Jackson makes a face but agrees—as long as he can hold Scarlet’s hand during the tour. He’s a friendly kid, loving pretty much anyone who’ll give him the time of day. I try to remain pleasant for his sake, but this whole thing is pissing me off.
And for some reason, having Scarlet be as pretty as she is makes me even angrier. I don’t want a nanny. And even more so, I don’t want to need a nanny.
I give Scarlet a hurried tour of the house, ending with the small guest room upstairs. It has a tiny bathroom attached to it, and the entire room is rather plain in comparison to the rest of the house. The door to this room hasn’t been opened in months prior to today.
“I’ll bring up your bags,” I say and turn to go down the stairs. Jackson starts to go in with Scarlet, but I call him down, telling him I need his muscles to help me carry Scarlet’s stuff up.
She’s sitting on the bed when we return and gets up to take the suitcases into her room. Her hand brushes across mine as she grabs the handle from me, and I’m taken aback by how soft her skin is. Has it been that long since I’ve felt the touch of a woman?
“Thank you.”
“I’ll, uh, give you some time to get settled. Jackson,” I call, not wanting to leave him alone with this woman. Not yet. “Help me make dinner.”
“I’ll do it,” Scarlet offers.
“It’s fine. We got it tonight.”
Jackson protests the whole time, wanting to stay and play with Scarlet.
“She’s pretty, isn’t she, Daddy?” he asks as I lift him onto the kitchen counter. On the evenings I’m home, we always make dinner together. It’s never anything fancy, and tonight we’re making spaghetti and meatballs. The meatballs are frozen and won’t take long to heat up in the microwave. Like I said…we’re far from five-star fancy around here.
“Sure,” I say, not wanting to lie to my son but for some reason finding it impossible to verbalize out loud that this woman might be the prettiest person who’s ever walked into this house.
“She looks like Elsa!”
I shrug. “I guess.” I grab a box of spaghetti noodles from the cupboard and hand it to Jackson. He likes to pick at the cardboard until it opens. Grabbing a pot and filling it with water, I put it on the stove to boil and bring Jackson off the counter. He sets the table while I stick the meatballs and sauce in the microwave.
Hopefully Scarlet can cook.
My mind wanders back to her pert breasts under that sweater, and as if she can read my mind, the floor creaks under her feet.
“Hey,” she says almost shyly, and this time her timidness seems genuine. She changed into black leggings and a gray T-shirt, and her long blonde hair is twisted into a bun at the nape of her neck. “Would you like any help?”
“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.”
Chapter Five
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 conscience, 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.