Part of the reason I don’t have any pets is because I can’t stand to see them get old. They don’t live long enough. Plus, I’m probably emotionally traumatized from finding our Doberman seizing on the kitchen floor after he got into pills Bobby left laying out.
The dog had to be put down the next day. The drugs destroyed his stomach.
I haven’t thought about Max in a while. It makes the resentment toward my brother bubble back up. I take a deep breath and push all thoughts of him out of my mind. Dean and I talk about a new video game while Mrs. Dawson makes scrambled eggs. She was right: it does feel like college.
All four dogs get up and run to the back door a moment before it opens. I turn, seeing who’s coming in at this hour, and my heart falls out of my chest when my eyes lock with Quinn’s.
“Finally!” Mrs. Dawson steps away from the stove to peer down the hall. “I was getting worried.”
Like a deer in headlights, Quinn stares at me, unaware of the dogs jumping up around her. Then she blinks, shakes her head, and takes off her shoes.
“What is he doing here?” she blurts, and her words are like a knife to the heart. She didn’t expect to see me, and more importantly, she doesn’t want to see me.
“Hey, sis,” Dean says, looking a little perplexed at Quinn’s disdain over seeing me. “How are you?”
“Good,” she says shortly. Setting her purse on the floor, she eyes me one more time before stepping down the hall to the bathroom. I turn back to my food, and the implications of what I did hit me in the face like a sucker punch. Which is something I’ll probably get from Dean—and rightly deserved—before the night is through.
I slept with Quinn. Three times. And it’s not that I regret it, because I don’t. Not at all. I’ve spent the last three weeks missing her more than ever, wishing I could be next to her again so bad it hurt. But I can’t.
We can’t be.
Not only would Dean hate me for it, but it would create a huge rift between him and Quinn, and they’ve always been close. The whole Dawson family is tight-knit, and something causing strain between them is like upsetting the balance of the fucking universe.
If this family has issues, then there’s no hope for the rest of us.
Pushing my food around on my plate, I wait for the inevitable. The dogs scramble around Quinn once she comes out of the bathroom, all pushing to get her attention. She pets Rufus first, then takes turns greeting the other dogs.
Mrs. Dawson steps away from the stove to give Quinn a hug. I can smell Quinn’s sweet perfume, and my heart lurches. She crosses her arms, not sure how to proceed. I don’t either. I’ve seen her naked, kissed and touched every inch of her. Fucked her hard until we soaked the sheets. And we haven’t spoken since.
I went through a maelstrom of emotions after that, from hating myself, to regret, to an intense sadness I haven’t been able to shake. I miss Quinn, and no amount of distracting myself or trying to tell myself otherwise is going to change that.
I’m in love with her.
Sleeping with her furthered that truth in my mind.
She’s the only one I want.
“How was the drive in?” Mrs. Dawson asks, going back to the stove.
“Fine. Leaving a bit later than normal helped avoid traffic, I think.”
“That’s good. Are you hungry, honey?”
“I am. Whatever you’re cooking smells good.”
Mrs. Dawson turns to Quinn, raising one eyebrow. “You’re joking, right? I’m making scrambled eggs.”
“Oh,” Quinn says, just as surprised. “Well, I still think it smells good.”
“I’ll gladly make more.” Mrs. Dawson turns down the burner. “I’ve been trying to get you to eat eggs for years. Take a seat. These are almost ready.”
Quinn looks at the island counter. It’s long, custom made so all the Dawsons could sit together, and the place we always eat unless it’s a formal dinner. Our eyes meet, and the way she looks at me pushes the knife deeper into my heart.
“Hey, Dean,” she says, taking a spot next to him. “And Archer.”
“Hi,” I say back, glad she’s not doing her routine of pretending I’m not here today. It would be too obvious, and Quinn is above that.
“Where’s Kara?” she asks Dean.
“Home, doing homework. I think she’s regretting going for her master’s degree now.”
“That doesn’t sound fun.” Quinn wrinkles her nose and dammit, she looks so adorable. “I’m so glad I’m done with school.”
