Page 56 of Claimed By the Cowboys

I blink. “The what now?”

Tate waves at her. “Go shower, Piper. I’ll catch Brent up.”

“Okay. Thank you,” she says.

When I hear the upstairs shower start, I turn to Tate. “What the fuck is a Harvest Bash?”

“It’s the farmers market’s end-of-season celebration. Piper thinks we should have a booth, and we’ll draw some foot traffic for the farm.”

Oh. “That’s smart.”

He grins. “That’s Piper.”

I tap my fingers. “Anything else?”

Tate’s eyes glitter. “I think she wants all of us.”

I freeze.

Tate leans forward, his eyes practically glowing. “She told me she couldn’t choose.”

“Choose?”

“Like, if we wanted to take our relationship to a different place. A different level. She said she wouldn’t be able to choose just one of us.”

My heart thunders to a stop. I look at Tate, afraid to ask for more information.

“Really?” I manage to grit out.

Tate nods, his head bobbing like a goddamn toy. “Brent. She can see it. She can see that we’d all be good together. We just have to show her that it would be good. That we can work as more than friends.”

I shake my head. “No. She wants friendship, Tate. She’s said that a million times?—”

“Have we ever asked her?’ Tate asks. “Have any of us ever point blank asked her if she would want more than a friendship? If she’d be interested in sex, or taking it to a more romantic level than that?”

I pause. “No, I just always thought…”

“We thought a lot of things, Brent. I don’t think any of them are true.”

Fuck. If what he’s saying is true, then there’s a real chance here. To have a life that we’ve always wanted. To have Piper. Forever.

“Shit,” I murmur, running my hand through my hair. “Shit, Tate. Where do we go from here?”

Tate’s lips curl into a devious grin. “We have to show her that it could work, man. We have to show her how good it would be… with all of us.”

Okay. I can do that.

“What are you making for dinner?” I ask.

Tate shrugs. “No fuckin’ clue. I’ve been so excited that I can’t think about it.”

“Got it. Okay. I’m going to go clean up. Then we can… try to convince her?” I say.

I realize it’s a question. Not a statement.

Tate taps his fingers on the kitchen island. Then he freezes. His eyes meet mine.

“Whose shower do you think she’s in?”

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