I do, and three-year-old Kieran, who like both his siblings is obviously in training to become beautiful like his mom and uncles, takes us on a jog to the front of the house, where he climbs into the rocking chair on the front porch and announces that he’s riding a horse.

“Thank God—that will keep him still for a few minutes,” Amanda says, out of breath, laughing. “So, now. Tell me everything.”

“I don’t know where to start,” I say, laughing, too, because her joy is that infectious.

“What brings you back to town so soon? You were just here, weren’t you?”

I nod. “Life implosion.”

I give her the quick-and-dirty version, leaving out the disturbing visuals. And that one awful second where I was actually excited that my fiancé was talking about marriage to me with his dangly parts still damp from another woman.

“Oh, my God,” she says. “Did you knee him in the naked ’nads?”

“No,” I admit. “But I probably should have.”

“So are you moving back to Rush Creek?”

“No! No,” I repeat, less vigorously, “I’m just visiting. And helping my mom with her new business.”

“Ahhh,” says Amanda. “I have heard her girls’ night out parties are hot. Ask her if she’ll do one for me and Lucy and Hanna—”

“What are you signing me up for?” Hanna demands, stepping out onto the porch. She’s Kane’s business partner and an honorary Wilder. Also, I wish I could pull off a pixie-cut the way she can—or that I was half as in shape. “Did I hear those accursed words, girls’ night out?”

“You’ll like this one,” Amanda says. “Promise.”

Hanna scowls, and Amanda starts to elaborate, but Kieran gets bored with the rocking chair, dismounts chair and porch, and hurries back toward the backyard.

“I got him,” Hanna says, and gives chase.

Amanda turns back to me and says something, but the growl of an engine drowns her out as a motorcycle takes the turn into the Wilder driveway a little too fast, kicking up wood chips and dust. It comes to a stop and Brody dismounts, removing his helmet and setting it down. The sun catches a glint in his hair, of course. He pushes his fingers through it, a habit he’s had since childhood. His hair is always disheveled, which takes nothing away from it.

Ohhh, Brody Wilder, you are a work of art. A scowl-y, troubled, troubling work of art.

He’s wearing bad-ass motorcycle boots, a form-fitting black t-shirt that shows off spectacular pecs and ripped abs, leather cuff bracelets on both wrists—one braided, one looped with chain—and a pair of ripped jeans.