“Me too.” Dean gives me a look. “How long have you been in school now?”
“I’ve lost count,” I say back with a smile.
Quinn shifts her gaze to me, and our eyes meet for half a second. “What are you doing here?”
“I have an interview at the county hospital.”
“The county hospital?” she repeats in disbelief. “I thought you—never mind.” She forces a smile. “Good luck. I’m sure you’ll do great.”
Ouch. The indifference hurts. I’d rather her be mad at me.
“I’m sure he will.” Mrs. Dawson brings Quinn a plate of eggs. She eats every last bite.
“Where’s Dad?” she asks.
“At a house trying to finish some last minute things for the inspection tomorrow,” Dean answers.
“Why aren’t you there?” Quinn asks pointedly. “You do still want to take over the family business, right?”
Dean motions to me. “Archer’s in town. I rarely get to see this guy.” He puts his hands on the counter, pushing his stool back. “But I should get going and go to bed. The inspector is coming early tomorrow, I want to get there before he does, which means getting up at the asscrack of dawn.”
“It’s weird seeing you act all responsible,” Quinn jokes.
“Hey,” Dean starts. “You and Wes aren’t the only ones who can have adult jobs.”
“Right. But we are the only ones who know the details on the Batmobile. I wish I could show you the new developments.” Quinn bites her lip like she’s thinking. “Well, maybe I can. I have a few seconds of footage I recorded on my phone. We have cell-scramblers all over the place, but I know the codes to get around it. Still, the footage is a little fuzzy.”
Quinn gets her phone from her purse. “I don’t know…I really shouldn’t.”
“Quinn,” Mrs. Dawson says sternly.
“I can show you too, Mom.”
“Better not risk getting in trouble with work,” Mrs. Dawson counters, but Dean’s already leaning in, eyes wide.
“Right.” Quinn puts her phone on the counter. “The cell-scramblers can encrypt footage taken and might be alerted when I press play anyway.”
She’s making it all up but sells it convincingly. I try not to laugh at Dean’s interest. Putting her fork on her plate, Quinn stands, only to grab onto the counter to steady herself.
“Are you all right, hun?” Mrs. Dawson asks.
“Yeah,” Quinn says, blinking rapidly. “Just got dizzy. It’s been happening lately from stress.” She shrugs. “It’s normal.”
“It’s actually not,” I counter. “You could be slightly dehydrated.”
Looking right past me, she nods. “I’ll drink some water.” She puts her plate in the dishwasher. Without a word to me, she goes into the living room with her mother to talk.
Before we slept together, I wouldn’t have thought anything of it. But now everything is painfully obvious. I can only hope it’s obvious to only us.
* * *
I wake up around two o’clock. After tossing and turning for a bit, I give up and get out of bed. I’m in a guest room upstairs, the one right next to Quinn’s room. Knowing she’s in bed alone just yards from me is part of the problem.
She’s so close yet so far and I can’t go to sleep knowing she’s right there. There’s so much I want to say—hell, so much I need to say—but don’t know how to start. My bare feet hit the cool hardwood floor, which creaks slightly under my weight. The entire house has b
een restored top to bottom, but holds onto its century-old charm, including the original creaky floors.
Opening the bedroom door, I pause before going down the hall. Quinn’s door is cracked open to allow the dogs to come in and out. Moonlight streams through her open window, and I can see her dark silhouette lying in the bed. She rolls over, and my heart skips a beat.
Fuck, I miss her.
Rufus, who’s sleeping on the foot of her bed, looks up at me, lazily seeing who’s walking about before going back to sleep. I go downstairs to the kitchen, where I get myself a glass of milk and a few of the cookies Mrs. Dawson made earlier.
Looking out the windows at the dark yard, I eat and try not to think. Even on nights when I’m exhausted from being on my feet for hours on end, this happens. Random thoughts go through my mind, keeping me from sleep. Coming to the Dawson’s farm used to be my reprieve when I was in college, but now, I’m uneasy.
And it’s all my fault.
