Page 24 of Twins for Three Bad Boys

CHAPTER FIVE

June

Maybe I’m hallucinating.

That’s the only explanation my brain is willing to offer as I stand just inside the garage bay, hands tucked deep into the sleeves of my sweater, staring at the man in front of me like if I blink too hard, he might disappear.

Wayne.

The man from Fern’s Diner, The Timberline, the Switchback Inn.

From my bed.

My stomach drops so hard I actually sway.

He’s standing there as if he didn’t get all tangled up in bed with me just hours ago, before vanishing in the dead of night. Like he wasn’t warm and solid and everywhere, his mouth on mine, his hands sure and making me feel chosen instead of tolerated.

Now he looks different. Closed off. Guarded. All broad shoulders and squared stance, his attention fixed somewhere just past me instead of on me. If I didn’t know better, I’d think we’d never met.

Which would be easier.

So much easier.

I swallow hard and try to breathe like a normal human being instead of someone whose entire life has just folded in on itself.

This is your boss, my brain supplies. This is the man who hired you. This is the man you slept with before you knew that.

My chest tightens painfully.

Not a great start to my new life.

I feel vaguely sick, like I’m about to be found out. Someone is about to pull back a curtain and point and say there she is. The girl who doesn’t understand boundaries. The girl who makes things complicated just by existing.

Hank, thank goodness for Hank, keeps talking, his voice filling the space where my thoughts are starting to spiral.

“You picked a good day,” he’s saying cheerfully, leaning against a tool chest like he hasn’t just unknowingly become my emotional support human. “Weather’s decent. River’s not flooding. And Wayne only looks like he’s about to bite someone, which means it’s a good morning.”

Wayne shoots him a look.

Hank grins wider. “See?”

I force a smile because it feels expected. Because I need something to do with my face before it gives me away. “I, um. It’s… it’s really impressive here.”

That’s not what I meant to say. It’s just what falls out.

The garage is impressive despite resembling organized bedlam, with half-built bikes and cars in various states of repair scattered across the space. But I don’t really notice them too much, because I’m mostly trying not to stare at Wayne’s hands.

Those hands are wrapped around a rag now, wiping grease from his fingers, and the sight sends a memory through me so sharp and sudden my ears burn.

His hands on my hips.

On my thighs.

My stomach flips, and immediately my body locks down.

Stop that!

Get it together.