“No, thanks.”
Jackson’s in the living room, too distracted with his toys to notice that she came down into the kitchen. Scarlet sits at the kitchen table, body angled out toward mine.
“So, Wes,” she starts. “Quinn told me about Jackson but didn’t tell me about you.”
“I’m not that interesting,” I reply dryly.
“What do you do?”
I add the pasta to the water and turn to steal another glance at her pretty face. “I’m running for sheriff of our county, but who knows how that’ll turn out. For now, at least, I’m a cop.”
5
Scarlet
A cop. I’m a con artist posing as a nanny for a fucking cop. What the hell did I get myself into? I can feel the blood leave my face at a dizzying rate. Stay calm. Freaking out won’t do me any good now. I need to hold it the fuck together.
I squeeze my eyes shut. How did I get things so wrong? I wasn’t paying attention, but how did I miss this? Surely that Quinn chick mentioned she was hiring me for her brother.
Her apparently-single brother who just happens to be irritatingly sexy with that whole dark and brooding thing going on. I can tell he doesn’t want me here, that he’s reluctant to accept help, and I’m trying really hard not to find that attractive.
“Have you always been a nanny?” he asks after a beat of awkward silence passes between us. Sweat rolls down between my breasts.
“No,” I say with a shake of my head. “I was a waitress for a while.” I swallow hard, carefully calculating my next move. It’s not too late to back out and find a family that has money to blow. I could be gone in the morning and put this whole thing behind me. Move onto a bigger and better target.
Or I could stay and actually work as a nanny. You know. Do the job I was hired to do. But that’s not my style.
“How long have you been a cop?” I ask, body going on autopilot.
“A while,” he tells me, turning away from the stove just long enough to look at me. “I was in the Army before then, and served two tours in Afghanistan before joining the police force.”
“My brother is in the Army,” I blurt, breaking one of my cardinal rules of don’t get personal. “He’s overseas right now. I haven’t seen him in a few months.”
Wes’s brows push together and his gaze drills into mine. “Next time you talk to him, tell him I thank him for his service.”
Suddenly flustered, I bring my hand to my chest, tugging at the T-shirt. Why is it a million degrees in here? “I will.”
“How long has he been in?”
“He joined a year and a half ago and has been somewhere in the Middle East for the last five months. I’m not exactly sure where he is.”
“He probably can’t tell you,” Wes goes on, turning back around. His whole demeanor has changed, and I know his mind is taking him back to the days when he was overseas too. I’ve been soured by corrupt cops before, but I have the utmost respect for our military, especially soldiers since Jason is one.
God fucking dammit. Now’s not the time to get a conscious, Scar.
“Jackson seems like a great kid,” I say.
“He is.” Wes grabs a wooden spoon from a drawer and stirs the spaghetti. My heart is beating with fury inside my chest, so loud I think it’s going to give me away. I can’t think, I can’t feel. I just need to focus on the job at hand.
And that job is hustling every penny out of Mr. Weston Dawson that I can.
I sit on the edge of the bed, running a comb through my damp hair. The window is cracked behind me, letting in a cool breeze. Everything is silent. Freakily silent. No one is yelling or drunkenly arguing with a street lamp outside my window. The walls aren’t shaking from the Chicago L going by, and I haven’t heard a single gunshot all night.
It’s eerie as fuck.
Weston put Jackson to bed a few hours ago, and I basically just watched, getting familiar with their routine. It was pretty standard, I suppose but wasn’t something I’ve seen before.
My own parents didn’t give me the time of day, and I suppose they couldn’t even if they wanted to. Mom was drunk, high, or in jail throughout my youth, and Dad didn’t enter the picture until I’d already dropped out of high school in order to take care of Heather and Jason. He stuck around long enough that time for me to go back and graduate the next year.
The family I nannied for in the past didn’t have children out of love, and that love didn’t foster and develop slowly over time as the children aged. I can’t recall a single time either parent went out of their way to do anything for those kids, which only furthered my belief that loving and caring families only exist in movies.
