004

Robyn POV

I pulled my legs up cross-legged in the chair, indifferent to how expensive or fancy the restaurant was. I didn't care about impressing anyone—certainly not Professor Williams or his sons.

The professor seemed nice enough, if boring and stiff. He was utterly smitten with my mother, holding her hand at every opportunity, staring into her eyes, fawning over her. Mom soaked up the attention like a parched sponge. But at least for now, she was happy.

Since Mom preferred older men, most came with grown children scattered about. Boyfriend number three had been a divorcee with kids younger than me, though they'd lived with their mother. This was my first time sharing a house with a boyfriend’s children.

Not that Phoenix and Jack were children. Oh no, they were fully grown men. I tilted my head slightly to study Jack. He belonged on the cover of a men’s fashion magazine—perfect hair, perfect teeth, a natural tan. His sport coat covered a pristine white collared shirt and yet another tie. His mouth seemed permanently set in a disapproving line, and his eyes were an indecipherable storm of gray, blue, and amber. He ate his tiramisu mechanically, as if unaware of its richness.

I’d long since lost my taste for sugar, and besides, I was stuffed with seafood and steak. Divine. One perk of being my mother’s tagalong daughter was occasional fine dining. Crab legs were a rare treat. Once we settled in, Mom would start cooking, so I savored it while I could.

Beside me, Phoenix scraped the last caramel sauce from his ice cream glass. He caught me watching and raised an eyebrow. "Sure you don’t want anything?"

"Absolutely sure," I said.

He seemed alright—the more relaxed, easygoing brother. Friendly. I suspected we’d get along fine.

I stayed quiet through the rest of dinner, waiting as desserts were finished and the bill paid. Outside, I flipped my hood up, letting shadows obscure my face. A comfort habit.

Twenty minutes later, we arrived at the Williams estate. Big and sprawling, though not quite a mansion. The grounds were professionally manicured to sterility, with a turquoise pool glittering in back. The second-nicest place we’d stayed—ex-boyfriend number two had owned a proper mansion.

But size wasn’t everything.

Inside, Mom gripped my shoulders, ducking to peer under my hood. "Are you okay, sweetie? Comfortable? Need anything?" The words were hollow—she only cared that I didn’t interfere with her latest romance.

"I’m fine. Just gonna shower and sleep."

"Okay." Her grateful smile showed relief at dodging parental duties. "Thanks for being flexible, Robbi."

I slipped away. "Night, Mom."

Upstairs, I navigated to my assigned bedroom—already unpacked, clothes hung neatly, laptop and sketchbooks tucked in the nightstand. Grabbing toiletries and pajamas, I headed to the hallway bathroom.

Disappointment hit. For such a grand house, no ensuite or rain shower? Just a standard tub surrounded by masculine clutter: razors on the counter, two electric toothbrushes in a cup, woodsy-scented products lining the shower. I sniffed a body wash—spiced cedarwood—and immediately associated it with Jack. Jack, who’d glared at us like we were con artists.

With a smirk, I shoved their things aside, making space for my herbal shampoo, conditioner, and green toothbrush. My cosmetics bag plopped defiantly beside their razors.

Satisfied with my territorial claim, I stripped and stepped under scalding water, letting it loosen the perpetual tension in my shoulders. Leaning against the tiles, I massaged shampoo through my waist-length hair until the stress began melting away.

Finally turning off the spray, I wrapped myself in a fluffy towel and wiped steam from the mirror. My blurred reflection stared back. *You’re settled. Awkward introductions done. Just maintain routine.* Even with two infuriatingly attractive brothers downstairs.

I swapped the towel to my hair and pulled on emerald silk pajamas—lace-trimmed camisole and matching shorts—the fabric soothing against my heated skin. After brushing out my damp hair (which reached my butt when wet), I gathered dirty clothes and opened the door—

—colliding with a wall of bare muscle.

"Whoa, easy there," Jack’s hands landed on my bare shoulders as I stumbled back. I stared in consternation at his bare, sculpted chest. There was a tattoo on his right shoulder—some gothic cemetery angel. Funny, I’d never have pegged the stuffy businessman as an ink guy.

A thin T-shaped trail of sandy hair spread across his pecs, trailing down toward his navel. *Damn.* Who knew he hid this under those sport coats?

When I dragged my gaze up, his eyes held mild amusement at my blatant inspection. "Like what you see?" he growled.

"Meh." I stepped away from his hands. "I’ve seen better. Good night, Jack." Darting into my room, I shut the door firmly—though not before catching his smirk.