Page 29 of Twins for Three Bad Boys

“If you ever want extra hours, we can talk about it,” he adds quickly. “But that’s not expected. This isn’t… that kind of setup.”

“I understand. Thank you,” I say quietly.

He hesitates, then adds, “If anything feels off, hours, routines, boundaries, you tell me. We’ll fix it.”

“I will,” I promise, trying again not to think of last night.

He slides the paper toward me. Our fingers almost touch.

“I think that covers it,” he says.

I nod, folding the schedule carefully, like it’s something fragile and earned.

“Okay.”

Our eyes meet for just a second.

Something passes between us. Recognition. Restraint.

Then it’s gone.

CHAPTER SIX

Rex

You can tell you’re getting close to Redwood Run when the road starts trying to keep you in one place.

The highway spits you out, the lanes narrow, the trees crowd in, and the air changes, becoming thicker, wetter. It’s like the forest has been holding its breath and finally exhales right into your cab. Moss hangs from branches in lazy curtains, and the river flashes silver between trunks if you catch it at the right angle.

Bolt lifts his head from the passenger seat because he feels it too.

“You smell it, don’t you, darlin’?” I ask him, reaching over to scratch behind his ear. He thumps his tail once, slow and satisfied, then lays his chin back down, satisfied the world is exactly as it should be.

That’s the thing about Bolt. Old boy’s seen enough miles to know when we’re home.

Me?

I pretend I’m just passing through.

I always do.

The truck hums under me. She’s been good this run. Florida up through Oregon, long haul, clean delivery, no breakdowns, no surprises. My hands are still a little stiff from gripping the wheel for two days straight, and my body’s got that familiar road sore feeling. My bones are vibrating with diesel and mile markers.

But I’m back.

And the first thing I do, always, without fail, is see the tiny town sign when it appears, and feel warmth settle right in my chest.

REDWOOD RUN.

Drive slow. Stay kind.

I smile to myself. Same sign. Same message.

Same little lie I tell myself every time: I’m just here for a night or so. Until the next job.

Bolt lifts his head again when we pass The Mile Marker. His tail starts thumping faster.

“Yeah, I know,” I tell him. “I’m not stoppin’ at Tess’s tonight, so don’t give me that look.”