I’m finishing my last cookie when the stairs creak. At first, I think it’s one of the dogs, but the lack of jingling dog tags lets me know it’s a human.
“Oh,” Quinn’s voice comes from behind me. I turn, taking in the sight of her in her pajama shorts and tight tank top. She’s obviously not wearing a bra, and her long, lean legs are hardly covered by the shorts.
If she turns around and I see her sweet, supple ass, I’m screwed.
“I didn’t know you were down here,” she murmurs.
“I couldn’t sleep,” I say, brushing the crumbs from my hands. I’m only in my boxers, not expecting anyone to join me. Quinn lets her eyes linger on my body for a moment before looking away. She smooths out her shirt, pulling the collar up, trying to cover herself, and looks so uncomfortable.
“Neither could I,” she admits and opens the fridge, rooting around until she finds a can of ginger ale.
“Not feeling well?”
She pops the top and shrugs. “I’ve had an upset stomach off and on all week.”
“As well as feeling dizzy?”
“Don’t try to diagnose me, Archer,” she snaps and takes a sip. “I’m tired and stressed from a current work situation, that’s all.”
“I can relate to that. I’m glad you’re here then. You can rest and relax.”
“Really, Archer? You’re glad I’m here? Could have fooled me.” She starts to leave.
“Quinn, wait.”
“What do you want?” she snaps. Her hand flies to the space between her eyes, rubbing her forehead as if she has a headache. “Sorry. Wait, no. I’m not sorry.”
“Fair enough. I think we should talk.”
“Listen, Archer,” she says and takes another sip of ginger ale, looking a little green. Letting out a sigh, she pushes her hair over her shoulder. I swallow hard, wanting more than anything to trail my fingertips over her collarbone again. To taste her lips on mine, to feel her under me. “It’s okay. You don’t have to.”
One of the dogs comes down the stairs and goes right to the back door, ringing the bell.
“Really?” Quinn sighs, setting down her drink. “You don’t have to go out, Boots.”
The little dog hits the bell again.
“Fine.” She disarms the alarm system before opening the back door. “Oh, shit.”
She disappears onto the deck. I stand and go out after her, shutting the door behind me.
“Quinn?” I call into the dark, catching a glimpse of her long hair in the wind as she runs toward the gate at the back of the fenced-in yard. The open gate.
Oh shit is right.
“Boots!” she calls. “Get back here!” She stops at the edge of the yard, hand over her mouth.
“Did you see where he went?”
“No,” she says, close to tears. “I didn’t know the gate was open. It’s dark and it’s late and there are coyotes out here.”
“Stay here and keep calling him. I’ll go get your shoes and a flashlight.”
I hurry back into the house, shove my bare feet into my running shoes, and grab Quinn’s sandals. Remembering the flashlights and candles Mrs. Dawson got out from under the sink during the storm, I open the cabinet and find two.
The Dawsons own the farmland surrounding their house but lease it out to farmers. About half an acre of grass is fenced in, and that’s divided with another fence, keeping the pool locked up safely from the animals or any children.
“Here,” I say, giving Quinn her shoes and a flashlight. The night air is chilly, and she’s covered in goosebumps. Her pert nipples are obvious through her thin tank top, but now’s not the time to lust over how incredibly sexy Quinn is.
“Boots!” Quinn calls once her shoes are on. She steps onto the dirt perimeter of the cornfield. The corn is tall, but not so much we can’t see over it. Still, I’m not above admitting it’s a little creepy out here at night. “My mom is going to kill me.”
“She won’t kill you.”
Quinn flashes me a look. “Have you met my mother? You know how she is with her dogs.”
“She is quite devoted.”
“I don’t get why the gate was open. It’s never open.” We walk a few more yards and stop. Quinn calls for Boots again and waits.
I look out at the corn, wondering if Boots is big enough to make the corn rustle like it does in movies when something is lurking. I look at Quinn and am taken aback by her beauty. Inside and out, this woman is gorgeous. And now that I know we’re phenomenal in bed together, it makes everything more complicated.