But what happened tonight is shaking everything I’ve built my life on.
After dinner, Weston went over letters and numbers with Jackson and then gave him a bath. He read him a few books before tucking him in and stayed in the room with him until Jackson fell asleep.
Wes might seem a little cold and callous, but there is no denying he loves his son.
Pulling my hair into a braid, I wonder what happened to Jackson’s mother. She’s probably dead, because I can’t see how anyone could leave that sweet little boy…or that beast of a man.
He’s unlike anyone I usually work with—well, if you can call what I do work. It enables me to bring home money to pay bills, which is what work is, right? But Weston…he’s closed off, and if he even has any weaknesses at all, he’s not going to let me in on them.
I set my brush down and lay back in bed, grabbing a yellow stuffed unicorn. I’ve had the thing for years, and I’m well aware how weird some people think it is that I’m a grown-ass woman sleeping with a stuffed animal. But the thing brings me comfort, which is something I desperately need most nights. The mattress is comfy, and the quilt is thick and warm. I should be able to pass out, sleeping soundly, but I can’t. I’m unnerved, but I’m not afraid. Wes won’t hurt me, and unless the neighbors actually turn out to be Stepford wives, I’m as safe as I’ve ever been.
After an hour of tossing and turning, I’m risking a run-in with my conscience. Normally, I’d toss down a shot of whatever’s cheapest at the corner liquor store, but I didn’t bring any booze and I can’t exactly go downstairs and start raiding Weston’s alcohol stash. Assuming he has one, that is.
Nevertheless, I get up to go downstairs for something to drink. I slowly open my bedroom door and look into the dark hall. Red light from Jackson’s nightlight spills into the hall, but he’s not in his bed. I panic for a brief second, thinking I lost the kid my first night on the job and quickly tiptoe down the hall.
Weston’s door is cracked open, and I can just barely make out his form laying in the bed. All rigid and muscular, he’s a hard shape in the dark, and nestled up against his chest is Jackson.
I’m fairly certain the kid didn’t have a nightmare. He was still in his bed after I got out of the shower, and the only reason he’s in here, still fast asleep, is because Weston went in and got him, not trusting me enough to let Jackson sleep in his own room tonight.
Without meaning to, I find myself smiling. Wes is smart. Maybe too smart. The smile wipes off my face fast. I’m one wrong move away from being arrested and thrown into jail. Whatever I do next, I must proceed with caution.
The stairs are creaky, and long shadows are cast on the walls in front of me. Going slow so I don’t trip, I hold my hands out in front of me and feel for the wall leading into the kitchen. I slide my hand up and down it, feeling for the switch.
I pour myself a glass of orange juice and slowly sip it, wishing for some vodka. Sitting at the farmhouse-style table, I look out into the dark backyard. It’s illuminated just enough by the back porch lights to see the outline of a swing set, and the whole yard is enclosed with a white picket fence.
Freaky, indeed.
Finishing my orange juice, I put the glass in the sink and kill the light, taking another minute to stare into the dark and void my mind of all thoughts. Suddenly, the lights flick
back on and I jump.
“Jesus!”
“No, not Jesus. Just me.” Weston stands in the threshold of the kitchen, eyes narrowed as they adjust to the light. He’s only wearing navy blue boxers and all the self-control in the world can’t keep me from sweeping my gaze across his muscled torso, down to his defined abs, following the happy trail of hair that leads right to his—
“What are you doing?” he asks, diverting his eyes. Looks like I’m not the only one having trouble tonight. I’m wearing white underwear and a gray Columbia University shirt that barely covers the bottom off my ass.
“I came down to get a drink.”
“In the dark?”
“I had the lights on, and then I turned them off.”
Weston raises an eyebrow, bringing a hand up to push his hair back. I want nothing more than to run my fingers through it and see if his body feels as hard and chiseled as it looks. I want to slam him up against the wall, putting a crack in that shield he has around himself.
“What are you doing?” I shoot back.
“I heard something.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You didn’t.” He scrubs his chin with his hand.
