calf muscle wore a smudge of dirt above a steel-toed boot, he was pretty much done. Cooked like Sunday dinner.

When it was Sophie? That got complicated real fast. She worked for him, among other reasons.

But she was objectively hot with a figure toned by physical labor. She twisted wrenches and carried propellers and machined drive shafts all day. She had the confidence to stare him down and she had so many freckles. When he looked at her kinky red hair, he always remembered the way it had caught in his combing fingers back when—

Don’t, he warned himself for the millionth time.

In fact, her grandfather had made it clear there would be no funny business on his watch.

You need a bed, you always have one under my roof, Art had said. But you aren’t sharing Sophie’s. Not unless she invites you, and you damned well better be fixing to stay there if that happens. I won’t have a repeat of eight years ago.

Had he meant Sophie getting pregnant? Logan didn’t intend to make any kids, ever. He wasn’t his father, willy-nilly with his willy. His resolve had been strengthened by these last weeks of caring for his little sister. Babies were a complete pain in the ass.

He pulled the door open on the hardware store and heard Storm let out a cry of genuine pain.

A jolt of alarm went through him because babies were also helpless and fragile and wormed their way into the rotten-cored apple of your heart even when you wished they wouldn’t.

“What happened?” Logan hurried to the counter where Trystan stood with their seven-month-old sister strapped in the sling against his chest. She faced out and her face was crumpled up while her staccato cries pierced the air.

Tall, dark, and unflappable Trystan was holding her hand, examining her tiny, wet finger while a customer stood before the counter wearing a look of tested patience. The customer glanced hopefully at Logan, but Logan was more concerned about Storm.

“You have more teeth now,” Trystan chided the baby. “It’s going to hurt if you chew whatever you put in your mouth.”

Storm sniffled down to a whimper as she noticed Logan. She gave him a very pitiful look as she held out her hand to him, entreating him to fix it since Trystan had failed her.

She was their father’s daughter, very quick to switch affections, always willing to love the one she was with, especially if they loved her back.

Logan was starting to think he might, damn it.

The customer held up a valve, asking Trystan, “So, this one?”

“That should do it.” Trystan nodded. “If you need to come back and exchange it, that’s no problem.” Trystan rang it through, then gave Storm’s tummy a comforting pat as the man left. “Okay now, Jaws? If you’d quit dropping your teething ring in the dirt, we wouldn’t have this problem.”

“Want me to take her?” Logan held out his hands.

Storm smiled and kicked with excitement, exactly as he had known she would.

Trystan grunted and caught her feet.

“I don’t think that game is as funny as you do.” He clasped her in one firm arm while he released the buckles on the sling. “I need to adjust these straps again. Either she’s growing or your balls are a lot droopier than mine. How come you never get sacked when you wear this thing?”

“I wear a cup.” He didn’t. And he got sacked on the regular when he carried her.

Logan took Storm while Trystan fiddled with the straps and buckles.

They’d been here ten weeks, Sophie had said. In some ways it sounded like forever, but he couldn’t believe how much this mix of sunshine and vinegar had changed in that time. She moved nonstop and was grabbing at everything. When she was on the floor, she scooted around, trying to crawl. She knew their names because when he said, “Where’s Trystan?” she turned her head to look for him.

She was strong enough to hold herself in a plank like a figure skater when Logan held her over his head—careful to watch for sudden spills out of those grinning lips.

“How’d it go?” Trystan asked.

Logan had asked him to cover for him while he went to “see a man about a room.” He had known Sophie would rather dig him a grave to sleep in. That’s why he’d walked over to tell her himself, away from work while her kid was at school. It had gone exactly as well as he’d expected.

“Art’s letting me stay with them,” he said very casually.

Trystan dropped the carrier back onto the counter. “No.”

“Tell me about my options.” Logan refused to sound defensive. “I could couch-surf, but we’re trying to make people believe we have our shit together. The lodge is overbooked. We need every contractor and laborer housed here so they can solve that problem for us. I looked into sleeping in one of the salvage boats in the boneyard. They all smell like rotten kelp and lung disease. Art was here yesterday, I asked him if he knew of anyone renting a room and he said I could stay in Biyen’s playroom. It has a bed. Mom slept there when she was here for Dad’s service.”

“What about Sophie?”

“What about her? Why are you so possessive of her?” He scowled at Trystan as Trys took Storm. “Maybe you’re the one we should be worried about where she’s concerned.”

“So we agree she ought to be worried about? I’m not possessive, I’m protective. She’s my friend.”