Because that’s exactly what it is.
We pick our way down the space between the fence and the corn, swatting away bugs and breaking spiderwebs. We’re out here alone, with no one to overhear us or get in the way. I need to open my mouth and say everything I want to say, because every second that passes without saying it makes things worse.
Quinn already thinks I saw her as a one-night stand.
“Quinn, I—”
“Shhh,” she cuts me off. “Do you hear that?”
I tip my head, listening to the night. And then I do hear it: the jingling of dog tags followed by panting. A few seconds later, Boots leaps from the cornfield, excitedly greeting Quinn. She scoops him up, scolding him and then kissing him.
“It is way past your bedtime, mister,” she says, hurrying back into the house. I shut the gate once we’re in the yard, and double check to make sure it’s latched. Quinn doesn’t put Boots down until we’re inside, and as soon as she does, she sits heavily on a kitchen chair, eyes closed and hand pressed over her mouth.
“You don’t look so good,” I say gently. “Are you feeling okay?”
“Can you get my drink?” she asks, voice tight. I grab the ginger ale and hand it to her. She sips it slowly, then leans back. “Thanks. For this and for helping me look for Boots.”
“Of course. Are you sure you’re all right? You look a little pale.”
She shrugs. “I think the adrenaline of Boots running away is wearing off too fast. I feel a little shaky.”
I grab a cookie off the counter and give it to her. “Here. You could have low blood sugar. Nausea, dizziness, and feeling shaky are all signs.”
“I eat way too much sugar, but I won’t turn down a cookie.” She takes a bite and makes a face that lets me know it doesn’t agree with her. She forces herself to finish her bite, then drinks more ginger ale. Maybe she has a bug. I hate that I can’t comfort her.
“Well,” she starts, putting the cookie on a napkin on the counter. “I’m going back to bed. I, uh, hope you can fall asleep okay.”
The air between us is thick with tension. She bites her lip, eyes running over my body. They linger on my crotch, and I wonder if she’s thinking about us making love. I know I am.
She grabs a ceramic coffee mug with a to-go lid from the cabinet and pours the ginger ale inside. “I have this weird thing with bugs,” she casually explains. “I can’t have a drink on my nightstand at night without a lid. What if a spider falls inside and I’m too tired to n
otice and accidentally drink it?”
I chuckle. “If you drink it down you probably won’t notice. But I suppose it could bite your lip or your tongue. And now I think I have a weird thing about open beverages at night. Thanks.”
“Hey, you really should thank me. No one wants to drink a spider.”
“No, I can’t say anyone would.” I step closer.
Quinn pulls on her hair with her free hand, twirling it around her finger. She lets it go and her hand falls onto her chest, sliding over her breasts. I don’t know if she’s aware of what she’s doing or not, but damn, she’s so fucking hot. She turns her head to the side, and I see a mosquito on her neck.
I stride forward and gently slap my fingers on her neck, trapping it before it can escape.
“Mosquito,” I quickly explain, pulling my hand back to show her.
“Oh, uh, thanks.”
We’re standing close, and I can feel the heat radiating off Quinn and can smell the fabric softener she uses on her pajamas. My heart is beating so fast I’m sure she can hear it, and I want nothing more right now than to kiss her.
And that’s exactly what I’m going to do.
17
Quinn
My stomach gurgles and my throat feels thick. A telltale sign I’m going to throw up. I pride myself on saying I have an iron stomach and often bring up how I survived the Dawson Family Picnic disaster, over seven years ago, with just a twist of nausea when everyone else was riddled with food poisoning.
But right now, there’s no stopping what’s coming up.
And also right now, Archer’s hand lands on my cheek, gently cupping my face and turning my chin up to his. He leans in and I know he’s going to kiss me. I want nothing more than to kiss him back, but I can’t.
Not right now.
I push his hand away and turn, barely making it to the sink before I throw up.
“Fuck, Quinn,” Archer says and moves in, grabbing my hair and holding it back. My stomach heaves again, and I shudder. Throwing up is awful. Just fucking awful.
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