Dawson Family Boxset (Books 1-3)

by Emily Goodwin

  “You too, Archer.” Kara points to the shot glass that’s resting on my legs. “You both smell like alcoholics.”

  Her comment, as innocent as it is, makes me cringe. I do know what an alcoholic smells like. And it’s often much worse than smelling like straight whiskey and a strawberry margarita.

  “Whatever,” Quinn says, shaking her head. “It is what it is, right? Could be worse. Want me to get you refills?”

  “Refills implies we got the first fill,” Dean teases, picking up empty shot glasses from the table. I lean over and grab three from the floor. Quinn does the same, but her back is to me. My mouth goes dry as I watch her bend over, oblivious to how dangerously close her ass is to being exposed in that short dress.

  It’s just a sundress, white with little pale-yellow birds patterned along the hem. On anyone else, I wouldn’t bat an eye. But on Quinn, a potato sack would look erotic.

  She’s tall and lean, getting most of her height from her long legs. I’ve wanted to bury my face between her large breasts since the moment I saw her, and those tits are what threw me on day one, thinking she was much older than she really was.

  Even when I found out our age difference, I still wanted her. Her brother was my roommate freshman year of college, but it didn’t matter.

  Until it did.

  Dean became more like a brother than my best friend, and I didn’t realize how much I needed his family until they took me in. The whole Dawson crew—all seven of them—are good people.

  The kind of good that’s hard to find.

  The kind of good that values family. That means it when they say they’ll be there for you. The kind that makes you feel welcome and safe, who invites the guy who’s been living with their son for a few months back to the family farm for Christmas because his own parents had to fly out to Vegas at the last minute to deal with some shit no one should deal with over a holiday.

  Then it mattered.

  “Thanks,” Quinn tells me and puts the final shot glass on the tray.

  “Why are you bringing drinks out?” Dean sits back down in the booth and puts an arm around Kara.

  “Heather is running late and I tried to be nice.”

  “That’s where you went wrong, sis.” Dean picks up his beer only to realize it’s empty. “Don’t do favors for those dickheads.”

  “Those dickheads who brought you another beer?” Logan appears behind Quinn, with a towel in one hand and a beer in another. Dean laughs and takes the beer from his younger brother.

  “It wasn’t my fault,” Quinn starts. “Some drunk guy bumped into me. On accident,” she adds quickly, knowing her brothers well. All four of them are over-protective, and if it weren’t for the fact that I’ve secretly wanted Quinn for myself for the last several years, I would have felt sorry for her. Dating can’t be easy with Owen, Logan, Dean, and Weston always looking over her shoulder.

  Logan shrugs it off and mops up some of the booze on the floor with the towel. “There’s a reason you’re not a bartender anymore.”

  “Trust me, I know.” She picks up the tray. “I’ll go get more.”

  “No!” everyone shouts at the same time. Laughing, Logan takes the tray from her. “I’ll get it.”

  “Thanks,” she tells him and pulls her phone from her purse, firing off a text message. “Dammit. Jamie’s already on her way. I was hoping she’d bring me more clothes,” she mutters to herself. The white fabric of her dress is stained from the margarita, and she has to be soaked down to her bra from the whiskey. Well, if she’s wearing a bra. My eyes go back to her chest on their own accord. I don’t see straps, and the faint outline of her nipples are visible through the wet fabric.

  Dammit. I need to stop.

  “I have an extra set of scrubs in my car,” I offer before I have a chance to think about what I’m saying. “They’re clean.”

  “I’ll take you up on that offer,” she says, looking at the stains on her dress again. “The smell alone is going to make me sick.”

  “Memories?” Dean probes, raising his eyebrows.

  “Maybe.”

  “I didn’t know your nerd-friends knew how to have fun.”

  Not missing a beat, she pops her hip and places a hand on the curve. “Well, between washing our Ferraris and firing our personal assistants, we’re known to have fun.”

  Dean waves his hand in the air. “Yeah, yeah, I get it. Be nice to the nerds because you might end up working for one.”

