Cheat Codes (Dawson Family Series Book 1)

by Emily Goodwin

  “Hey, Dean,” she says, taking a spot next to him. “And Archer.”

  “Hi,” I say back, glad she’s not doing her routine of pretending I’m not here today. It would be too obvious, and Quinn is above that.

  “Where’s Kara?” she asks Dean.

  “Home, doing homework. I think she’s regretting going for her master’s degree now.”

  “That doesn’t sound fun.” Quinn wrinkles her nose and dammit, she looks so adorable. “I’m so glad I’m done with school.”

  “Me too.” Dean gives me a look. “How long have you been in school now?”

  “I’ve lost count,” I say back with a smile.

  Quinn shifts her gaze to me, and our eyes meet for half a second. “What are you doing here?”

  “I have an interview at the county hospital.”

  “The county hospital?” she repeats in disbelief. “I thought you—never mind.” She forces a smile. “Good luck. I’m sure you’ll do great.”

  Ouch. The indifference hurts. I’d rather her be mad at me.

  “I’m sure he will.” Mrs. Dawson brings Quinn a plate of eggs. She eats every last bite.

  “Where’s Dad?” she asks.

  “At a house trying to finish some last minute things for the inspection tomorrow,” Dean answers.

  “Why aren’t you there?” Quinn asks pointedly. “You do still want to take over the family business, right?”

  Dean motions to me. “Archer’s in town. I rarely get to see this guy.” He puts his hands on the counter, pushing his stool back. “But I should get going and go to bed. The inspector is coming early tomorrow, I want to get there before he does, which means getting up at the asscrack of dawn.”

  “It’s weird seeing you act all responsible,” Quinn jokes.

  “Hey,” Dean starts. “You and Wes aren’t the only ones who can have adult jobs.”

  “Right. But we are the only ones who know the details on the Batmobile. I wish I could show you the new developments.” Quinn bites her lip like she’s thinking. “Well, maybe I can. I have a few seconds of footage I recorded on my phone. We have cell-scramblers all over the place, but I know the codes to get around it. Still, the footage is a little fuzzy.”

  Quinn gets her phone from her purse. “I don’t know…I really shouldn’t.”

  “Quinn,” Mrs. Dawson says sternly.

  “I can show you too, Mom.”

  “Better not risk getting in trouble with work,” Mrs. Dawson counters, but Dean’s already leaning in, eyes wide.

  “Right.” Quinn puts her phone on the counter. “The cell-scramblers can encrypt footage taken and might be alerted when I press play anyway.”

  She’s making it all up but sells it convincingly. I try not to laugh at Dean’s interest. Putting her fork on her plate, Quinn stands, only to grab onto the counter to steady herself.

  “Are you all right, hun?” Mrs. Dawson asks.

  “Yeah,” Quinn says, blinking rapidly. “Just got dizzy. It’s been happening lately from stress.” She shrugs. “It’s normal.”

  “It’s actually not,” I counter. “You could be slightly dehydrated.”

  Looking right past me, she nods. “I’ll drink some water.” She puts her plate in the dishwasher. Without a word to me, she goes into the living room with her mother to talk.

  Before we slept together, I wouldn’t have thought anything of it. But now everything is painfully obvious. I can only hope it’s obvious to only us.

  I wake up around two o’clock. After tossing and turning for a bit, I give up and get out of bed. I’m in a guest room upstairs, the one right next to Quinn’s room. Knowing she’s in bed alone just yards from me is part of the problem.

  She’s so close yet so far and I can’t go to sleep knowing she’s right there. There’s so much I want to say—hell, so much I need to say—but don’t know how to start. My bare feet hit the cool hardwood floor, which creaks slightly under my weight. The entire house has been restored top to bottom, but holds onto its century-old charm, including the original creaky floors.

  Opening the bedroom door, I pause before going down the hall. Quinn’s door is cracked open to allow the dogs to come in and out. Moonlight streams through her open window, and I can see her dark silhouette lying in the bed. She rolls over, and my heart skips a beat.

  Fuck, I miss her.

  Rufus, who’s sleeping on the foot of her bed, looks up at me, lazily seeing who’s walking about before going back to sleep. I go downstairs to the kitchen, where I get myself a glass of milk and a few of the cookies Mrs. Dawson made earlier.

