Page 180 of Twins for Three Bad Boys

Owen taps the side of his nose. “I’m a storyteller. We deal in intuition.”

Then he’s gone again, vanishing back into the crowd with the wild-eyed purpose of a man shepherding an entire town toward cinematic joy.

I climb into the truck bed with the others, tucking my boots carefully under the blanket.

Wayne settles on one side of me, Fletcher on the other. Rex somehow sprawls across the tailgate end, one arm draped along the edge behind us all like he was born to occupy exactly that much space.

It should feel cramped, but no—it feels… like being held. Held in a way I never expected after the guys learned the baby news. News we haven’t really discussed again.

An old romantic comedy, apparently beloved by half the town and quoted by the other half, floods the screen.

Within ten minutes, I realize why everyone enjoys it. It’s ridiculous and charming and filled with terrible decisions and chemistry.

At one point, the heroine says something dramatic about not wanting a half-lived life, and I feel all three men go strangely still around me.

I can’t look at any of them. Instead, I look pointedly around at everyone else—Lorna Pike sitting with Ellie under a plaid blanket, Tess from The Mile Marker with two women I don’t know and a giant pretzel, Marco Bellini gesturing wildly with a soda in hand.

The field is quiet in that particular movie way, where hundreds of people are all sharing one feeling at once without speaking it aloud.

And somewhere in the dark, beneath the blankets, my hand ends up tangled with Wayne’s.

My shoulder rests more fully against Fletcher.

My boots are tucked under Rex’s leg for warmth.

No one comments on it.

No one makes it weird.

It simply happens.

Like I am not balancing three impossible things.

Like we are just this.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Fletcher

I don’t enjoy leaving things unfinished.

Doesn’t matter what it is. Metal, machines, or conversations that sit wrong and keep circling back when you’re trying to focus on anything else. If something’s open, it doesn’t stay quiet. It lingers. Works at you until it’s settled properly.

Tonight isn’t settled.

I can feel it the second we step inside my place.

June feels it too. She pauses just past the doorway, not moving further in, waiting to understand what this is before she commits to standing in the middle of it. I get that. There’s a shift when you cross into someone’s space, especially when everything between you is already carrying more weight than it should.

My place is simple. Clean, but not in a way that tries too hard. Everything has a place because it makes sense, not because I’m trying to impress anyone. Couch worn in just enough. Kitchen used often enough to matter. Tools set off to one side because I don’t switch off completely, even when I’m supposed to.

Rex closes the door behind us softly, clearly aware of it too. Wayne stays close to June, not touching yet, but near enough that she doesn’t have to reach far if she needs him. I don’t step far either. None of us say it, but we’re holding the same shape. Close enough to support, far enough not to crowd.

June lets out a breath.

“Okay,” she says. “This feels… serious.”

Rex huffs a little. “That’s because it is.”