Cal snorted. “It’s a pretty-boy surfer thing. Hooks ’em in. But this one doesn’t strike me as a dimple chick.”

Dalton dropped his toolbox and sank into the third wicker rocker. “Why did I get stuck with assholes for brothers? Is there another beer out here somewhere?”

Cal passed over a bottle of his IPA. Dalton popped off the cap and took a long swallow. His brothers waited him out, like they always had. And as always, he broke. “We didn’t sleep together,” he mumbled. “For God’s sake, I just got the job. Give me some damn time.”

Cal slapped his hands together while Tristan shook his head. “Pay up,” Cal demanded. “Twenty bucks.”

“Morgan would kill you if she knew you placed bets on my sleeping with Raven.”

Cal squinted with a warning flash in his eyes. “Do you like when Morgan cooks for you, Dalton? ’Cause I can get her to stop. Watch me.”

Dalton rolled his eyes but stayed quiet. He really couldn’t afford to lose his future sister-in-law’s dinners. He had a limited amount of time left before she’d be moving into her own house, and then bye-bye shrimp and grits, and meat loaf, and pot roast. Good-bye.

“Couldn’t close?” Tristan asked curiously. He rotated his glass once more.

“I was working! You may not respect the lines of employment, but I sure do.”

Tristan and Caleb shared a look. Then burst into hysterical laughter.

Dalton brooded and drank his beer.

“Oh, please, say it again,” Cal said. “Better yet, let me record you for the next time we have an inspection problem, or a supplier problem, or anything that entails a woman who is even the slightest bit hot.”

“There haven’t been any problems in months, and I resent you not taking my professional ethics seriously. Besides, we’re getting to know each other better.”

“Yeah, we know how you want to get to know her. BTW, I found another pair of pink panties in the laundry room last week. Tell your women to take their underwear home, please. I don’t want Morgan doing their laundry.”

Dalton shook his head. “I haven’t slept with someone in a while. Must be old.”

Tristan grinned. “Yeah, last weekend, right?”

Dalton gave him the finger.

“How long is the job going to take?” Cal asked.

“Three weeks, but I convinced her to go with new booths. The place is going to look incredible. She’s being featured in Good Food and Fine Spirits magazine, so that means—”

“Pierce Brothers will have some solid, free publicity,” Cal finished.

“Exactly. She’s also doing a big grand reopening party to show off the new look.”

Cal nodded. “Nice work, bro. But my original advice stands. Don’t mess with her. We like to hang out there, and you could ruin it for all of us.”

Dalton stared out into the night. A cloud of depression settled over him. He knew his brothers loved him and respected his work. But sometimes they treated him like he was a clueless, insensitive asshole desperate to stick his dick in any female who moved. Hadn’t they learned more about him this past year? Or was he fooling himself? Maybe they’d just see what they wanted to see, believing him to be the weakest link.

He’d worked his ass off to prove himself and his worth and thought he’d gotten there. Now?

Not so much.

He rose from the chair and headed in. “Thanks for the beer.”

“Hey! I was just kidding.” Cal’s voice held confusion.

“Come back and finish your beer,” Tristan called out.

He ignored them both and shut the handmade wood door behind him. He remembered his grandfather carving it years ago. Dalton had watched him piece together segments of rare wood, from redwood to mahogany, creating a masterpiece. Dalton had sat every day by his side, handing him tools, watching the door transform into a legacy that would welcome people into their home long after his grandfather had passed. It was another thing he loved about woodworking. It was a form of art that not only thrived, but lasted.

Nothing much else did.

He was just turning when he caught the heavy breathing. Moving real slow, he lifted his hands in a warning and lowered his voice. “Gandalf. Balin. Down.”

The two massive mastiffs shook with fervor and banked joy at his arrival. Since they both came to shoulder height, their enthusiasm usually knocked him over, covered him with hair, and dripped saliva on his clothes. Their mottled fur held tinges of dirt and mud from exploring the woods and chasing squirrels.

“I mean it, guys. Stay down or you go back to training. I—ah, shit!”

They leapt.

He had just enough time to block the attack, but the force of their love staggered him backward against the door. Half laughing, he dodged licking tongues and furiously wagging tails. At least the dogs didn’t give him crap about his sexual choices or his work methods. They thought he was perfect.

Dalton gave them a few scratches and pushed his way through the wriggling fur. He headed up the spiral staircase, noting the quiet of the house. Morgan must be out with Sydney for girls’ night. Funny how the absence of a female changed the atmosphere. Morgan had brought back a zest and joy they’d all been sorely lacking since—

A raw pang hit his chest. Damn, he missed his mother. He remembered how she used to sit on the edge of his bed, ruffle his hair, and just talk. She didn’t even care when he got moody or didn’t respond. She had a lightness of spirit that cloaked him and made him feel okay again. As if she filled an empty part of him inside that he didn’t recognize until she was gone.

Memories hit. Oh, how she loved to tell him his birth story. Within a few hours of his birth, he’d come down with severe jaundice. But even after time spent under the therapy lights, he’d grown worse, until the doctor said the jaundice had reached such a dangerous level they needed to conduct a blood transfusion.

The process took hours, and he’d been in the NICU for seven days afterward to heal. He remembered how his mother described sitting by his side every day, watching him through the plastic bubble, unable to hold him for long periods of time. When he was finally brought home, he’d cried every night for over six months, refusing to sleep unless rocked in his mother’s arms.

Oh, how his brothers teased him for that. His father had blamed Diane Pierce for babying him and making him a sissy. But his mother always said the needed touch and snuggling those first precious days had been ripped from both of them, and they spent the rest of their time trying to make up for it.

Even years afterward, his mother’s soft voice always managed to settle that aching place inside and let him know it would all be okay. It was odd to have such a deep connection with one parent and feel completely ostracized from the other. His father had spent most of his time with Cal and Tristan, leaving Dalton behind. What Dalton rarely admitted to anyone was how much he enjoyed spending time with his mother alone. She was always telling him adventurous stories or making up elaborate games. She’d bake cookies with him in the kitchen, build pillow forts in his parents’ king-size bed, or share her love of old musicals while she sang along in her off-key voice. She taught him to enjoy every moment of life and make the most of it. She taught him about being happy with who you were.

Until she left. And he realized she’d been lying to him the entire time.

Because he hadn’t been important enough to her.

His feet hit the top step and his eyes stung.

Silly. A grown man missing his damn mommy.

He buried the emotions deep and walked into his room. The mansion could easily hold twenty guests without anyone ever bumping into someone else, so when the terms of the will had been satisfied, Dalton had decided to keep staying in the family home. No need to get a crap apartment when he usually enjoyed his brothers’ company and got home-cooked meals from Morgan. He loved the goofball dogs, too, and the brothers had gotten into a habit of inviting Sydney and Brady, the company architect, over on Sunday afternoons for dinner.

Dalton’s room was decorated in navy and earth tones, with simple, masculine furnishings that showed off an array of treasures he’d carved out. From the handmade trunk at the foot of the bed to the chest of drawers and burl wood poster bed, he’d filled it with major pieces that soothed him. Old basketball trophies, a signed Mets baseball including a signature from Mike Piazza, an old prom picture with his first real crush, Andrea Bellows, dressed in red satin with her boobs hanging out in magnificent glory. A tattered, thin volume of Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass. There was a remnant of the first surfboard he’d finished and varnished on his own under the tutelage of a surfer god in California.