Page 87 of Twins for Three Bad Boys

“Only to me.”

That shouldn’t make my stomach flip the way it does.

“It’s just… complicated,” I admit.

“Why?”

I hesitate.

Because it’s Wayne’s voice in the kitchen when he tells me I’m safe here. It’s the way he kissed me like he meant it. It’s the look in his eyes when he watched me leave tonight.

And then there’s Rex, with his lazy drawl and warm hazel eyes and the way he looked at me at the river like I was something he wanted to understand.

What is wrong with me?

I’ve never been this way.

“He’s my boss, and I don’t want to mess this up,” I finally declare. “I’ve made enough mistakes in my life.”

“You’re not messing anything up by going to dinner,” he says calmly. “You’re allowed to have a life.”

The simplicity of it hits harder than it should.

Allowed.

It’s something I’ve been waiting for permission to do.

Devon drops off the chocolate cake with two forks and a knowing little smile that suggests he’s seen this exact dynamic unfold at this exact table more than once.

“Anything else for you two?” he asks.

“We’re good,” Fletcher says.

Devon nods and disappears again, leaving us alone with dark chocolate and whatever this is between us.

We share the cake without negotiating it, forks occasionally clinking, knees brushing under the table more often than is strictly necessary. Every accidental touch feels less accidental the longer we sit there.

When I finally lean back in my chair, pleasantly full and slightly dizzy from the warmth of it all, Fletcher studies me.

“You wanna call it?” he asks.

There’s no pressure in it. No expectation.

But there’s also a glint in his eyes that says he wouldn’t mind if I didn’t.

I glance toward the window. The river beyond the glass is darker now, lights from the other side reflecting in broken streaks.

“What time is it?” I ask.

“Still early.”

“Let’s not end it yet.”

The corner of his mouth lifts, slow and satisfied. “Okay.”

The Mile Marker is only a few blocks away, tucked into the older part of town near the railroad tracks. It’s darker than Riverbend, louder, more alive. A place for second stops. For hanging around.

When we step inside, the air smells of whiskey and citrus and old wood. A low hum of conversation fills the room, blues music threading through it.