“Wrangler butts drive me nuts.” “Uh—” I blinked. “Excuse me?” She smiled wide and laughed, looping her arm through mine. “I’m guessing since you can’t stop looking, you didn’t see them much in your parts of Cali. But, dear,” she said, dipping her chin toward Brooks and his brothers—her nephews—“those are Wrangler butts.” My cheeks heated as I remembered Wranglers was a brand of jeans. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I muttered, palms sweating, pretending Wren hadn’t caught me checking out Brooks.
