Page 61 of Twins for Three Bad Boys

I take a shaky breath. “Okay.”

His face shifts instantly, relief cutting through the intensity so fast it almost looks like disbelief.

“Yeah?” he asks, like he needs to hear it twice.

I nod, and then, because I’m me, because I can’t let sincerity sit untouched for too long, I add, “But if you take me somewhere with cinnamon chili, I’m leaving.”

Fletcher’s laugh is low and real, and it comes from somewhere deep.

“Deal.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

Rex

Redwood Run Market Saturdays have a smell.

Not just kettle corn and sun-warmed berries, though those are in the mix. It’s the whole thing together. Fresh bread, cedar shavings, coffee on somebody’s breath, and that damp, green edge-of-the-forest scent that never really leaves your clothes around here.

The first time I ever rolled into the small-town market, I told myself it was a pit stop.

Grab a sandwich. Stretch my legs. Let Bolt sniff every single post, conductin’ a formal inspection. Then I’d be back on the road.

That was years ago.

Now I’m standing dead center on Main Street with a paper cup of coffee in my hand, two identical men flanking me, and making me laugh constantly.

Cyrus Britt is on my left, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, scanning the stalls, clocking exits and opportunities at the same time. Casper Britt is on my right, sunglasses on despite the Oregon clouds, smiling at a toddler because he’s got nowhere else to be in the world.

If you didn’t know them, you’d think they were the same person.

If you do know them, you never confuse them.

Cyrus has the weight of plans on his shoulders. Casper might as well have been born mid-laugh. The only thing they really share is their looks.

I take a sip of coffee and let the warmth settle in my chest.

“So,” I say, drawling it out, already amused. “Which one of y’all is gonna tell me why I got invited to babysit twins at the market this mornin’?”

Casper turns his smile on me. “We don’t need a babysitter.”

I look between them slowly. “Mm hm.”

Cyrus snorts. “He means we’re not babies.”

I nod, solemn as a preacher. “Could’ve fooled me. Casper’s got the same energy as a toddler who just discovered sugar.”

Casper presses a hand to his chest as if I’ve wounded him. “That’s unfair.”

“You ate a cinnamon roll in two bites,” Cyrus says flatly.

Casper shrugs. “It was small.”

“It was the size of your face,” Cyrus replies.

I chuckle, letting my gaze drift over the market as they bicker. Redwood Run’s main street is lined with white tents and old wood tables, everything lookin’ handmade and proud of it. People move slow here. They stop to talk. They ask questions they actually care about getting the answers to. Kids with sticky fingers dart between legs. Dogs are everywhere, tails wagging with excitement.

There’s a stall with knit hats and thick wool socks. A guy carving little owls out of driftwood. A woman selling jars of jam with labels so pretty they belong in a magazine.