I raise my eyebrows at him, asking, and he narrows his eyes at me, mock anger, but I know he’s not really mad, because a corner of his mouth curls up.

The party goes from rowdy to rowdier. The stories they’re sharing are hilarious and hair-raising. Rush Creek is small enough that the divorced population is pretty incestuous. Apparently, it’s not uncommon to sleep with the parent of one of your kids’ friends. Or your kid’s pediatrician. Teacher. Basketball coach.

“Wait, basketball coach?” one of the women, Amy Pearson, asks. She has thick red hair, lots of freckles, and a curvy body shown to its best advantage by a great pair of jeans and a scoop necked top.

They’re all still laughing except her.

Then Cara Yun—dark-haired, slender, wearing a calico wrap-dress—says his name. He’s young, mid-twenties, and new as of last year, so I don’t remember him from high school. Apparently he’s also hard-bodied, raring to go 24/7, and enthusiastic about her pleasure. She’s having multiple orgasms for the first time in her life. “Benton’s the first guy who’s willing to put in the work.”

Amy’s gone pale. “Wait,” she says again. My heartrate ticks up. “Benton? Like Benton Frusk?”

Cara nods.

“You’re sleeping with Ben?”

“Wait, you’re sleeping with Ben?”

Things go off the rails then, Amy and Cara both on their feet, yelling, each saying they’d seen him first, that the other knew she liked him.

The other women are dead quiet for at least five seconds, then some dive in, some take sides, some try to soothe their yelling friends. I’m on my feet and calling for order. I’m hoping to return the group to their party spirit and open wallets, but tantrumming toddlers have nothing on this group, and as the fray escalates, the boat literally starts rocking.

“Enough.” The voice is deep, decisive, and calm.

Brody has stepped into the bow, into the middle of our group, where he stands with his arms crossed, which makes his forearms and biceps bulge. His ink flares, and so does something between my legs.

“Take your differences elsewhere. This is a party.”

Our clients have gone silent. I’m apparently not the only one impressed by Brody’s ability to take charge. They’re all staring at him, rapt, Benton Frusk temporarily forgotten.

Brody turns and goes back to the helm, depriving me of the view. The party feels like it must be over, and this isn’t the closing ceremony I’d hoped for. I’m aware I have about five seconds to rescue it. Not enough time to think. I have to improvise.

Luckily, I have some recent experience with worthless men like this two-timing coach, and there’s one super important thing I know about them.

They don’t deserve the women they mess with.

“Amy,” I say. “Cara.”

They both turn to look at me.