Page 81 of Twins for Three Bad Boys

Fletcher’s brows pull together. “Okay?”

“You want to take her out. Take her out.”

The words taste of metal.

He studies me, expecting a trap.

“Alright.”

I shrug. “Just don’t screw it up.”

“I won’t.”

He heads toward the lockers.

I stand there a second longer, then I turn back to the engine. Except I don’t see it anymore. I see her in my jacket. I see the way she tilted her chin up to me without fear. I see the way she melted into me. She’d been waiting. And I see her at the kitchen counter the next morning, careful and bright and distant.

Professional.

It was a mistake we both silently agreed not to name.

Maybe that’s what this is.

A correction.

Fletcher dates her, she moves on, and I regain control.

Simple.

Clean.

I close the hood harder than necessary.

Headlights sweep across the living room walls, cutting through the dark in slow arcs that feel far too bright for the hour. I don’t move toward the window. I know the sound of Fletcher’s truck well enough to picture it pulling into the driveway without looking.

The engine idles, then cuts, and the sudden quiet that follows seems louder than the machine ever was.

I stay where I am, standing in the middle of the room, my hands braced loosely on my hips, telling myself I’m not waiting, even though the truth is obvious in the tension across my shoulders.

I told him to ask her out; I knew this was coming. I made the reasonable decision, the adult one, the one that keeps lines clean and responsibilities intact.

That should be enough.

It isn’t.

Upstairs, I hear the faint shift of movement. Her door opening, the soft rhythm of footsteps crossing the hall. There’s a pause at the top of the stairs, steadying herself, and then she comes into view.

I forget the speech I’ve been giving myself all evening about reason and restraint.

She doesn’t look extravagant. That’s not her. There’s no glitter, no calculated seduction in the way she presents herself.

A simple barrette in her dark, glossy hair, a dark green sweater that clings and makes her eyes pop, a skirt that fits perfectly without trying too hard, boots that say she’s still grounded, still herself, even when she’s stepping into something new.

She slows when she sees me standing there.

“Is this okay?” she asks, another question lurking beneath the question, one that has nothing to do with her outfit.

I nod. “You look good.”