“I thought you and Blue broke up.” Jack’s voice momentarily startled him. Other than a request to pass over a tool or hold a board in place, they hadn’t spoken all afternoon.

“Not exactly.” Dean drove another nail home. He’d been exercising his shoulder, and it was finally loosening up. “We’re at a transition point, that’s all.”

“Transition to what?”

“We’re figuring that out.”

“Bullshit.” Jack swiped his face with his sleeve. “You’re not serious about her. She’s just a diversion to you.”

Blue had been saying the same thing practically since the day they’d met, and Dean had to admit there was some truth in it. If he’d seen her on the street or in a club, he’d never have noticed her, but only because she wouldn’t have come on to him. With so many beautiful women trying to catch his attention, how was he supposed to notice the ones who didn’t?

“Be careful with her,” Jack went on. “She acts tough, but those eyes give her away.”

Dean swiped his forehead with his T-shirt sleeve. “Don’t confuse reality with your song lyrics, Jack. Blue knows exactly what the score is.”

Jack shrugged. “I guess you know her better than I do.”

That was the last thing they said to each other until Dean went inside to take a shower.

As Jack watched Dean disappear, he wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead. Although he’d only intended to stay at the farm for a week, he wasn’t going anywhere for a while. April had her method of atonement, and he had his—building this porch with Dean. Growing up, Jack had spent summers working with his dad, and now he and Dean were doing the same. Not that Dean gave a damn about any kind of father-son ritual, but Jack did.

He liked the way the porch was shaping up. Everything was solid. His old man would have been proud.

Blue cranked open the kitchen window. Through the glass, he watched April’s lithesome, sensual movements and those blades of long hair flying around her head like knives.

“Nobody over the age of thirty should be able to dance like you,” he heard Blue say when the song ended.

Riley piped up, breathless from trying to follow April. “Dad is fifty-four, and he dances great. Onstage anyway. I don’t think he dances anywhere else.”

“He used to.” April ran her hands through her hair to sweep it back from her face. “After his concerts, we’d find some out-of-the-way club, and we’d dance until the place shut down. Lots of times they’d stay open just for him. Of all the people I’ve ever danced with, he was—” She stopped, then shrugged and leaned down to pet the dog. A moment later, her cell rang and she slipped out of the kitchen to answer it.