Page 82 of Twins for Three Bad Boys

Her lips part slightly. Evidently, she wasn’t expecting that from me tonight. A faint flush climbs her neck. She adjusts the strap of her bag over her shoulder, nervous energy contained in small movements.

“Thank you.”

She pulls her coat from the hook by the door and slips it on, fingers fumbling just a fraction with the sleeve. I notice because I notice everything where she’s concerned, even when I pretend I don’t.

Before she reaches for the door handle, she turns back to me.

The space between us feels charged, unfinished.

“See you…”

“Have fun,” I shoot back.

She studies my face for a long second, as if searching for cracks. I don’t give her any. Years of practice make that part simple.

“Okay,” she says.

She opens the door, and cold night air rolls in, brushing past me, a reminder that this isn’t theoretical anymore. This is happening.

And of course, I’m watching.

Fletcher gets out of the truck the second she appears. He’s wearing a dark jacket, a clean shirt underneath, hair pushed back from his face instead of falling into it. He looks… ready.

He reaches the bottom of the porch steps and stops there, giving her space to come down to him rather than climbing up into mine.

He says something, and she laughs.

The sound carries faintly through the glass, and I feel it low in my ribs. It sticks there like a burr as he helps her climb into the cab.

And as the sound of the truck fades into the distance, I realize something I hadn’t accounted for.

Reason doesn’t dull jealousy.

It just forces you to feel it quietly.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

June

This is just a date.

It’s normal. Nice. People do this kind of thing all the time… so why is my heart thundering against my rib cage?

I’ve been on dates before. Coffee dates. Movie dates. That one disastrous bowling date where my shoe flew off mid-swing and nearly concussed a middle-aged accountant named Greg.

This should not feel like I’m being escorted to my own execution.

River Road stretches ahead of us, fog curling low between the trees. The headlights cut through it in soft tunnels of light, and for a few minutes, we just drive.

“So,” I say lightly, because silence makes my brain loud. “You clean up well.”

He glances over at me, one brow lifting slightly. “Yeah? Well, you don’t look too bad yourself.”

I shift in my seat, trying to get comfortable without looking like I’m squirming from nerves, and my knee bumps something wedged between the center console and the seat.

“Sorry,” I murmur automatically, reaching down to pull it free.

It’s a black hoodie. Heavy. Worn soft at the edges.