Page 40 of Twins for Three Bad Boys

“Thank you.”

I take my latte and turn, intending to find a quiet corner.

Instead, I nearly collide with a girl holding a tablet and a stylus, hair pulled into a messy ponytail, cheeks smudged with what looks like paint.

She looks up, eyes bright. “Oh! You’re June, right?”

I blink. “Yes.”

“I’m Millie,” she says, grinning like we’re already friends. “You work for Wayne.”

My stomach flips.

But Millie doesn’t look judgmental. She looks excited. Warm. Open.

“Yeah,” I say cautiously.

Millie holds up her tablet immediately. “Okay, quick question. Be honest. Which one of these looks less like a haunted raccoon?”

I laugh, an actual laugh, because the bluntness catches me off guard.

She points at two versions of the same illustration. One is cute. One is… definitely haunted raccoon.

“This one,” I say, tapping the better one. “The other one looks like it’s seen unspeakable horrors.”

Millie gasps. “Thank you! That’s what I said!”

Ellie snorts behind the counter. “Millie, everything you draw looks like it’s seen unspeakable horrors.”

Millie flips her off affectionately. “That’s called style.”

I laugh again, unexpected warmth blooming in my chest.

Millie slides into a booth and pats the seat across from her. “Sit. Tell me everything.”

I hesitate.

But, tired of being alone, I move anyway.

I sit and hope she doesn’t want me to open up too much.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Wayne

It’s been a week since everything changed. Since June got here, and now I’m sitting at the kitchen table, coffee in hand, always trying not to look at Evan too much.

It’s a habit I’ve developed over the last few years, watching my son without being too obvious. I want to give him space to be who he is, let him figure out what he needs. But he’s still a kid, still growing, and sometimes you catch a glimpse of the boy he’ll become. And those moments always make my chest ache.

Today, though, it’s a little different.

Evan’s got a new toy in front of him, right there on the table, and it’s clear from the way he’s holding it that it’s important to him. He’s turning it over in his hands, watching it closely. The smooth wood catches the light, and it pulls my attention.

“Evan,” I say, keeping my tone light, but the question’s already there. “Where did you get that?”

Evan looks up, and for a split second, I think he might make up a story about finding it in the backyard or getting it from a toy store. Instead, he gives me a solemn look, all big brown eyes, and answers in that serious tone of his.

“June made it for me.”