I go back to the fridge and grab the orange juice again, pouring him a glass. I set it on the table and take a seat. Wes stares at the drink like I just poured poison in a glass and added a skull-and-crossbones warning for good measure.
“Can’t sleep?” He finally takes a step and my god, men like him aren’t supposed to be real. They’re supposed to exist on the cover of romance novels or in magazines, digitally altered and giving us all a negative complex about the way we look.
“No,” I reply.
“I suppose it’s weird being here.”
“A little. It’s very quiet.”
“I’ve never been a fan of big cities.”
I shrug. “I’ve never lived anywhere else to compare it to.”
His long fingers wrap around the glass of orange juice, but he doesn’t pick it up. Maybe he is worried I poisoned him.
“Did you go to Columbia?” His eyes fall to the faded letters across my chest. I’m not wearing a bra, and it’s chilly down here. I’m not ashamed to use my body as a weapon, but the flush that comes to my cheeks happens on its own accord. I lie to pretty much everyone I meet, and yet I find myself unable to lie to Wes. And more importantly, I don’t want to.
“No, I didn’t. Well, I’ve set foot on campus but not as a student.” I fold my hands in my lap. “I didn’t go to college.” If he looked at my resume, he already knows that.
He picks up the glass and drinks all the juice, and then gets up to put his glass in the sink. He has a scar on his back. It’s faded considerably but hangs on to the red anger that was inflicted years ago. I can’t tell what caused the scar…maybe a burn? My eyes drop to his tight and firm ass. The man does his squats and he does them well.
“You should go back to bed,” he says, voice gruff again. “It’ll be loud tomorrow once Jackson is up.” And without so much as a look back, he crosses the room and disappears up the stairs.
He’s brazen, a little rude, and it unnerves me. Wes Dawson is the last person I’d try to con, and not just because he’s a cop. He’s not looking for a hookup. He’s not desperate and needing to prove something to himself.
Though deep down, everyone wants something, and finding out what drives Wes is key to getting what I want. I’ll crack him eventually…as long as he doesn’t crack me first.
6
Weston
I sit back at my desk and pull out my phone, logging onto the security company’s app and checking the cameras inside the house again. For the fifth time. This hour. It’s not that I don’t trust Scarlet, it’s just…I don’t trust Scarlet.
She’s well aware of all the security measures I have in place at our house, and I haven’t given her the codes just yet. The only place she’s going today is the backyard with Jackson, and there’s no need to arm the house just to be outside.
The cameras aren’t at all nanny-cams, and show the front, back, and side door, as well as one looking down the steps with a view of the foyer. I can just barely see Scarlet and Jackson in the backyard. She’s chasing him around with her arms outstretched, dragging one leg as she stumbles through the grass.
I can’t help but smile, knowing exactly what she’s doing. Jackson is currently obsessed with zombies and loves to be chased by them.
“Who are you sexting?” Officer John Wilson asks me as he passes by my desk on the way to his.
Another officer laughs. “The day Dawson sexts is the day we bust an underground crime ring in Eastwood.”
“Fuck you,” I shoot back. The guys never back down from a chance to hassle me about my sex life, or technically lack thereof. “And don’t fucking jinx us.”
“Come on, don’t tell me you don’t wanna bust a crime ring?” Wilson goes on. He’s a good cop, got his degree in law enforcement from a community college, but has never been in combat. Not the way I have.
“It’d give us something to do,” I say with a chuckle. Movement flashes across the screen of my phone again, and I look down just in time to see Scarlet pull her sweatshirt over her head. She has a tank top on underneath, but I still feel like I just witnessed something I wasn’t supposed to.
And fuck, I want to see it again.
A minute later, we’re called out to a domestic dispute, which is probably the most excitement we’ll see all day. I shouldn’t complain, though. Eastwood is a safe, small town and I couldn’t think of a better place to raise my son. It’s not to say nothing bad ever happens here. Our biggest problem is drugs, and given the rural setting of many of our residents’ houses, we’ve shut down a surprising number of meth labs over the years.
