As he gets closer, I try not to track each and every rip, but it’s tough, and my eyes find the one at the top of his thigh, where the golden hair on his thick quads peeks through. My fingers itch to touch it. It’s tough to look away.

I discover Amanda is watching me drool over Brody, amused. She raises her eyebrows at me, and I mouth, Sorry.

“No worries,” she says. “I’m really fucking used to it.”

It’s possible I look alarmed, because she hastily adds, “I mean, not just him. All of them.”

“Hey.”

Brody utters the monosyllable in a honey-rich voice that I feel somewhere right below my belly button. Or, say, six inches lower.

I’m somewhat shocked to discover that he seems to be addressing me, or at least my general vicinity.

Brody Wilder doesn’t talk much, and he never talks to me.

I got used to it during my long teen years when I pined for him and he seemed not to know I existed, except for the occasional, “Oh, hey, Rach,” when he was at our house and I was impossible to ignore. Like, standing right in front of him.

“Oh, hey, Rach,” Brody says, when he reaches Amanda’s side, which I guess means he wasn’t addressing me with the first “hey.” Big surprise there.

“How are things?” I ask him, because making conversation is the polite thing to do in situations like this.

He shrugs.

Right.

I don’t know if he hates me? Or just finds me so boring as to not be worth his time? Or…?

“Well,” says Brody. “Guess I’ll head into the backyard.”

“I’m surprised you showed up,” Amanda says. “Given that rumor has it Gabe’s gunning for you.”

Brody scowls. “He already laid into me. Figure I’m safe enough here with everyone around.”

In response to my raised eyebrow, Amanda says, “The guys are trying to revamp their business to change with the times, and it’s a better fit for some than others.”

I’d heard a little bit about this plan from my mom and Connor. Just about the time the Rush Creek rodeo failed, a hot spring popped to the surface—apparently, hot springs naturally come and go on their own. The arrival of this one ushered in a whole lot of wedding-and-spa businesses. And the Wilders are trying to win over those tourists, because outdoor adventuring has taken a big hit recently.

Brody’s permanent scowl deepens. “Book-club-on-a-boat,” he says, darkly, to me. It’s the most words he’s said to me in a decade.

“Sounds fun?” I hazard, and the scowl settles into permanence. Yeah. He doesn’t like me. I catalog the black-and-gray ink on his arms instead of sulking about his attitude. His tattoos are gorgeous, complex patterns—rain on a window, a school of interlocking fish, waves.