  “Exactly. And I don’t drive a Ferrari. Or have a personal assistant. And I wouldn’t fire one unless they were doing a terrible job.” She turns to me, a smile playing on her full lips. “You brought scrubs to a bar?”

  “They’re in my car. I keep an extra set or two in there. You never know what a day might bring at the hospital.”

  “Oh, right.” The flush is back on her cheeks. “You’re a doctor now.”

  “I am,” I reply and get out of the booth. The smell of her floral perfume is masked under the heavy scent of alcohol clinging to her skin. It wafts its way to me, teasing, making me want to lean closer and inhale.

  “What do you do?”

  “General surgery, for now.”

  She takes a small step backward, heel sliding on the floor still slick from the spilled drinks. I reach out and catch her, pulling her to my chest to keep her from falling.

  “I keep telling you ‘thanks’ tonight.” Her hands slide across my pec as she uprights herself. “And I should probably wipe that up before someone else slips.” She moves away, reaching across the table for the stack of napkins Logan left. She wipes up the floor and leads the way out, tossing the napkins in the garbage as she passes it.

  We slip out the employee door, stepping onto a gravel path that takes us down to the back lot behind the bar. The heavy door swings back into place, blasting us with cool air-conditioned air once more before shutting out the cacophonous thumping of bass coming from the bar.

  The sounds of early summer echo through the night and moonlight shines down on the cornfield behind us.

  “What did you mean ‘for now?’” Quinn turns to me, slowly walking into the parking lot.

  “I finish my residency soon. I’ve been applying for jobs and I’m not sure what I’ll get.”

  “But it’ll be surgery?”

  “Yeah, I’m a surgeon.”

  She smiles and looks up at me. Even in heels, I’m taller than her. “That sounds cool, you know.”

  “It does,” I agree, not at all attempting to hide my smirk. I worked my ass off from day one to get to where I am right now. I motion to my car and pull my keys from my pocket. “What about you? Dean said you invented and sold an app.”

  “Ah, yeah. I did.” She gets a little shy, casting her eyes back down. Dean also told me how much Apple bought it for, and I’m actually surprised to find out she doesn’t drive a Ferrari or have a team of personal assistants.

  “You were always smart.”

  “I just like computers and coding and all that stuff Dean says is geeky.”

  “So what do you do now?”

  “I design the structures software systems need to operate. This week, I’ve been fine-tuning the coding standards for a program with real-time computing for a client that may or may not be the US Government.” She gets excited as she talks, face lighting up.

  “Coding standards?”

  “It’s the basic guidelines used when writing out the code to a new program.”

  Having reached my car, we stop. I turn my head down to meet Quinn’s gaze and raise an eyebrow. “I’m not even going to pretend to understand what you do.”

  She brings her shoulders up and smiles. “That’s okay. I don’t understand it either.” Her smile disappears the moment she realizes what she says, and the flush is back to her cheeks. “Actually I do. Obviously. Since it’s my job.”

  I’d be lying if I said her awkwardness wasn’t part of her appeal to me.

  I open the back of my Jeep and grab my bag. Being a resid
ent doctor means shit hours, long-ass days, and even longer weeks. Two years into my residency, I got an apartment with my friend Sam, who was working his way to becoming an anesthesiologist. We were farther from the hospital than before but saved a ton on rent. I started keeping necessities in my car on the nights when we were in surgery for hours.

  I shake out the blue scrub top and pants. “They’re a little wrinkled, but they’re clean, I promise.”

  “As long as there’s no blood on them, I’m good.” She shakes her head, hair swishing over her bare shoulders. A few strands stick to her collarbone, still damp and sticky from the spilled drinks. If there’s ever a lesson in self-control, it’s right here and right now.

  I swallow hard, talking down my cock.

  “Then you’re good. They’re going to be big on you.” I hold up the shirt, using it as an excuse to run my eyes over her body.

  “That’s okay. It’s better than being wet all night. Which I am. I’m soaking wet.”

  Fuck. It’s like she’s trying to kill me.

