“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, grabbing 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.
Because I am upset.
I do have feelings for him.
And I thought maybe, just maybe, he’d call me and tell me he missed me. That he’d try to come up and see me on his weekend off, or he’d invite me down for a mid-week booty call.
I’m a hopeless—and hopeful—romantic at heart and I can’t help it.
“Well,” I say, pushing my shoulders back, trying to regain as much composure as I can for someone who just threw up in the kitchen sink. “Thank you again, Archer. Goodnight, and good luck on your interview tomorrow.”
Instead of giving me his cocky smile, his brow furrows and he looks, dare I say, sad. His hand lands on the back of his neck, a subconscious gesture I’m starting to realize he does when he’s uncomfortable.
“Of course, Quinn,” he says my name softly, and it rolls off his tongue like velvet. “If you get sick again, you can come get me. I am a doctor after all.”
“Right. I’m glad you reminded me because I almost forgot.”
His frown starts to turn. “We can’t have that now, can we?”
“You probably should start wearing your white doctor coat around the house. And have one of those gold-plated stethoscopes around your neck like the TV doctors do.”
“Mine’s platinum.”
I laugh. “Even better. Goodnight, Dr. Jones.”
“How do you do this every day?” I fall into a lounge chair, over exaggerating my exhaustion. Though I am dragging, even with sleeping in past ten this morning.
Wes shrugs, a slight smile on his face as he watches his son run around the yard with the dogs. “You just do.”
“You’re like a superhero. Literally. Saving lives as a cop and rocking the whole single-parent thing.”
He bypasses the compliment. “Keep your shoes on, buddy!” he shouts to Jackson. “He’s going through a barefoot phase right now.”
“Better than his bare-butt phase when he wouldn’t wear pants.”
Wes laughs, adjusting his gun on his belt before sitting on a chair next to me. He’s on his lunch break, and came by for a homemade meal and to see Jackson.
“You do know the crime is really low here, don’t you? Or have you been away so long you forgot? I’m not saving lives in Eastwood.”
I shoot him a look, trying desperately hard to ignore the sick feeling in my stomach. “Fine, you’re no Avenger, but you keep this town safe. We’d have higher crime if we didn’t have good police on our force.” Wes rolls his eyes. “Can’t you just accept a compliment?”
I flatten my hand over my stomach, swallowing down the lump rising in my throat. “He starts preschool this fall, right?” I grab the can of ginger ale I brought out and pop the top. This is my third one today and the only thing so far that helps. I’ve made a point to avoid junk food, even though the cookies that made me sick last night look oh so appealing today.
“Yeah, he’ll go two days a week.”
“Are you sad about it?”
“Not right now,” Wes says. “On the first day, I think it’ll hit me. Though it’ll be good to have him in school for a few hours those days. Mom loves watching him while I work, but Dad’s been getting busier and busier. Mom will never admit she’s crunched for time, but I’m sure she is.”
“Have you thought about hiring a nanny?”
“I shouldn’t have to hire a nanny,” he grumbles, looking away. I know where his thoughts have gone, and I feel bad for directing them that way. Wes’s wife left when Jackson was only a few months old, leaving a note saying she cracked under pressure. She showed up on his first birthday, played the role of perfect housewife for a while and then left again.
Jackson doesn’t remember her, but he still asks if his mommy will come home. I hate her and I never want to see her again. Well, only so Wes can divorce her once and for all.
“So,” I start, changing the subject. “I made a fake video of the Batmobile for Dean. Want to
see it?”
Wes chuckles, blue eyes sparkling. All my brothers have blue eyes like our parents. I’m the odd one out with green eyes.
“Of course.”
I show him the video, and we both laugh. Then Mom calls us all in for lunch. She made homemade mac and cheese, along with a cucumber and avocado salad that I usually devour. But right now, a small bowl of mac and cheese is all I can handle.
After Wes leaves, Jackson and I go into the living room to watch a movie and hopefully get the crazy kid to nap. I end up falling asleep before him.
I wake up to the sound of Jackson playing with PAW Patrol on in the background. Archer is sitting on the ground with Jackson, pushing toy cars around on the ground. He’s still wearing the suit he wore to his interview. His tie is loosened around his neck, and the top few buttons are undone.
