Get Abuelita to Rush Creek for Mami.

My mother was right: The Wilder brothers are good for the soul.

I help my mom walk around the house and into the backyard, where the party is in full swing, and am blinded by the glare of all that Wilder beauty.

I grew up with them, but time has actually improved them. Picture the five best-looking white guys you can imagine, dressed for the summer weather in sporty shorts and t-shirts that look like they were custom made to cling to and drape over sculpted pecs, broad shoulders, and ridged abs. Five pairs of thickly muscled legs divinely graced with just the right amount of curly hair, and five pairs of strong, tanned forearms with more perfect brawn.

Actually, only four of them are here.

Clark—imagine a brooding Viking warrior, beard and all—and Easton—pretty boy to the stars, with a smile so high-wattage he probably doesn’t need charcoal starter—are manning the grill, drawing a small circle of chatty women. Easton is managing them like a trained pro, because Clark doesn’t talk much these days, and he definitely doesn’t flirt—not since his wife passed away last year. Gabe—tall, dark, handsome, and commanding like an outdoorsy Mr. Darcy—is circulating with a pretty blond I recognize as his new girlfriend. And Kane—boy-next-door handsome and kind to everyone—is helping a few kids roast marshmallows over a small fire pit.

Brody Wilder, who also doubles as my brother Connor’s best friend, is not here.

And believe me, I noticed.

Anyone would. It’s like the Wilder set is missing its “bad boy” paper doll.

I can’t decide how I feel about Brody’s absence. On one hand, I’ve had a crush on him since I was, I don’t know, six years old, and fantasizing about him has given me hours of personal entertainment.

On the other hand, if Brody’s not here, he can’t make me feel like a speck of dust clinging to the side of a mountain merely by not noticing that I exist.

Tough call.

I greet all the present Wilders—four brothers, their mom, Barb, and—

“Rachel!!!”

Amanda Wilder flings herself into my arms.

We give each other one of those rocking, shaking hugs, and then she checks me out all over like she’s making sure I’m still intact.

I feel like the answer is barely. But a little better each day.

“How are things?” she demands, and then, before I can answer, “How long are you in town?” and then, “When can we get together?” and then, “Crap, follow me, I have to chase Kieran.”