Page 241 of Twins for Three Bad Boys

It’s a beautiful day for the market, bright without being too hot, one of those late-season afternoons where everything feels golden around the edges. The whole square is busy in the warm, noisy way it always gets when the town decides to make an event of being alive.

Kids weave between stalls with crumbs on their faces. Someone’s dog is wearing a bandana that says local legend. A folk duo I can’t see but can absolutely hear is playing cheerful tunes near the coffee stand. The smell of cinnamon buns and espresso and cedar hangs around.

And our stall, our actual stall, is surrounded.

There are people browsing the toys, asking questions, picking up sets and turning them over, smiling when I explain the spinning pieces or the textured shapes or the way a particular toy is designed for little hands that need repetitive movement to settle.

Millie is a menace in the best possible way, charming people into buying things they fully intended to “just think about” ten seconds earlier.

“You don’t understand,” she tells a grandmother holding one of our painted woodland stacking sets. “This is the kind of gift that will make you the favorite forever.”

The grandmother laughs and buys two.

I stare after her as she leaves with the bag swinging from her wrist.

Millie smirks. “I am a business genius.”

“You’re terrifying.”

She beams. “Why, thank you.”

I smile and look back over the table.

The display is honestly beautiful.

My woodwork gives everything shape and weight and warmth, and Millie’s art has turned it all into something unmistakably ours. Her tiny painted mushrooms wind around the edges of the sensory boards. Her soft-faced animals peek out from corners and labels. Even the packaging has little details I never would’ve thought of. Illustrated ferns printed along the handles of the paper bags and hand-lettered tags make everything feel like a gift.

It’s far more than I could ever have imagined when I first started pocketing wood scraps as a kid... because they might become important.

A lot more.

Lorna from the café drifts over halfway through the morning with Ellie at her elbow and a cup of tea in one hand.

“Well,” she says, surveying the stall like a queen inspecting a new wing of the palace, “this is disgustingly adorable.”

“Thank you,” Millie says. “That’s exactly the tone we’re going for.”

Lorna snorts and picks up one of the little sensory rings. “You made all of these?”

I nod. “Mostly. Millie did the artwork and all the branding stuff.”

Ellie smiles, gentle and observant as ever. “It looks like the sort of thing people are going to come back for once they realize their kids won’t put them down.”

“I’m hoping that’s true,” I say.

Lorna gives me a look over the rim of her tea. “Honey, I have lived in this town long enough to know what people buy when they’re in love with something. You’re going to need more stock.”

The words hit me in a silly little tender spot.

Because she’s saying it like she assumes there will be more. Of course, this isn’t a one-time hopeful thing. It has a future.

Millie sees my face and jumps in before I get emotional in front of Lorna and never recover.

“We do have more stock,” she says. “We’re professionals.”

“You’re so cool,” Ellie says, smiling.

“That too,” Millie allows.