Page 214 of Twins for Three Bad Boys

Wayne’s whole body changes.

Suddenly, I understand exactly how men end up throwing people through walls. Not because I’m out of control.

Because for one split second, hurting this cold woman back on June’s behalf feels cleaner than language.

“This?” Rex says softly, dangerously.

Mrs. Kline doesn’t back down. “If your choices have become more… unconventional since leaving the school, that is, of course, your business,” she tells June. “But it does rather suggest the rumors about pushing boundaries and impropriety were not entirely invented.”

June makes the smallest sound beside me. Not a sob. Not even close.

Worse.

A little intake of breath. Something old just found a fresh place to land.

I step forward before I realize I’m doing it.

“No,” I say.

Mrs. Kline blinks.

“No,” I repeat, sharper now. “You do not get to stand there and act like what’s happening in her private life now has anything to do with a professional lie you let ruin her. You don’t get to take the ugliest possible version of a woman and call it policy. You don’t get to punish her for other people wanting things they didn’t know how to own.”

Wayne’s hand closes around my shoulder from behind, a reminder. Not here. Not in this way.

But I’m not done.

“She cared about those kids,” I say. “And you’re standing in a building full of handprint art and kindness slogans trying to make her sound dirty because she’s standing with three men who actually show up for her.”

The lobby has gone dead quiet.

Mrs. Kline’s face goes cold. “If you continue speaking to me in that tone, I will ask security to remove you.”

Rex actually laughs at that. Full, disbelieving, delighted by the absurdity of it.

“You got security?” he asks. “At a primary school?”

The receptionist might faint.

June’s fingers tighten around my wrist now. “Fletcher.”

I look down at her.

Her face is pale, but there’s more under it now. Focus. Not retreat. Her eyes are fixed somewhere past Mrs. Kline’s shoulder, somewhere down the hall.

Then June gasps.

She lets go of my wrist and takes one step sideways.

“Wait,” she says.

All of us turn.

There’s a woman halfway down the hall in a cleaner’s uniform, pushing a cart stacked with cleaning products. Blonde hair scraped back. Cheap sneakers. Head down at first, staring at her phone screen, typing furiously.

Then she looks up.

And the second June sees her face, everything changes.