Last year’s big bust was arresting Marty McMillian, Eastwood’s resident redneck, for threatening and harassing a gay couple. When we got to his house to take him in, hundreds of guns were laid out in his living room. Turns out he’d been stealing them for years and selling them on the black market.
We have a few burglaries and break-ins every year, but in my time on the force, I’ve yet to be called out to a murder. There was a body found two years ago, but it turned out to be a man from Newport who got drunk and stumbled his way into our township before passing out and succumbing to the elements.
It’s obvious what’s going on as soon as we pull up to the farmhouse. It’s the second time we’ve been out here in a month.
“Here we go again,” Wilson huffs and gets out of the squad car.
“Mr. Green,” I start and shut the driver’s side door. “I see you’ve been drinking again.”
“Drinking!” his wife shouts. “He’s been doing more than just drinking! Tell them, Earl, tell them what else you’ve been doing. Or who you been doing!” She’s holding a shotgun and has it pointed in his general direction. And I do mean general. Her hands are too shaky to take a clear shot.
The neighbors across the street are on their porch, and it looks like they’ve got popcorn. This is high-quality entertainment here.
“Put the gun down, Grace,” Wilson says, holding up his hand. “We’ll cart his ass back to the station.”
I really don’t want to put Mr. Green in the back of my car. He always ends up puking. But clearly, he’s going to be spending at least the day sleeping this off.
“You take him, and you keep him!” Grace, Mr. Green’s wife, pumps the shotgun.
“Come on now, Grace.” I go around and take Mr. Green’s wrist. If I can lead him away, Grace will start to diffuse. “You don’t want to come down to the station with us.”
“We’ll put you in the same cell,” Wilson goes on.
“Good!” Grace shrieks. “I’ll beat him. I’ll beat him to death this time!”
I wave my hand in the air, dismissing her. It’s the same old song and dance and it happens two or three times a month. The Greens have a daughter, but she can’t be bothered with her parent
s anymore, not that I blame her. Mr. Green has been an unfaithful drunk for as long as I can remember.
I get Mr. Green around my car, and he doubles over and pukes on the grass. Score for me. I hate when we have to ride back to the station with a car full of vomit. I make sure he’s done before putting him in the back, and Wilson deals with Grace and her shotgun.
Just a typical day on the job…which makes me want to run for sheriff even more.
Owen: Getaway tonight. Drinks on the house.
Me: You always say that, yet I always end up paying my tab.
Dean: WHAT!? YOU’RE ACTUALLY GOING OUT?
Me: No.
Logan: Isn’t the hot nanny there?
Dean: I’m sure she is, and that’s why he’s not going out.
Owen: If I come over and misbehave, will she spank me?
Me: Grow the fuck up.
Dean: I take that to mean she’s as hot as her photo made her seem.
I roll my eyes, silencing my phone. Another slew of text messages come through that I ignore. My brothers and I have had an ongoing group text for years that we mostly use for hurling insults or sending crude GIFs to each other.
Putting my phone in the top drawer of my desk, I take care of the rest of the paperwork and grab a coffee from the breakroom. After leaving the Green residence, we had one minor car accident, teenagers trying to shoplift at one of the two gas stations in Eastwood, and ended the shift by helping Betty Perez round up her goats that broke out of their pasture.
I close the file and take it to Sergeant Lopez’s office, dropping it off on her desk. Sipping my coffee, I get my phone out to check on the house once more and see I have fifteen missed texts from my brothers and one from Mom. Knowing the texts in the group message Owen named Bros before hoes are most likely bullshit anyway, I ignore them for now and see what Mom had to say.
Assuming she’s asking about the nanny, her words almost take me by surprise. She wants to make sure I’m okay and not sad…and I have no idea why. Usually she’ll text me and ask me that same thing—in the exact same wording every time—when the subject of Daisy is brought up. But we haven’t talked about my almost ex-wife recently, nor is it our anniversary or any—oh shit.
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