  Looking out the windows at the dark yard, I eat and try not to think. Even on nights when I’m exhausted from being on my feet for hours on end, this happens. Random thoughts go through my mind, keeping me from sleep. Coming to the Dawson’s farm used to be my reprieve when I was in college, but now, I’m uneasy.

  And it’s all my fault.

  I’m finishing my last cookie when the stairs creak. At first, I think it’s one of the dogs, but the lack of jingling dog tags lets me know it’s a human.

  “Oh,” Quinn’s voice comes from behind me. I turn, taking in the sight of her in her pajama shorts and tight tank top. She’s obviously not wearing a bra, and her long, lean legs are hardly covered by the shorts.

  If she turns around and I see her sweet, supple ass, I’m screwed.

  “I didn’t know you were down here,” she murmurs.

  “I couldn’t sleep,” I say, brushing the crumbs from my hands. I’m only in my boxers, not expecting anyone to join me. Quinn lets her eyes linger on my body for a moment before looking away. She smooths out her shirt, pulling the collar up, trying to cover herself, and looks so uncomfortable.

  “Neither could I,” she admits and opens the fridge, rooting around until she finds a can of ginger ale.

  “Not feeling well?”

  She pops the top and shrugs. “I’ve had an upset stomach off and on all week.”

  “As well as feeling dizzy?”

  “Don’t try to diagnose me, Archer,” she snaps and takes a sip. “I’m tired and stressed from a current work situation, that’s all.”

  “I can relate to that. I’m glad you’re here then. You can rest and relax.”

  “Really, Archer? You’re glad I’m here? Could have fooled me.” She starts to leave.

  “Quinn, wait.”

  “What do you want?” she snaps. Her hand flies to the space between her eyes, rubbing her forehead as if she has a headache. “Sorry. Wait, no. I’m not sorry.”

  “Fair enough. I think we should talk.”

  “Listen, Archer,” she says and takes another sip of ginger ale, looking a little green. Letting out a sigh, she pushes her hair over her shoulder. I swallow hard, wanting more than anything to trail my fingertips over her collarbone again. To taste her lips on mine, to feel her under me. “It’s okay. You don’t have to.”

  One of the dogs comes down the stairs and goes right to the back door, ringing the bell.

  “Really?” Quinn sighs, setting down her drink. “You don’t have to go out, Boots.”

  The little dog hits the bell again.

  “Fine.” She disarms the alarm system before opening the back door. “Oh, shit.”

  She disappears onto the deck. I stand and go out after her, shutting the door behind me.

  “Quinn?” I call into the dark, catching a glimpse of her long hair in the wind as she runs toward the gate at the back of the fenced-in yard. The open gate.

  Oh shit is right.

  “Boots!” she calls. “Get back here!” She stops at the edge of the yard, hand over her mouth.

  “Did you see where he went?”

  “No,” she says, close to tears. “I didn’t know the gate was open. It’s dark and it’s late and there are coyotes out here.”

  “Stay here and keep calling him. I’ll go get your shoes and a flashlight.”

  I hurry back into the house, shove my bare feet into my running sh
oes, and grab Quinn’s sandals. Remembering the flashlights and candles Mrs. Dawson got out from under the sink during the storm, I open the cabinet and find two.

  The Dawsons own the farmland surrounding their house but lease it out to farmers. About half an acre of grass is fenced in, and that’s divided with another fence, keeping the pool locked up safely from the animals or any children.

  “Here,” I say, giving Quinn her shoes and a flashlight. The night air is chilly, and she’s covered in goosebumps. Her pert nipples are obvious through her thin tank top, but now’s not the time to lust over how incredibly sexy Quinn is.

  “Boots!” Quinn calls once her shoes are on. She steps onto the dirt perimeter of the cornfield. The corn is tall, but not so much we can’t see over it. Still, I’m not above admitting it’s a little creepy out here at night. “My mom is going to kill me.”

  “She won’t kill you.”

  Quinn flashes me a look. “Have you met my mother? You know how she is with her dogs.”

  “She is quite devoted.”

