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“Uh, thanks.” His cheeks reddened. “For this.”

“You’re welcome.”

“And, uh, for the other part, too,” he croaked out, brown eyes trained on mine. “The coming to get us part.”

“Yeah.” I swallowed and nodded. “No problem.”

“Tadhg, look,” Ollie squealed and Tadhg disappeared from sight. “It’s a tennis scope.”

“A what?”

“A tennis scope.”

“Telescope,” I heard Tadhg correct with a sigh. “Gibsie, give him a turn, will ya? He’s only nine.”

“Come on, Gibs,” I chuckled, scratching the back of my head. “I’ll make you a sandwich.”

“Fine, but I want it toastedanda packet of crisps,” Gibsie grumbled. “Oh, hold up. We forgot our tools.”

“I swear he’s stuck in his seven-year-old mind,” Hughie mused.

“You’re probably right,” Feely agreed. “He hasn’t changed much since we made our first Communion.”

“Timber—”

Bang.

“Ah, Jesus Christ!” I roared out, clutching the back of my head as pain ricocheted through my scalp. Glancing around me, I spotted the hammer on the grass and blanched. “What the fuck, Gibs?” I snarled, glaring up at the big bastard who was peeking over the railing. “Timber?What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s a code,” Gibsie called back sheepishly.

“A code?” I demanded. “Code for what? Trying to split my head open?”

“‘Timber’ is a valid warning word to get out of the way, Johnny,” he countered. “You’re the academic. You should know this.”

“So is ‘fore,’” I spat out. “‘Fore’ is a code.”

Gibsie shrugged. “Fore’s a golfing reference.”

“I’m more of a golfer than a fucking carpenter,” I hissed, still clutching my head. “Jesus!”

“I was throwing a hammer, not a golf club,” he defended, climbing down the ladder to join us. “Ah, balls, lad,” he muttered, heading straight for me. “Your head’s all gooey and bleeding.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” I snapped. “Because you threw a bleedinghammerat me.”

“Technically, I threw a hammeronyou, not at you—and I did call ‘timber,’” he reminded me as he poked at my scalp. “It’s not my fault you can’t read signals. I think you might need a stitch or seven.”

“Just give me your T-shirt,” I growled. “And you’re banned from the tree house and handling tools. Do you hear me? No more.”

“Are you okay, Johnny?” Ollie called out, sounding worried.

Ah, shite.

I can’t even kill him in peace.

“I’m grand, lads.” Snatching Gibsie’s T-shirt out of his hands, I pressed it to my head and forced a smile when all I wanted to do was throttle my best friend. “Make sure you both come back to the house before it gets too dark,” I added, before turning my back on the tree house and mouthing, “You better run, bitch,” to Gibsie who was already legging it in the direction of the house.

“Don’t hurt him too much, Cap,” Feely called out as I broke into a run after Gibsie.

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