Page 179 of Twins for Three Bad Boys

Wayne parks near the back where there’s room to lower the tailgate. Before I can even unbuckle, the men are already moving around me in efficient, practiced teamwork that should probably not be attractive and yet absolutely is.

Fletcher gets the blankets from the truck bed.

Rex appears with a thermos and a bag that smells suspiciously of cinnamon and sugar.

Wayne helps me down from the cab like I might twist an ankle stepping onto dirt.

I want to protest.

I also want him to keep doing it forever.

They set everything up in the truck bed with the kind of male competence that should come with a warning label. Thick blankets layered over the mat. Pillows propped against the cab. A basket of snacks. Bottled water. Ginger ale.

My eyes snag on the last one. “You brought ginger ale.”

Rex shrugs. “Thought it might help.”

I look at him, then at Wayne, then at Fletcher.

Three men.

Three very different faces.

But the same care shines through all of them in slightly different ways.

And just like that, I have to blink hard because I am not crying at a drive-in before the movie has even started.

“That’s very thoughtful,” I say.

Wayne’s gaze catches mine. “You don’t have to thank us for taking care of you.”

I do, though.

Before I can answer, a cheerful voice cuts through the moment. “Well, would you look at that?”

I turn to see a man approaching with a tray of paper cups. He’s in his thirties, maybe, with windblown hair and a denim jacket covered in enamel pins.

“June, right?” he asks, stopping in front of me.

“Yes?”

He beams. “Owen Fitch, official projector wizard. Occasional popcorn emergency responder. I’ve been told to make you feel welcome.”

“By whom?” I ask, though I have a feeling I already know the answer.

He glances pointedly at the three men behind me. “The terrifying committee.”

Rex looks offended. “That’s not our brand.”

“It’s absolutely your brand,” Owen says. Then to me: “Don’t worry, they’ve mostly been house trained.”

I laugh before I can stop myself.

“See?” he says triumphantly. “My work here is done.”

He hands me a cup. Hot chocolate.

Real hot chocolate too, the good kind, dark and rich and smelling faintly of vanilla. “I don’t know how you knew I wanted this.”