Page 148 of Twins for Three Bad Boys

Of course he doesn’t.

“I’ve got it here,” I tell him. “Don’t rush. Just let me know if you need anything, okay? Or if June does.”

“Yeah, thanks.”

Another pause. There’s more he’s not saying. I can hear it.

“Do you need anything?” I ask.

“No.” Then softer, “Just… keep your phone on.”

“Always.”

He hangs up.

I stand there, staring at the blank screen.

June.

Sick.

My mind runs through worst-case scenarios before I force it to stop. She’s been under stress. Anyone would be. Threats. That email. Her body’s probably just reacting.

Still… I don’t like not being able to see for myself.

The garage is already awake when I pull in. Hank’s arguing with the radio as if it insulted his family.

“Morning,” he calls.

“Mm.”

A rumble hits the garage before the door even rolls fully open.

Hank’s head snaps up. “Ohhh.”

The bike glides in easily, owning the concrete. Matte black Harley Low Rider S. Clean lines. Stock exhaust. Too clean—it obviously hasn’t been allowed to misbehave yet.

Ashby kills the engine, and the silence that follows feels intentional. Performative.

He doesn’t rush to get off, just sits there a second, boots planted, hands resting on the bars, a smirk playing on his lips.

Then he swings off in one easy motion.

He’s built with muscles for days. Dark hair tucked under a worn cap. Sleeves of tattoos disappearing under a fitted black tee that’s seen real sweat, not a stylist.

And he smiles.

“Well,” he says, “if it ain’t Fletcher Hale, the only man in Oregon who can make metal look emotionally repressed.”

I don’t smile.

“Morning, Knox.”

He walks toward me with a confident swagger. Ashby Knox is the kind of man who learned how to be loud without being obnoxious. Charisma dialed high. Eyes sharp enough to notice when a room shifts.

We’ve known each other for a few years now. He passes through Redwood Run when he wants quiet. Brings the bike when he wants honesty.

He claps a hand to my shoulder.