Good Lord. It should be against the law for a man to look that good.
Don’t even remind me of the fact he’s sitting on the ground talking in funny voices to a three-year-old who I just happen to love more than life itself. Feeling hot and bothered, I sit up and push my hair out of my face.
“Aunt Winnie!” Jackson exclaims. Quinn was too hard for him to say, and ‘Winnie’ just stuck. “Come play with me!”
Archer turns, eyes meeting mine. He looks happy and relaxed sitting there playing, and it’s doing bad things to me. Fuck, I want him so bad.
“How was the interview?” I ask, deciding it’s best to just stick to polite conversation. He did hold my hair back as I threw up last night. And as much as I want to hate him, I can’t.
“I think it went pretty well,” he says, eyes meeting mine. “How are you feeling?”
“Better.”
His eyes go to the ginger ale on the coffee table in front of me. “Really?”
“I haven’t thrown up again, so that’s a plus, right?”
“Right.”
I get up and move to the floor, tucking my hair behind my ear. Jackson can be a little bossy when he plays and tells us all what to make his toys say. It’s nice sitting here with Archer, and with Jackson here as well, there’s no risk for drama.
Not yet. Not until Archer and I are alone together. Which is something I’m going to make sure doesn’t happen.
About fifteen minutes later, Jackson’s finally tired. Mom comes out of the home office, saying she needs a break after arguing for an hour on the phone with a plumber they hired for a job. Jackson snuggles up with her on the couch and falls asleep almost instantly.
“What are your plans for the rest of the day?” Mom asks me.
“Just hang out here. Jamie is working a double today, so she can’t do anything.”
Mom covers Jackson with a blanket, kissing the top of his head. “I have a few errands to run before dinner tonight, would you mind possibly doing a few of them for me?”
“No, not at all,” I say eagerly. Getting out of the house and away from Archer is a good idea anyway.
“Great! Archer, why don’t you tag along? One of my errands is to go to the feed store and some of those bags are heavy.”
“I can handle it, Mom,” I say dryly.
“I’m sure you can, but why not enjoy some company? And I don’t think Archer wants to sit in the house with me all day,” she adds with a wink. “My list is on my desk.”
“I’m going to change first,” Archer says, not meeting my eyes. I don’t want to hurt his feelings, even though I don’t think he considered my feelings when he had sex with me three times and then never called.
“Good idea,” I say. “It’s hot. Out. Outside. It’s hot outside, I mean. You should change into something not so hot. Not that what you’re wearing is hot like that. I mean in temperature.”
Archer nods, smiling slightly at my word vomit and goes upstairs to change. I use the bathroom, shove a few mints in my purse to help my unsettled stomach, and get the list from Mom’s desk.
I get into my car, cranking the air to cool it down, and fiddle with the radio until Archer joins me. We leave in silence, with nothing but the radio between us. It doesn’t take long to get into town, and since downtown isn’t very big, we can park in the middle and walk to most of the stores.
“What’s first on the list?” Archer asks once we’re out of the car.
“The feed store is right there,” I say, pointing across the street. It’s been a while since I walked around Eastwood’s downtown. It’s worlds different than Chicago, and for some reason, the nostalgia is hitting me hard.
Archer nods and follows me to the corner. I can feel his eyes on me and do my best to ignore him. I don’t trust myself not to give in to the intense desire to kiss him that’s currently crippling me.
We cross the street and go into Henry’s Feed and Garden, an old cowbell jingling when I open the door.
“My oh my,” Mrs. Miller says, pushing her glasses up on her nose. “Is that you, Quinn Dawson?”
“It is,” I say with a smile.
“I haven’t seen you in years! Get over here, girl.” She opens her arms and wraps me in a big hug. Mrs. Miller and her husband, Henry, have owned this feed store for as long as I’ve been alive. Back in my youth, I showed goats and horses at the county fair and I spent a decent amount of time in this place. My parents got rid of the goats soon after I graduated high school, and my show horse died five years ago.
I still miss him.
“You look amazing!” Mrs. Miller exclaims, holding me out at arm’s length. “I heard about your fancy app and your fancy job. We’re all proud of you, hun. This whole town is.”
