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“Hey.” Owen’s voice sounds deeper than usual. It’s not from an attempt to sound like the big man, though. There’s emotion in the grate of his words.

“How was soccer?” Holt asks, not taking his eyes off my son.

“Great.” Owen lights up. It’s the same light-up I recall seeing when Holt would talk about hockey. “It was just practice today, but we did a mock game and we kicked ass.”

I bite my tongue to keep from scolding yet another inappropriate word as I slide my feet out of my sneakers. I’d changed quickly into jeans and a light sweater before jetting off to soccer practice.

The snow in town is gone, but it’s muddy out here. Too muddy for pumps.

As I slip by Holt, I’m forced to face the reality of his size. I don’t think the top of my messy bun even grazes his shoulder. The man is a beast.

This is not the boy I remember. He’s not the Holt I once knew.

For my own safety, I’m going to have to remember that.

I force myself to walk into the kitchen, but I can’t quite keep my ears from working to pick up every word the two men exchange. It’s not easy between the little shrieks and giggles and pleas for more tickles that Mabel lets out.

It’s clear that Holt obliges her every request, though.

“Crap.” I drop my head against the headrest as I pull my car into the driveway. There’s not much left of the sunset to paint color into the sky, and Mabel is clearly on a clock because about five minutes ago, her obsessive chatter about Holt drifted into mumbles that turned to silence.

Her clock will wake her up around two in the morning, to which my little demon will howl at the moon for an hour. Of course, I’ll spend the hour moving between her bedroom to comfort her and mine to try and sleep. This really means I’ll be watching the monitor as Mabel practices acrobatics in her bed. Kids are weird.

Owen’s nights were never broken. From the time he was eight months old, he slept through the night. Mabel has been a real-life night terror for anyone who requires sleep to function as a normal, well-rounded human being.

She’d broken from her night waking habit some four months before Tate’s death. We felt like we won the lottery. Then Tate died and Mabel was back at it.

“Holt’s cool,” Owen tells me.

I give my son a pinched smile. “Told you he’d like you.”

Clearly, Holt likes my kids far better than he likes me. I can’t lie and say the warm affection and attention he showed my children didn’t soften me just a little. I’m sure he’ll be back to class-A asshat as soon as Tuesday rolls around.

Praise Heaven for long weekends.

I’m about to push from the car when Owen’s question hits me like a bus. “Why did you choose Dad?”

I croak, “What?”

“I know you were with Uncle Holt first. Why did you choose Dad?”

“Um—how do you—how do you know that I was with Holt?”

“Are you serious?”

I blink. “Yeah, Owen. We never talked about my past with Holt.”

“This is Rubble Ridge, Mom. Everyone knows everything about everyone. Especially about the epic love triangle that is you and the Wilder brothers.”

“I’m sorry,” I blubber. I’m speechless. “The love triangle? Did you just say epic love triangle in reference to my love life? Owen, I married your father when I was eighteen.”

Owen lifts a shoulder. “Grandma has pictures of you and Holt together. Before you were with Dad.”

My head rolls back against the seat. I mutter a prayer to the ceiling of my car. I admit, “I saw your dad first.”

“But you were with Uncle Holt first.”

I can’t look at my son. “I was.”