  “I mean, look at me.” She sticks her finger between her breasts again. “I’m all sticky. I’m pretty sure—” She licks her finger. I readjust my cock in my jeans, trying to stop it at half-mast before it gives me away. “—Yep, that’s salt from the margarita. It tastes kinda good, actually. I think I’ll go order one after this. Want one? I still feel bad I spilled those drinks on you. But ten shots? Isn’t that a little excessive?”

  “There were other people at that table, you know.”

  “Right. I guess I didn’t notice them.”

  Her words make my heart stop, make all the air leave my lungs. I’ve felt that way for years whenever she’s around.

  “But I’m sure they noticed me and the spilled drinks.”

  “They noticed, but probably won’t remember.”

  She smiles again, and we head back to the bar. “This is nice, you know.”

  “What is?”

  “Talking to you.” Gravel crunches under her heels. “We’ve known each other for years but hardly ever talked. It’s like you thought I was just an annoying nerd like Dean did and avoided me.”

  I did avoid her, but it was the only way I knew how to keep my hands off her. To keep those words in my mouth and my lips away from hers. There were times I was fairly certain she had a crush on me, times she even put herself out there. But I couldn’t dare act and risk losing my friendship with Dean.

  “It is nice, isn’t it?” she asks when I don’t respond.

  “Yeah.”

  “Maybe we can do it again sometime.”

  “Maybe.”

  But I can’t. Not now. Not ever.

  There’s nothing more I’d rather do than spend more time with Quinn. But if I’m alone with her, I’m going to spill my guts and admit that I’ve wanted her for years. That I’ve watched from the sidelines, fighting off jealousy when she’d have a new boyfriend and how I never thought anyone was good enough for her. That she’s made me want to be a better person without even trying because being around her showed me what it’s like to be a good fucking person.

  Or worse, I’ll skip all the words that’ll get knotted up in my chest and try to kiss her.

  Neither of which I can do. I’m in town for my best friend’s engagement party, and I’m not going to fuck shit up by making a move on his little sister. She might have liked me years ago, but the time has come and gone.

  So I do what I’ve always done: Swallow everything I feel like a big pill, forcing it dry down my throat and walk away.

  3

  Quinn

  The air leaves my lungs and I’m left standing there, watching Archer walk up ahead of me. What the hell? Did I say something wrong? One minute we were talking, feeling like the old friends we should be, and the next he’s acting like he can’t get away from me fast enough.

  It doesn’t matter. More importantly, it shouldn’t matter.

  He stops at the employee door, needing me to punch in a code to unlock it. I fold the scrubs over my arm, careful not to press them against my wet dress, and take a spot next to him to enter the code. He doesn’t look at me, doesn’t say a damn thing. The tension rolls off him in waves, and as nice as our chat was a minute ago, I cannot wait to get back into the bar and away from him.

  That’s how Archer Jones has been since the moment I met him. Closed off. Guarded. Letting the walls inch down just enough for me to get a glimpse of the man inside only to bring them up again.

  A little green light flashes after I punch in the four-digit code and Archer opens the door for me. I step in first, shivering almost immediately from the cold air blowing down on us from the vent above.

  “Thanks again,” I say and turn to him. The door clicks shut and I shuffle forward. “For the scrubs. I’ll get them back to you tomorrow. How long are you in town?”

  “Until Sunday.”

  “Me too. I’ll, uh, see you again I’m sure.”

  “I’ll be at your parents’ house tomorrow for the engagement party.”

  “Oh, right.” I fiddle with a strand of hair, heart beating rapidly in my chest. Archer shifts his weight, lips parting as if he wants to say something. Our eyes meet for a brief moment before he blinks and turns his head, bringing his hand up to his stubble-covered jaw.

  “I’m gonna go change now,” I blurt, needing to say something. It’s getting awkward just standing here.

  “Yeah, good idea.” He nods and steps forward, following me out of the back hall and going back into the bar. He goes in the opposite direction, back to Dean and company, and I go into the bathroom. I do the best I can to rinse my skin, sticky from the margarita, and change into the scrubs.

