“That’s what I’m telling you,” I say.

“Back up a second,” Amanda says. “I need an in-depth, frame by frame, moment by moment, blow by blow—no pun intended—re-creation of the moment Brody realized you were selling eight-inch silicone cocks on his boat.”

“I mean, they’re not all eight inches,” I point out, trying not to think about eight inches I have recently become acquainted with. Must. Not. Think. About. Brody’s. Cock.

It’s like telling yourself not to think about elephants.

“Okay. Five-inch pink latex dildos, I don’t care, please, please, just tell me exactly what the expression on his face looked like.”

I flash back to the expression Brody wore when Jack Buddy was on display. And discover I’m blushing. Fiercely. Dagnabbit.

Amanda’s eyebrows go up. So do Lucy’s.

“I mean, he was definitely surprised,” I say, as quickly as I can, but I’m not fooling anyone, except maybe Hanna.

Then I glance at Hanna and discover that she’s looking back at me with her mouth open.

So, yeah, not fooling anyone.

“Wait.” Amanda puts up a finger. “Wait a second. You… and… Brody?”

My face gets even hotter. “You don’t really want to talk about this, do you?” I ask Amanda. “He’s your brother.”

“Oh, yes, she does,” Hanna says. “There is no one more interested in the Wilder brothers’ romantic adventures than Amanda-formerly-Wilder. She’s in the business of procuring cousins for her kids as fast as she possibly can.”

“No pressure,” Lucy says, making a wry face at me.

“I mean, this is just—I’m only—it’s a—”

Yeah, that sentence isn’t coming out so well, and they all look faintly amused, probably because at this point my face is the same color as Lucy’s Bloody Mary.

“If you’re about to say you’re only in town for a few weeks, don’t bother,” Hanna says, tipping her head in Lucy’s direction.

I try again, because despite the sheer goodness of things with Brody—and when I say things, I mean naughty naked things—and despite Brody’s best efforts to un-plan me, I do need to go back to my life in Boston. Now that I have my job back, it’s kind of a fait accompli.

“I really am not staying,” I say. “Anyway, Brody doesn’t strike me as the marrying kind.”

“You’d think, right?” Amanda says.

“He was going to marry Zoë.” Hanna hefts her beer stein and swigs.

Amanda’s eyes suddenly shoot daggers.

Wait. What? “Zoë?”

“Justin’s mom,” Hanna explains.

Amanda’s stare gets even darker, but Hanna is obviously not easily intimidated. “Justin is Brody’s kid,” she elaborates.

“Wait, Brody has a kid?” I ask.

Brody, like my Brody? The bad boy with the tattoos on the motorcycle? Has. A. Kid?