Page 85 of Twins for Three Bad Boys

“Of course, you are.”

He tilts his head. “You say that like it’s predictable.”

“It is.”

“And what are you getting?”

I glance down. “Salmon.”

“I see…”

“What does that mean?”

“It means you look like someone who orders salmon.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Disciplined,” he says easily. “Careful.”

My throat tightens unexpectedly. “Is that how you see me?”

He studies me. “Sometimes.”

Devon returns with water, saving me from having to unpack the judgement.

We order. Steak. Salmon. A shared appetizer Fletcher insists on because “you can’t come here and not get the garlic bread.”

When Devon walks away again, the air between us feels warmer.

“So,” Fletcher says, leaning back slightly. “Tell me more about yourself.”

“I carve toys.” The words I don’t usually say come flying out of my mouth. “When I have the time.”

“For fun?”

“For sanity.”

He smiles faintly. “What got you into that?”

“My grandfather,” I say automatically, then blink because I don’t usually offer that up so easily. “He used to carve little animals out of scrap wood. I liked that nothing was wasted.”

He nods slowly. “You don’t waste things.”

I shrug. “I try not to.”

“Even broken ones.”

I meet his eyes. “Especially broken ones.”

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I get that.”

The garlic bread arrives, and I am unreasonably grateful for melted butter as a distraction.

Dinner unfolds easily after that.

We talk about Redwood Run. About how Hank once tried to build a custom exhaust system and set off the fire alarm. About how Bolt refuses to fetch anything that isn’t edible. About the Moss & Metal Festival and the year someone accidentally released three goats into the parade.

I laugh so hard at that one, I nearly choke. “You’re making that up.”