CLAIM (Dirty Brothers 3)

I grab the string and start to tie up the vines.

I think I might die before this month is up. Every part of my body hurts and all I was doing was pulling weeds. I also think I sweat more than I ever have in my life. And I embarrassed myself once again when I assumed that Robert didn’t have a shower. Instead, he handed me a giant towel and a pair of baggy sweatpants and a shirt and sent me upstairs with a smirk. “I’m not roughing it out here,” he said. “I like a shower as much as any man.” He winked when he said that and I blushed so quickly that he started to laugh. “Let me know if you want me to join you.”

I couldn’t even find my voice to say anything, so I just went upstairs.

His bedroom is gorgeous, the entire second story of the cabin is one open space, with a giant bed and bookshelves and a reading area, and bathroom so big it belongs in a palace and not the middle of the woods.

I stayed too long in the luxurious hot water, and it was probably the day’s work but I think it was the best shower I’ve ever had. Or maybe it was because his words stuck in my head.

Let me know if you want me to join you.

The thoughts that question raise are naughty. Oh, I do want him to join me in the shower. I want to know what Robert Logan looks like when he showers. How the water looks cascading down those perfect abs. What delicious treat is hiding under those tight jeans. Just thinking about his cock makes my mouth water.

My clothes are soaked through with sweat and I need to wash them, so I try to disguise the fact that I’m not wearing any underwear under his clothes. I’m swimming in them—which helps—and thankfully the T-shirt isn’t white.

Robert is in the room, and he freezes when he sees me. A long, slow look up and down my body. His voice is rough when he speaks. “You look good in my clothes.”

I touch my hair, which is soaking wet. “Thanks.” I mean, I look like a drowned rat—I just saw myself in the mirror—but I don’t have any doubt that he actually means it. It feels nice…to be noticed. After everything happened, it felt like I was suddenly invisible. People who had known me for years stopped looking at me. I never knew that you could miss it. But the way Robert looks at me, he sees me. And even without the fact that I’m dying to touch him, the attention is intoxicating. I realize that we’re staring at each other, frozen.

“There’s some food downstairs,” he says.

“Okay.”

It’s dark outside now. Darkness falls quickly in the mountains, and even though it’s early, I think I could go to sleep right now.

There’s a plate of pasta on the island and I practically inhale it before collapsing on the couch. This couch is comfortable. So comfortable, I’ll just close my eyes—

I snap awake to a soft tapping sound. It’s completely dark now; I must have fallen asleep. But from under the door to Robert’s workshop there’s a blaze of light, and again the muffled tapping sound. What time is it?

The clock in the kitchen says it’s three in the morning. Has he been working since I fell asleep?

I creep closer to the door and listen. No sound other than the tapping. It’s open a crack already, so I push it open the rest of the way. Robert’s back is to me, wearing nothing but soft pajama pants, his skin with the faint sheen of sweat.

“Robert?” I say it softly so I don’t startle him, but he whirls around anyway.

His hair his messy and his dark eyes are wild. Not in a scary way, but like he’s been…caught up. That focus that I admired earlier today is on me now, and I’m pinned to the spot.

“I woke you.” It’s not a question.

“I just wanted to make sure you were okay. Have you been working long?”

He drags a hand through his hair. “No. This sculpture has had me stumped, and I woke up, and I…knew what it had to be.”

He steps aside and I approach the wood to see what he’s been doing. I don’t have an artistic bone in my body, and I wonder what he sees that I don’t.

Robert takes my hand, and I jump at the contact. His hands are rough against my skin and he guides my fingers over the wood. “One single line,” he says. “Looping in and out of itself, never breaking.”

“You can do that?”

“Yes.”

I can feel his attention shift away from the sculpture and onto me, and suddenly I become aware of just how close we’re standing. His hand is still on mine, and he weaves our fingers together. He turns, and I turn to him, and I have to look up to see his face, and I do. Just long enough to see it in his eyes.