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“Dude.”

“Shut it.”

“You need a goddamned cape.”

“Am I going to be getting you the cosmo instead of Laurel? You want a pink umbrella in it too, sweetheart?”

As his silent fuck you, he downs the rest of his Macallan in one chug. The dude gets props for not choking, though his eyes are watering as he ducks closer, lowering his voice like we’re plotting a Survivor-style immunity alliance. “Okay. ’Fess up, capeless wonder. Who do you think we’ll get to sling the next nuptial shit at? Wade and Angelique? Neeta and Alex? Kain and Aliz?”

I whip my head up. “Kain and Aliz?” Then hunch over my whisky again, realizing how loud the assjerk made me rail it. “Kain and Aliz?” I challenge when he’s copied my pose. “She’s used to castles and royalty, man. And he’s starting a new rock band!”

He flings a sardonic side-eye. “Uh, yeah. I know.” Then nudges his head toward the bandstand out on the terrace, where there’s already a drum kit set up. The logo on the bass is imprinted with The Hundred-Watt Hedgehogs. Sure enough, standing off to the side is our adorable Aliz, who just last week asked if she could stay on at the ridge and continue helping out with the kids. Emma and I eagerly agreed though had been baffled about the woman’s reasoning. I may have the main clue now. The woman makes me smile with her Hundred-Watt Hedgehogs T-shirt draped over her formal dress and a huge plate of chicken wings in her hands.

My grin grows as I watch Joany join her, also dressed in one of the band’s T-shirts. My brother Chase doesn’t seem to mind, but that’s not shocking either. When Kain and his buddies played some small New York venues a few weeks ago, I sent some tickets to Chase and Joany for one of the gigs. Looks like she became a fan, since Chase offered them representation with the Richards Group’s new entertainment management division.

My stupid grin continues to grow. And why not? At last, the world is right—and not just for a few minutes at a time. Never has there been a better moment to acknowledge that fact. The air smells like sunshine, sea spray, and roses—and life seems to be smooth sailing and very rosy for everyone these days.

My satisfaction blooms into joy as I watch my kids scamper to the middle of the dance floor, pulling Tosca and Jina with them, and start bopping to the prerecorded wedding standards that are being pumped through speakers before Kain and his guys start up. As “Celebration” and “Brown-Eyed Girl” give way to “Havana” and “Cake by the Ocean,” they also manage to get my mom on her feet—and for the first time today, my heart crumples a little.

I push out a rough sigh. “Damn. I wish our predictions had room for the lovely Mrs. Trixie Richards too.”

Foley takes a contemplative drag on his drink before responding. “Maybe they do.”

“Huh? What are you…” My voice fades off as I follow the invisible line he draws with his jutting head—at least until my view lands on the person he’s tagging. “Wait. What? Fershan?” When I zip a stunned gape between him and the most brilliant but shyest member of Team Bolt, Foley cocks a confident eyebrow, confirming the detonation of his bombshell. Still, I spew, “Are you fucking kidding me? My mother and Fershan?”

Foley tilts his head, evoking a perturbing swami-psychotherapist combination. “You think he’s just a kid, don’t you?”

“He is just a kid.”

“Yeah? You know that for a fact? Did you ever really look at his file?”

I down my whisky, signal the bartender for another, and then finally growl, “No.”

“He’s nine and a half years younger than her,” Foley supplies.

“Thanks. That and Kim Basinger gets him a kinky-as-hell movie.”

The guy has the nerve to chuff. And then smirk. “You know that’s ‘Nine and a Half Weeks,’ right? And FYI, I don’t think he wants Kim Basinger.”

“You really didn’t just go there.”

“I really just did.”

I snatch the refill that’s just been brought but don’t take the time to sip it. I’m already back on my feet, battling the force of my weird-ass trauma—all the while trying not to acknowledge the stare of complete worship in which Fershan is all but giving my mom right now.

The kind of look Dad never showered on the woman.

The kind of adoration, veneration, and all-around pussy-whipped worship the woman has always deserved.

Oh, hell. I just thought of my mom and the words “pussy-whipped” in the same train of thought.

And now, in the thought that comes after that, I actually put a brand-new conviction into a committed plan of action. An action I cannot believe I’m carrying through, as I march straight back toward the dance floor. All the way around the dance floor. Right up to one of the tables that’s closest to the stretch of red-glowing plexiglass. And then right up to the man of the hour—at least my hour—himself.

“Bennett.”

Fershan slams down his diet soda so hard, some of it sloshes across his hand. Not that he notices because he’s already scrambling to his feet faster than a spider in a watering can. “Uhhh…yes, boss? Whatever can I do you for—I mean do for you? I—I—errrr—I mean—”

I cut him short by pushing up into his personal space. Then riveting my gaze to his as if we’re a couple of boxers getting ready to go at it in Vegas—except that my chest is double the size of his and I’m a good six inches taller. “I think what you mean to say is that you don’t plan on hurting my mother. At all. Ever.”