Brody, in typical Brody style, says nothing else to me as we head toward town. After a while, the silence stretches to the breaking point, and as we near the business district, I ask, “So what’s the plan?”

“I made a list,” he says, rustling along the dash for a piece of paper and dropping it in my lap. “Potential partners.”

“What if I want to keep you to myself?”

He barks out a laugh. I’ve startled him enough that he takes his eyes off the road, and I see them in all their glory. The corner of his mouth stays turned up, too. My thighs jellify.

“From a business perspective,” I say, still teasing.

“Mmm-hmm.” His eyes are back on the road, but his mouth still quirks like he’s holding back a smile. It’s delicious. “You won’t be here forever.”

“True,” I say. “So I can’t get an exclusive while I’m in town?” And then, when I get another flash of Brody green eyes, “From a business perspective, I mean.”

“Not,” he says, “from a business perspective. But if you want to talk about a different arena, maybe.”

“Brody,” I say. “I know I said I don’t care about Connor, but—”

He cuts me off. “I’ll deal with Connor. He’s my problem, not yours.”

He pulls into a parking space in front of Krandall’s Outdoor Outfitters.

Rush Creek has changed a ton since I’ve been gone. Growing up, it was cowboys and ranchers and outdoor adventurers bound for one of the national forests. These days, it’s more of a classic tourist destination, filled with honeymooners and wedding planners, couples on getaway jaunts, and groups of women enjoying girls’ weekends away. Stores I took for granted as a kid—like a gift shop that sold rodeo-related trinkets—have been completely transformed. The new tourists wear yoga pants and sports sandals, travel in packs of laughing women, and carry pretty tissue-paper stuffed shopping bags.

It still has more or less the same look—low, saloon-style architecture, Western front porches, barrels and T-shaped light stanchions. Wide plank horizontal wood siding, and here or there something a little more cottage-styled, with flower-boxes in the windows.

I surf a wave of nostalgia as Brody pulls into town. I think basically everyone who grew up in Rush Creek has some longing for the old rodeo, even those of us who thought we were indifferent. It was the heart of the town for so long.

Brody and I hop down from the truck and head into Rush to Read Books. Jem owns the shop; she’s my mom’s age and they’re good friends. She was a second mom to me when I was growing up—or third, if you count Barb Wilder.