Page 118 of Twins for Three Bad Boys

“I know,” I say, half horrified, half exhilarated. “It sounds insane when I say it out loud.”

“Insane,” she repeats faintly. “Continue.”

“Well, I don’t know what is going to come from that night. Possibly nothing. But the email has only complicated things. It reminds me I come with baggage.”

“You don’t come with baggage,” Millie says sharply. “You come with history. There’s a difference.”

I blink at that.

“I’m scared of the gossip,” I admit. “If the town finds out about the three of them. About Max. About the firing. I don’t know how many whispers I can survive.”

Millie leans back and folds her arms. “Okay. First of all? Redwood Run has survived biker bar fights, two mayoral scandals, and the time Hank tried to deep fry a turkey in his driveway. You dating three emotionally repressed men is not going to collapse society.”

Despite everything, I laugh.

“Second,” she continues, leaning forward again, “anyone who knows you knows you didn’t do what that email says. And anyone who chooses not to know you? Not your problem.”

I look down at my hands. “It feels like it is.”

She walks around the counter then, no hesitation, and pulls me into a hug.

“I’m on your side,” she says firmly into my hair. “No matter what. Ex-boyfriend sabotage? I’ve got pitchfork energy. Town gossip? I will out-gossip them with facts. Three men in deep lust with you? Honestly iconic.”

I huff out a tearful laugh. “You make it sound so easy.”

“Correct,” she says. “It can be.”

She squeezes me once more before pulling back.

“You don’t get erased,” she adds. “Not by Max. Not by a school board. Not by some anonymous coward with Wi-Fi.”

My throat burns.

“Okay?” she says.

“Okay,” I whisper.

The ice under my feet feels a little less thin.

Millie disappears into the back and comes out with a portfolio tucked under her arm.

“Distraction time,” she announces.

She spreads her new artwork across the table. Bold strokes, layered textures, pieces that look broken and beautiful at the same time.

“I’m leaning into mess,” she says, tapping one canvas. “Turns out it’s honest.”

I stare at the fractured blues and golds and feel everything loosen.

Mess can be honest.

Mess can still be beautiful.

Evan giggles at something only he can see outside the window. Sunlight hits his hair just right. The café hums around us, ordinary and warm.

Maybe the town will talk.

Maybe Wayne is still figuring out how much of his heart he can risk.