I’m trying.
I silence the call and look back at Quinn, plastering a fake smile on my face.
“Hi,” she says, standing up to shake my hand. “I’m Quinn.”
“Scarlet. Nice to meet you.”
“Do you want anything to drink? This new caramel frap is to die for.”
“Uh, sure. Thanks.”
Leaving her computer on the table with me, Quinn gets up and gets in line, returning a few minutes later after putting in an order for me.
“So,” she starts, fidgeting a bit as she talks, “I’ve never interviewed anyone like this before. Sorry in advance if I’m a little awkward. And don’t feel like you need to put up a front or anything. I’m not looking for Mary Poppins. Just someone who can help with basic household chores and make sure a four year old makes it to see another day.”
Dammit, I kind of like her. “I think I can do that.” My phone buzzes, and I glance down, seeing a text from Corbin. Shit.
Wait. Did she say a four year old? From my internet creeping, I only saw her with a baby who couldn’t be older than six or seven months old. Doesn’t matter. I’d rather take care of a four year old than a baby anyway. Changing diapers isn’t my thing.
Quinn goes on to describe the job, and I hear her say the house is in a small town in Indiana, about an hour and a half away. I smile and nod as she explains the rest, not really paying attention because I’m trying to surreptitiously read Corbin’s text. And when I see the words your dad fell again, nothing Quinn says stays with me.
The faster I can get to Quinn’s husband, the better. I need to find a way to blackmail him into giving me money so I can move my dad to a place that’s better equipped to handle someone with memory issues.
We go over pay, where I’ll stay, and how my time off will work. She’s pretty fucking generous and even offers to arrange a car to come get me since I don’t own one myself. I can start tomorrow, and I have no doubt things will work out just fine. Being able to accommodate anyone is just one of my superpowers. Though, really, I don’t see why it’s all that hard. Find out what people want and embody it. Compliment them. Make them feel important.
And then you’ve weaseled your way into their lives enough to reach in and take whatever you want. Hey…I never claimed to be a saint.
“Miss Cooper?”
My eyes flutter open, and I blink in the bright sunlight. “Yeah?”
“We’re here.”
“Oh, uh, thanks.” I unbuckle my seatbelt, feeling a little disoriented. I had just slipped into deep sleep and am having a hard time pulling myself out of it. I smooth out my hair and pop the top button on this ridiculous pink sweater. It’s not at all my style but gives me the image I want to portray. Squeezing my eyes shut to try and focus my vision, I open the car door before the driver has a chance to come out and open it for me. I’m capable of opening my own doors. It’s just weird to sit here and wait for someone else to do it.
I blink once. Twice. Three times. “This is the house?” I ask, looking up and down the street. There’s a good chance the driver took a wrong turn and accidentally drove us onto the set of a Hallmark Channel movie. We’re parked along the curb of a postcard-worthy small town road, with well-maintained houses lining either side of the street. A handful even have white picket fences.
Forget Hallmark. There’s an even better chance this is a horror movie and I’ve just been hand-delivered to a serial killer who spends her days knitting and offs her unsuspecting victims by poisoning their lemonade. Which she made. By hand.
“Yes,” the driver tells me, coming around to get my bags. “This is the address Mr. Dawson provided.”
“Oh, uh, okay.” I hike my purse up over my shoulder and grab the handle to one of my suitcases. This isn’t what I signed up for. The house I saw on Quinn’s Instagram is brand new and big, with curved double staircases greeting you from the oversized foyer. This house in front of me looks like a century-old farmhouse, safely nestled into the historic district of this small town.
The fuck?
I know I tuned out most of what Quinn was saying the other day at the coffee shop. I looked at her and saw nothing but dollar signs and was willing to watch two sets of hyperactive triplets if it meant getting a shot at some of her money.
But this…this has to be a mistake. On her part. Not mine. Because I didn’t sign up for this.
“Uh…thanks,” I tell the driver as he sets my last suitcase by the porch steps. I stand there like a deer in fucking headlights, taking in the perfectly groomed lawns on the surrounding houses and how nearly everyone is already decorated for fall. If I don’t pull myself out of this living Pinterest board now, I fear I never will.
I’m about to turn around and leave, walking to the nearest bus station and pulling whatever trick I have to do to get enough money to get me back to Chicago. And then the front door opens. If anyone else stepped out of the house, things might have turned out differently. But the moment I lay eyes on him all I can think is, “Oh shit.”
Tall and muscular, the man standing before me is just that: a man. His presence is intoxicating, intimidating, and impressive all at the same time. He has messy dark brown hair that’s pulled away from his face, and the darkest navy-blue eyes I’ve ever seen.
His face is set, and I can tell just by looking at him that his guard is up, and for a damn good reason. Takes one to know one, I guess.
“Scarlet Cooper?” he asks, looking me over. His gaze slowly wanders over my body, but he’s not checking me out. He’s inspecting me, looking for flaws in the system and signs of obvious damage.
It’s there, hiding in plain sight, but all he sees is a pretty blonde woman in a white skirt and a stupid fuzzy pink sweater.
“Yes. Nice to meet you, Mr. Dawson.” I plaster a pleasant smile on my face, freaking out on the inside but otherwise appearing level-headed and cool as a cucumber. With practiced grace, I ascend the porch steps and shake Mr. Dawson’s hand. His grip is strong and firm, and the skin on his palm is just rough enough to make me think he must work with his hands.
That thick skin would feel so good slowly making its way up my—stop. Get it together so you can get the fuck out of here, Scarlet.
His furrowed brows give way to a more friendly expression as he grips my hand for a moment before releasing it. He lets out a breath and his whole body relaxes. There are pounds of muscle under his black T-shirt, and it makes my body react purely on its own accord.
“Weston. But call me Wes,” he says and steps aside. “Come in.”
Suddenly, I can’t move. This guy—Wes Dawson—isn’t the surgeon I assumed I’d be working for. Is the con artist getting conned? Is the universe finally catching up to me, and this is its way of giving me the middle finger while laughing out a big fuck you? I have no idea what is going on or what I’m going to do, but I know one thing for sure. If I go into that house, there’s no going back.
Chapter Four
Weston
Scarlet stands on the front porch, vivid blue eyes wide. Her blonde hair falls in waves around her face, and I can’t help but notice how beautiful she is. Everything about her is soft and delicate, but there’s a hardness to her I immediately recognize. Blinking, I sweep my hand up and over my hair, pushing it out of my face.