  “I don’t get why the gate was open. It’s never open.” We walk a few more yards and stop. Quinn calls for Boots again and waits.

  I look out at the corn, wondering if Boots is big enough to make the corn rustle like it does in movies when something is lurking. I look at Quinn and am taken aback by her beauty. Inside and out, this woman is gorgeous. And now that I know we’re phenomenal in bed together, it makes everything more complicated.

  Because that’s exactly what it is.

  We pick our way down the space between the fence and the corn, swatting away bugs and breaking spiderwebs. We’re out here alone, with no one to overhear us or get in the way. I need to open my mouth and say everything I want to say, because every second that passes without saying it makes things worse.

  Quinn already thinks I saw her as a one-night stand.

  “Quinn, I—”

  “Shhh,” she cuts me off. “Do you hear that?”

  I tip my head, listening to the night. And then I do hear it: the jingling of dog tags followed by panting. A few seconds later, Boots leaps from the cornfield, excitedly greeting Quinn. She scoops him up, scolding him and then kissing him.

  “It is way past your bedtime, mister,” she says, hurrying back into the house. I shut the gate once we’re in the yard, and double check to make sure it’s latched. Quinn doesn’t put Boots down until we’re inside, and as soon as she does, she sits heavily on a kitchen chair, eyes closed and hand pressed over her mouth.

  “You don’t look so good,” I say gently. “Are you feeling okay?”

  “Can you get my drink?” she asks, voice tight. I grab the ginger ale and hand it to her. She sips it slowly, then leans back. “Thanks. For this and for helping me look for Boots.”

  “Of course. Are you sure you’re all right? You look a little pale.”

  She shrugs. “I think the adrenaline of Boots running away is wearing off too fast. I feel a little shaky.”

  I grab a cookie off the counter and give it to her. “Here. You could have low blood sugar. Nausea, dizziness, and feeling shaky are all signs.”

  “I eat way too much sugar, but I won’t turn down a cookie.” She takes a bite and makes a face that lets me know it doesn’t agree with her. She forces herself to finish her bite, then drinks more ginger ale. Maybe she has a bug. I hate that I can’t comfort her.

  “Well,” she starts, putting the cookie on a napkin on the counter. “I’m going back to bed. I, uh, hope you can fall asleep okay.”

  The air between us is thick with tension. She bites her lip, eyes running over my body. They linger on my crotch, and I wonder if she’s thinking about us making love. I know I am.

  She grabs a ceramic coffee mug with a to-go lid from the cabinet and pours the ginger ale inside. “I have this weird thing with bugs,” she casually explains. “I can’t have a drink on my nightstand at night without a lid. What if a spider falls inside and I’m too tired to notice and accidentally drink it?”

  I chuckle. “If you drink it down you probably won’t notice. But I suppose it could bite your lip or your tongue. And now I think I have a weird thing about open beverages at night. Thanks.”

  “Hey, you really should thank me. No one wants to drink a spider.”

  “No, I can’t say anyone would.” I step closer.

  Quinn pulls on her hair with her free hand, twirling it around her finger. She lets it go and her hand falls onto her chest, sliding over her breasts. I don’t know if she’s aware of what she’s doing or not, but damn, she’s so fucking hot. She turns her head to the side, and I see a mosquito on her neck.

  I stride forward and gently slap my fingers on her neck, trapping it before it can escape.

  “Mosquito,” I quickly explain, pulling my hand back to show her.

  “Oh, uh, thanks.”

  We’re standing close, and I can feel the heat radiating off Quinn and can smell the fabric softener she uses on her pajamas. My heart is beating so fast I’m sure she can hear it, and I want nothing more right now than to kiss her.

  And that’s exactly what I’m going to do.

  17

  Quinn

  My stomach gurgles and my throat feels thick. A telltale sign I’m going to throw up. I pride myself on saying I have an iron stomach and often bring up how I survived the Dawson Family Picnic disaster, over seven years ago, with just a twist of nausea when everyone else was riddled with food poisoning.

  But right now, there’s no stopping what’s coming up.

  And also right now, Archer’s hand lands on my cheek, gently cupping my face and turning my chin up to his. He leans in and I know he’s going to kiss me. I want nothing more than to kiss him back, but I can’t.

