Page 54 of Twins for Three Bad Boys

June laughs again. “It literally follows me.”

“Must like you,” I say.

Her gaze flicks to me again, quick as a spark. “Or it’s trying to kill me.”

“That’s also possible,” I agree, and it earns me another soft chuckle.

For a few minutes, we just sit there and watch everything unfold. People are moving in a loose constellation around the fire. Luke is laughing, his head thrown back, Bear is back in the food line again, Saint is standing sipping from a can of beer, one hand in his pocket, watching over the kids near the bonfire, quietly guarding the whole town.

The music behind us changes. Something slow, with a rhythmic beat, the kind of song people sway to when they’ve had enough beer to stop pretending they’re not sentimental.

June glances toward the makeshift dance space without moving. “Do people… dance?”

I follow her gaze. A couple already are. Laughing. Barefoot. Spinning as if nobody’s watching, even though everyone is.

“They do,” I say.

June’s smile is small. Almost private. “That’s kind of sweet.”

“It is,” I agree.

I stand before I can overthink it and offer my hand.

June looks at it, her fingers hovering above mine.

“I’m not…” she starts, then stops.

“Not what?” I ask gently.

Her eyes lift. “I’m not good at… this.”

I tip my head. “Being asked?”

Her throat works as if she’s swallowing something thick.

Maybe she’s thinking of other men. Other invitations. Other hands that didn’t offer and wait. Hands that took.

“We don’t have to.”

June stares at me for another long beat.

Then she places her hand in mine.

The second our skin touches, my body locks onto hers.

Heat. Awareness. That snap of chemistry that makes the world tilt half a degree off its axis.

I help her up from the log and lead her closer to the music, staying just at the edge of the crowd. Not in the center where people will stare too hard, but close enough for the firelight to paint her face gold.

June’s laugh is quiet when I guide a hand to her waist. Careful, asking with the movement, not forcing it.

She doesn’t pull away.

She settles. Slowly.

Then she looks up at me, too close and far too alive, and my brain supplies one deeply inconvenient thought:

This is going to complicate things with Wayne.