“Dammit, Caleb. We talked about this. You can stay here until your house arrest is up, but you can’t go around alienating my neighbors.”

Caleb held up his hands and took a step back, a laugh hanging from his lips. “‘Alienating’ isn’t the word I’d use to describe what we’re doing.”

“Just do your six months, keep your head down, and stay out of my business. That’s the deal.”

“I didn’t realize you considered Nancy your business.” Caleb laughed louder, his hands still up as if warding off an incoming attack. He continued backing up, each step a little slower than the last. “Message received. I’ll step aside and clear the field. She’s all yours. I’m sure you’ll be very happy together.”

That wasn’t even remotely what Spencer meant, and they both knew it.

“We just chatted about property values, I swear,” Caleb added. His expression grew suddenly serious, a flash of sobriety on a face that was almost always the exact opposite. It was like looking in a mirror, but not in a way that gave Spencer any satisfaction. He didn’t want to be the twin who looked like he’d just eaten a box of cardboard, who scowled and grumbled and stomped around like a giant in his castle in the clouds.

For once in his life, it would have been nice to just be Spencer Wilson, veterinarian and dog-show judge, a little stiff upon first meeting but not a bad guy once you got to know him.

“Thank you for not saying anything when I gave Ruby my business card,” Caleb said. “I mean it. It’s nice to have a project to work on again.”

Mentioning the project—dog training, Wheezy, Ruby—didn’t help matters any. Neither did Caleb’s next words.

“In fact, I’m so grateful I won’t mention that you’ve crossed over onto my side of the yard.” His brother nodded down at the ground. Sure enough, all of Caleb’s backing up had carried Spencer over a faint white line on the grass. The line had been applied with a can of aerosol stripe paint that continued inside the house with more durable duct tape.

Spencer jumped back as though he’d just lost a game of Floor Lava—which, in a way, was exactly what he’d done. “That doesn’t count,” he protested. “You lured me over.”

“Maybe I will mention it. Cash or crunches? We’re up to a hundred and thirty.”

“I’m not paying you a dime. You deliberately stepped backward so I’d either have to follow you or shout from across the yard.”

“Payout or push-ups?” Caleb asked. The serious look on his face was wiped out by now, replaced with his much more customary smirk. “Bucks or burpees? The choice is yours, but I could really use the money.”