Gandalf and Balin froze in midair. Gandalf fell to the ground in his dead-man pose, and Balin managed to get half a butt to the ground, the other half wiggling madly. Okay, at least they hadn’t tackled him today. That must mean he was making progress, right? He leaned over and scratched.

“Go play,” he said, finding the sweet spots and grinning as their matching legs thumped up and down in ecstasy. “Stay out of the mud, though; I’m tired of using the hose on you every day.”

Dismissed, they bounced away like they were two Chihuahuas rather than giants and disappeared. Cal walked into the house, snagged a bottle of water, then headed toward the office.

The faint pang of memory stirred. Other families went to baseball and football games on the weekend. Other families took exotic summer vacations.

But Cal learned early on that free time was to be spent at the building site with his brothers, learning the business from the ground up. They worked through high school, and after graduating college, each of them returned to run Pierce Brothers and take their rightful place. They’d never had a choice, but then again, they never questioned their future. And his mother instilled pride in who they were and what they could accomplish together, as a family.

Every morning, they’d hold a casual meeting in the kitchen over breakfast. Mom had insisted that bonding over a meal to start the day was critical to success. Bacon frying in the pan, coffee black and thick, they’d huddle around the high marble countertops arguing over ideas, laughing at his mother’s bad jokes, listening in rapt attention to his father’s booming voice always lecturing on contracts, profit, or potential clients.

The office was a place for cold, calculated business. The kitchen broke the barriers and turned them into a real family. He may have sensed his parents’ distance between each other but never wanted to think about it much. Because when they were all together, he’d been happy. Normal. Part of something bigger, from the blood that ran in their veins to the future of a company that bore their name.

He pushed open the door to the office where his father had ruled as king. Yes, this is where they belonged now. In a room filled with intimidating leather, high bookcases, and framed awards battling for space. The sprawling desk held two computers and the faint scent of tobacco from Christian’s cigars. The discreet bar held a variety of high-end liquor, but Cal still couldn’t break his habit of stashing his favorite bourbon in the kitchen. Maybe that was his way of separating himself from his father.

His brothers stared at him. Not like they had years ago. Not anymore. Now it was about pure survival, with eleven months to go until they could disband and go back to not dealing with each other. So many old wounds simmered beneath the Band-Aids.

God, they were so fucked-up.

“What’s wrong now?” he asked.

Tristan spoke. “I stopped by to see Sydney. She gave me the profits for the month.”

“Yeah?”

“We made no profits, Cal. In fact, we’re starting at a serious deficit.”

Caleb plowed his fingers through his hair and grunted. “I’m handling it. Why are you having Sydney pull figures? Don’t you trust me?”

Dalton made a rude noise from the leather couch. “More like you don’t trust us. This is a bunch of bullshit, and you know it. At this point, no matter what we do, we’ll end up losing the business. I’m thinking of pulling out, Cal. Maybe going someplace new. Start fresh.”

“Convenient. Barely five weeks in, and you’re running again.”

Tristan held up his hand as Dalton let out a blistering curse. “This isn’t helping. If we can’t even get through a simple meeting, we’re never going to make this work. We have to change our tactic.” He yanked a fat folder open and held up a bunch of papers. “We lost three big clients last week.”

Cal glowered at his youngest brother. “Ask Mr. Tigerwood over there. They walked when they heard about the little go-around on the cabinets with their neighbors. We were putting in an addition, but they went to Farell’s.”

Tristan groaned. “Are you kidding me? Farell’s Construction is the damn Walmart of the contracting business. Their quality sucks, and everyone knows it.”

“But they don’t argue, and they put up the shit fast. Some people don’t like waiting for perfection.”

“What about the deck for the Peabody restaurant? That’ll get us cash quick.”

“They decided to wait till next year. Their profits took a dive over the winter, and they’re struggling.”

“Other than finishing up the last two jobs, I haven’t been able to book anything. I thought you said you were turning down jobs the past few years.”

Caleb swore. “I was! Ever since Dad passed, people have gotten spooked. Gossip has been spreading about losing the business and us not able to get along. Even though no one knows about the will, people are suspicious.”

Tristan studied the file as if it held all the answers. His brother liked numbers and order, so he’d inherited the job of inventory and helping Sydney with the accounting. Cal would rather be out with the guys putting up houses, so he was grateful, but having his middle brother worried about a business he’d been running for the past years made him itch to prove he didn’t need him.

“I guess the McCarthy project will keep the wolves from the door a bit,” Tristan grumbled.

Fuck.

“We don’t have that job anymore.”

Dalton and Tristan stared. “What do you mean? You went out to see him this morning, right?”

Caleb turned away, not wanting to admit failure. “He hired his own team to come in and build it. I just found out.”

Silence filled the room.

“Well, then. Maybe we should have a serious conversation about letting Pierce Brothers go.”

Cal shot a fierce glare at Dalton. “I’m not giving up until the year is up, and I won’t let you, either. We talked about this. We committed. Why don’t you get your ass out there and find some woodworking jobs?”

Dalton jumped up from the couch. “You think the type of work I do is built for cold-calling? I’m an artist. You’re such an asshole. Just like Dad.”

“This isn’t helping,” Tristan interrupted. “I’m tired of you boneheads. Cut the crap and let’s figure out what we can do. I made some property sales and took on a renovation project. We still have the last payment coming in from the Weatherspoons. That’ll count toward this year’s profits. What about the senator? That’s a fat payment due in three months, right?”