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“Can you call Mary and tell her the Chevy’s ready?” I ask Rory. “Let her know we had to replace the serpentine belt too.”

“No worries.” Rory picks up the phone before pulling a face. “Ugh, I hate speaking to the old bat.”

“Try not to call her that while she’s paying us,” I warn.

“No promises,” she replies.

* * *

By the time we lock up the shop, heading to The Breakwater for a beer doesn’t sound half bad.

I wouldn’t admit that to Knox. He’d never shut the fuck up about it and would try to drag me there every weekend. Instead, I grab my keys and follow him out without saying a word.

He doesn’t comment, but the smug grin on his face says enough.

I quickly text Mom, letting her know I’m stopping in for one drink and will meet them at my house at seven. She replies almost immediately with a photo of Aspen standing by the water, throwing handfuls of food toward a flock of seabirds.

Half of them are practically surrounding her.

Mom: Your daughter is creating an army.

I smile down at the photo.

Me: Stop giving her birdseed.

Mom: Tell your father.

My little angel.

For a second, I consider skipping the drink and joining them instead.

No. Enjoy yourself for once. It isn’t a crime.

When Knox and I walk into The Breakwater, the place is packed. Conversations overlap beneath the music, and nearly every table is full. Logan and Mallory are squeezed into a booth in the far-left corner, waving us over.

“Look who finally left his cave,” Logan calls as we approach.

“I leave my house every day,” I reply, sliding into the booth.

“Work doesn’t count,” Mallory says, pushing two beers across the table toward us.

Knox takes one. “I’ve been telling him that for years.”

“Where’s Rory?” Logan asks, looking behind us.

“She went back to the big house to see Pen,” I explain, taking the other beer.

My sister adores Aspen. Any spare time Rory has is usually spent convincing Pen that she needs another toy, another dress or enough sugar to keep her awake until midnight.

Aspen worships her right back.

“Have you seen the new girl?” Mallory asks, nodding toward the bar. “G says she’s a natural.”

I follow her gaze.

And that’s when I see her.

She’s standing behind the bar with her long dark hair pulled over one shoulder, balancing three glasses in one hand while Georgie points something out on the register. She listens carefully, her eyebrows pulling together in concentration, before pressing something that makes the entire screen disappear.