Page 1 of Twins for Three Bad Boys

Prologue

JUNE

“What the hell is this?” The sight of the school receptionist stops me dead in my tracks, my tote strap biting into my skin. “What’s that you’ve got in your hands?”

Denise is standing behind the front desk with a cardboard box in her arms like she’s holding a bomb.

It’s a cardboard box with my name written on a label stuck crookedly to the side.

JUNE HARTLEY

Denise’s eyes are wet. She doesn’t look at me for long, her gaze sliding away as if she’s ashamed on my behalf.

“June,” she says softly, my name coming out like an apology. “They… they asked me to bring this out.”

I stare at the box, my brain refusing to catch up. “What is that?”

Denise swallows. “Your things... from your desk.”

My throat goes tight. “What? Why?”

She visibly flinches.

There are footsteps behind me. I turn to see the office door is open and Mrs. Kline and Mr. Harris are standing there, watching me the way people look at a nasty mess on the floor they’d rather not deal with.

“June,” Mrs. Kline says. She doesn’t say sweetheart or dear as she does with the moms who donate muffins for bake sales. She says it like my name is now an HR problem. “Can you step into the conference room for a moment, please?”

My hands go cold.

Mr. Harris is at her shoulder, mouth set in a thin line. He looks like he hasn’t slept. Dark shadows sit under his eyes, which won’t quite meet mine.

I follow them because I want answers. Some part of me still believes that if I listen carefully enough, all of this will start to make sense.

The conference room is too bright. The fluorescent lights make everyone look sick. The table is wiped clean, and there’s a box of tissues placed neatly in the center. I don’t know if that’s routine… or if someone expects me to cry.

That detail makes my throat burn.

Mrs. Kline gestures to a chair. “Please, sit.”

I don’t.

They both pull out chairs and sit. Mrs. Kline places a buff folder on the table in front of her.

I stare at it, keeping my tote bag clutched against my body like armor.

“What’s going on?” I ask, hating how small my voice sounds.

Mrs. Kline exhales slowly, folding her hands on the table. “June, we’ve received multiple complaints.”

“Complaints?” I repeat.

Mr. Harris shifts in his seat. His chair gives a soft scrape against the floor.

“Concerns,” he amends. “About boundaries.”

“With whom?”

Mrs. Kline slides the folder across the table. “Please understand, this is not about your work with students. Your performance in the classroom has never been an issue.”