“It was nothing,” I say, trying to brush off the compliment. It wasn’t nothing, and it took a lot of work to create the app. Selling it was part talent and part luck. The right person saw it at the right time and offered me a deal I couldn’t refuse.
“And who is this?” Her eyes go behind me to Archer.
“Hi,” Archer says, offering his hand to shake. “I’m Archer. Dean’s friend.”
He is Dean’s friend. It’s not a lie. But for some reason his words make me feel all stabby. What is up with me today? I must be PMSing hard.
We talk with Mrs. Miller for a bit before getting the things on Mom’s list. Archer carries two heavy bags of feed out to the car like it’s nothing. I open the door for him and step aside.
“Quinn,” he says once the bags of chicken feed are in the car. “I don’t want you to be mad at me.”
“I’m not mad,” I say softly, tempted to go with Mom’s favorite and add ‘I’m just disappointed’ to the end of it. I don’t, and instead, I pull the list out of my purse to see what else we need to get. “Mom wants two bouquets of flowers. The florist is just down the block.”
I take off, and Archer falls into step next to me. “You seem mad, and I wouldn’t blame you.”
Coming to a sudden halt, I whirl around. “Really, Archer? You wouldn’t blame me? How very generous of you.”
I take off again, wondering where the fire inside of me is coming from. I’m not a confrontational person. At all. I know I have feelings for Archer, but I guess they’re rooted deeper than I thought for all this snapping.
“Quinn, stop.” Archer grabs my wrist, gently pulling me back to him. I let him bring me close, and rest one hand on his firm chest, feeling his heart beat beneath my fingers. I want nothing more than to kiss him, for him to pick me up and press me against the brick wall of Eastwood’s only bookstore, not caring who sees.
Tingles make their way through every inch of me, and my pussy aches to feel his touch. I need him.
And I think he needs me too.
I lick my lips and inch in, wanting to feel if his desire matches mine. It’s a bit unfair, if you think about it, how women can hide it when they’re turned on but guys can’t. Especially guys like Archer who have a big dick. Not that I feel sorry for him in that aspect, of course.
“You said you like honesty,” Archer says, voice deep, rumbling right through me. “So be honest.”
I swa
llow hard, throat suddenly thick. “Fine. I can be honest.” I raise my head, lips inches from his, and open my mouth. Archer tips his head down, and if he doesn’t kiss me, I think I might explode.
Archer grips my hips, pulling me to him, and I feel his cock start to harden. I melt into his embrace, remembering how good it felt to have him inside me. Even before that, the way he touched me, the way he looked at me, the way he made me feel like I was a goddess…I miss it and I need it.
I slowly bring my hand down his chest, keeping my eyes locked with his. My fingers dance over his waistband of his athletic shorts, so close to the tip of his cock.
And then the door to the bookstore opens, swinging out and almost hitting us. We jump back, separating just in time.
“Quinn!” Logan exclaims, stopping short. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”
18
Archer
I blink rapidly, eyes needing to readjust to the bright sunlight around us. Everything faded for a moment there.
“And Archer. I didn’t know you were in town.” Logan’s eyes go from Quinn to me a few times before he pulls Quinn in for a hug. “I’m guessing this is why Mom’s having us all come over for dinner tonight.”
“Yeah. We’re out running errands for her,” she says, shuffling back. Sweat breaks out along my back, both from the heat of the day and almost getting caught. My judgment goes out the window when it comes to Quinn, and she got me going from zero to sixty in three seconds flat.
“What’d you buy?” Quinn asks, shifting nervously. She’s worried her brother saw us too.
“That thriller that’s being made into a movie. I refuse to see the movie until I’ve read the book.”
Out of all her brothers, Quinn and Logan are the most alike. He’s the second youngest, even though Owen is a mere handful of seconds older, and I’ve heard them joke about that bonding them.
“The one about the girl who wakes up from a car accident covered in blood and thinks her husband is a killer?” she asks.
“Yeah, that one.” Logan holds up the book. “Well, I’ll see you guys later. I need to stop in at the bar and make sure things are set up for tonight. And then find Owen.”
Dawson Family Boxset (Books 1-3) Page 14