  Archer was right: they are big. Knowing I look ridiculous in oversized scrubs and heels, I fold my dress and exit the bathroom.

  “I don’t get it.”

  I turn, following the male voice I assume is directed to me. It’s that guy Cam from the bar, the one in the fancy suit with the expensive watch. He pushes off the wall, drink in his hand, and flashes that same super-bright white smile my way.

  “Are you trying to be a sexy nurse? Because if you are, I suggest something with a little less coverage.”

  I blink. Is that supposed to be a compliment? “I’m not trying to be a sexy nurse.”

  “Then please explain your ensemble. Because I don’t get it.”

  Is he that drunk or is he for real? “You don’t have to get it. It’s what I’m wearing so…” I bring up my shoulders in a shrug. He continues to stare at me, a smug smile on his lips. I shake my head and turn to walk away. He says something else and I pretend I don’t hear it. I go right to the bar again to get a bag for my wet dress and get my glass of vodka-soaked cherries that I stashed in the mini fridge under the counter.

  “I heard what happened.” Owen looks over his shoulder as he fills a tall glass with beer from the tap. “Way to go, butterfingers.”

  I make a face. “Someone bumped into me. Hard. It would have happened to you too.”

  “Doubt it.” He makes a face back and gives the beer to a guy at the counter. I pop a cherry in my mouth, shuddering from how strong it tastes. Owen laughs. “Want me to make you a real drink?”

  “Please. I’ll try an Old Fashioned.”

  “Give me a minute,” he says and hurries off to bring out more drinks and flirt with his female customers again. I move away from the counter so people don’t mistake me for a bartender, though right now I look more like an escaped mental patient given what I’m wearing.

  A few minutes later, I’m sipping the Old Fashioned and Jamie’s walking through the doors. She orders a beer and we snag two seats at the bar.

  “Want to go home and change?” she asks.

  “Is it that bad?”

  “It’s not good.” She laughs and takes a hair tie off her wrist. “Stand up…let me fix it the best I can.” With a bit of finagling, she pulls the scrub top tighter, securing the band in the back. “At least I can see your figure now.
And your tits. Maybe we can get some free drinks.”

  Since the shirt is big, the V neckline goes down low. “I can already get us free drinks.”

  “Yeah, but where’s the fun in that?”

  I laugh and rest an elbow on the counter. Jamie and I have been friends since middle school, and though she still lives here and I’m up north in Chicago, it’s always like we just picked up right where we left off whenever we see each other.

  We catch up, talking and laughing about any small town drama I missed. About half an hour later, a friend from work comes in, and Jamie’s all too excited to see him. She’s been crushing on him for a while, and they are seriously cute together.

  My gaze darts to the back of the bar, finding Archer still in the booth with Dean and his friends. They have more shots in front of them, and while everyone else seems to be having a good time, something seems off with Archer.

  But it’s not my problem.

  “Want to play pool with us?” Jamie asks, finishing the rest of her beer.

  “Yeah, sounds fun. I’ll get us drinks and meet you over there.” Back behind the bar I go and get Logan to make me three mojitos. I give him my credit card before I leave, opening myself a tab to cover what I spilled as well as what I drank and have him put Dean’s party on it as well.

  “I have to say,” Cam starts, appearing out of nowhere. “The look is starting to work for me.”

  I’ve already spilled enough drinks tonight and I’m determined not to shed one drop of the three I’m precariously balancing on a tray this time. Flicking my eyes to him, I keep walking, taking small, level steps.

  “This might surprise you, but I didn’t get dressed today with the intent of my clothes working for you. I wear what I want.”

  He laughs. “Sure you do. That little dress you had on was just for you, wasn’t it, sweetheart?” He winks and then laughs, and I’ve never been more tempted to throw a drink in someone’s face before. Guys like him make me want to throw up. I don’t need to be patronized, and I sure as hell don’t need him to mansplain how my brain works when I pick out an outfit to wear.