It was dramatic, ridiculous, and entirely on brand for their dearly departed father—who somehow managed to micromanage his sons’ lives from six feet under.

A week after the funeral, Joel found himself back at the ranch with Tommy and their mother, Eileen, listening to the family attorney read a will that sounded more like the plot of a soap opera than a legal document.

There was money involved. An obscene amount of it. But of course, there were conditions. Ridiculous, invasive, 1950s rom-com-level conditions.

The gist? Whoever got married and produced a bouncing baby heir first would inherit the majority of the fortune.

Eileen just sipped her wine and muttered something about finally getting grandkids before she died.

So now it was on. The great matrimonial baby race of the Miller brothers had begun.

And there was no way in hell Joel was letting Tommy win.