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 of 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.