  Not right now.

  I push his hand away and turn, barely making it to the sink before I throw up.

  “Fuck, Quinn,” Archer says and moves in, grabbing my hair and holding it back. My stomach heaves again, and I shudder. Throwing up is awful. Just fucking awful.

  I turn on the faucet and rinse my mouth, washing away any vomit that might be on my face. Archer’s hand lands on my back, gently rubbing it, and he’s still holding my hair. I’m suddenly hit with emotion, and tears spring to my eyes. I splash cold water on my face. I don’t feel sick anymore at least.

  “Let me walk you to your room,” he offers. “Do you want anything? More ginger ale or ice chips or anything?”

  “No, but thanks.”

  Archer hands me a towel for my face, and I rinse out the sink, thankful for the garbage disposal.

  “You’re sick,” Archer says.

  “Really? What gave that away, doctor?” I don’t mean to snap—again—but I do. Archer’s back to irritating me, especially with him looking all hot and bothered, sitting there in his boxers as he tries not to look at me. Add in him rushing to help me find Boots and then springing in to hold my hair back and I’m close to having feelings for him again.

  Close.

  But I’m not stupid. I went to MIT, for fuck’s sake. I’m an overall rational person who likes science and technology. I do believe in ghosts and like to think that maybe unicorns and dragons used to actually exist, but that’s as far as my belief in fantasy goes.

  And believing I could be more than a hookup to Archer Jones is definitely fantasy.

  “It did take me over eight years of college plus several years as a resident to figure out that vomiting is not a normal reaction of the body when someone tries to kiss you.”

  “It wasn’t because of—” I stop, realizing he’s razzing me. I’m not in the mood. I just almost lost one of my mom’s dogs and then threw up in the kitchen sink like a drunk college student sneaking in after a night of partying. “Thank you, Archer. Really. You didn’t have to help me, and you did, so thank you, for what you did.”

  God, I need to learn how to stop talking. I don’t know why I ramble and repeat myself so much.

  Archer’s lips press into a thin line, and he nods, gr
abbing my coffee mug from the counter.

  “You should get some sleep.”

  His hand settles on the small of my back again, and I love and hate the way his touch makes me feel. I’ve missed his touch badly, but my sex drive has gone into overdrive in the last few days, and my dreams have all involved him naked and with me, who is also naked.

  In itself, it’s nothing new. Archer has been the subject of my sex dreams for many years, though knowing what he’s really like in bed makes me want him even more.

  But I shouldn’t. He’s not good for me and what happened was a one-time deal.

  We go upstairs, and I’m feeling more and more exhausted with each step. Something in the back of my mind nags at me, saying everything I’ve been feeling isn’t normal. I don’t see how I could have a bug lying in wait for a week, making me feel nauseous for days before it hit me hard enough to cause further damage.

  But what else could it be?

  I make a mental note to go to bed earlier this coming week and to lay off the coffee. Usually, I do pretty well with healthy eating, and when I veer off the healthy path, my insides take a beating. Maybe that’s it. I have been eating more junk than usual this week.

  Stopping at the threshold of my bedroom door, I turn around to look at Archer. Out of all the rooms in this big house, he’s in the one next to mine. It wouldn’t be hard to sneak into his room in the middle of the night or invite him into mine. Hooking up again would be easy. Heat spreads between my legs thinking of it, and I’m aching to have his big cock inside me again.

  Blushing, I flick my eyes to his crotch, feeling weird that I know what’s behind his boxers. It’s like a hidden secret, and knowing Archer not only has a monster cock but knows how to use it well makes me feel a little dirty.

  And dammit, I like it.

  Archer is looking at me as if he’s remembering what I look like naked as well, and when our eyes meet, it’s not awkward. He mirrors back the lust I’m feeling, and if I hadn’t just barfed, I’d be tempted to grab him and kiss him, dragging him back into my room with me for the night.

  I’ve never been thankful for throwing up before. Getting back into bed with Archer is like a death sentence. I can only withstand so much before I crumble and fall, and trying to convince myself that I’m not upset, that it’s okay, that I didn’t have expectations for things to continue has taken its toll on me.