CLAIM (Dirty Brothers 3)

But there’s no way that I’ll be able to stay here for a month. I’ll implode. The way he’s looking at me right now makes my body melt in a way I haven’t felt in years, and I’ve only been here for thirty minutes. If I’m here for thirty days, there’s no way I’m going to last.

Would that really be so bad? My gut tells me that yes, Logan Sr. wouldn’t want me find his son just to fall into bed with him. But then again, he didn’t specifically say that I couldn’t do that either.

I clear my throat, standing up from where I’ve been resting on that stump. Robert catches the movement of my hands as I subtly brush off my ass. His eyes flick back up to mine and I wonder if he’s imagining touching my ass. A blush rises up into my cheeks and I shake my head. What is wrong with you Anna? This man is your ticket back into your life, not some guy you’re picking up at a bar.

“I didn’t exactly bring a month’s worth of clothes with me.”

Robert smirks, like he’s envisioning me all out of clothes, and I blush harder. “We can wash your clothes. And I have to go down the mountain to town in about a week. If you still feel you need some, we can buy them.”

“Down the mountain?”

Robert strips off his gloves and heads back toward the cabin. “Yes, down the mountain. Even as self-sufficient as I am up here, I still need to restock supplies from time to time. I’m not a complete hermit.”

“Oh.” It’s not exactly a brilliant comeback. But everything I was told about Robert made it seem like he’d gone off the grid and was living like one of those doomsday preppers that you see on reality shows.

But then again, when you live like the rest of the Logans, I suppose that going off and living quietly in the woods could seem like that. “Sorry,” I say.

“Did you think you were looking for someone who had decided to become a modern caveman?” The question is probing, but he doesn’t sound angry. He looks over his shoulder and there’s a faint smile there; it’s a little sad. Like he knows exactly what everyone has been saying about him.

“Yeah,” I say. “Something like that.”

I follow him back into the cabin, and he heads over to the kitchen area. Now that I’m going to be staying here, I take a better look around.

At first glance, it’s just a wood cabin. But looking closer, I can see that this isn’t just some backwoods hideaway. Everything is well made, solid, and thoughtfully designed. The kitchen, in a small alcove, has an island and a huge stainless steel refrigerator. There are a few shining pots and pans hanging from a rack on the ceiling, and blue glass dishes drying in a rack by the sink. The main room of the cabin is huge, with an overstuffed couch and a couple of cozy armchairs.

For someone who’s been something of a detective for the last few months, I really didn’t pay attention when I came in. This isn’t the home of someone who’s on the run. This is the home of someone who’s made a life for himself, and it’s not the life that his family approves of.

There’s a couple of rustic details that are more in line with what my original vision of his life, like the basin of water by the back door and the fact that there’s several huge axes hanging on the wall. But given that he chops his own wood, it makes sense.

Stairs disappear upstairs, and I can only assume that’s where his bedroom is. I try not to look at the stairs because I don’t want to think about that insanely hot, half-naked body in bed and all-the-way naked. Because if I do, then I might spontaneously combust.

He’s taken a beer out of the fridge and is leaning against the island, taking a sip. As if he’s reading my thoughts, he smiles. “You can sleep on the couch, unless you want to share my bed.”

The way he says ‘share my bed,’ almost like he’s hoping I’ll say yes, makes me blush again.

“The couch is fine,” I say, and it comes out more like a squeak.

“Suit yourself.”

I suddenly feel awkward. I had a clear purpose when I came here, and now that’s gone. I don’t know what to do with myself. Suddenly the cabin feels too big and too silent. I have the urge to make my steps as quiet as possible while I cross to the living room and sit on the edge of the couch.

“So,” Robert says, coming over and standing, imposing, across from me. “How did you find me?”

“It took a while,” I admit. “You covered your tracks well. But your father had done some of the work for me. Tracked the last payment you made with your family bank account.”