Dawson Family Boxset (Books 1-3)

by Emily Goodwin

  We’re meeting in The Loop, near Quinn’s place of work. She already ran my background check and said she called my references, and it’s a miracle she hasn’t been scared off yet. I spot her sitting at a table in the back, typing on a laptop. There’s an iced coffee next to her, and I can tell from back here her purse, clothes, and shoes are designer.

  Her brunette hair is pulled into a braid that’s perfectly messy, and she’s not wearing much makeup. She’s pretty and has a kind face. You can tell she’s a nice fucking person just by looking at her, and I can’t let myself fall into a trap.

  I need money. Specifically hers.

  My phone rings right as Quinn looks up, and our eyes meet for a fleeting moment before I glance down at my cell in my hand. It’s the nursing home, and I hesitate before answering. They called this morning to tell me Dad was out of the medication insurance stopped covering and asked if I would be able to provide it until something was worked out.

  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 away 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.

  4

  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.

  I don’t know what I expected—Mrs. Doubtfire perhaps?—but I certainly didn’t expect a blonde bombshell. Though really, Owen got the final say in who Quinn interviewed after she narrowed it down to her top five choices. Still…this woman before me belongs on the pages of a magazine, not living in someone else’s house looking after strangers’ children.

  She freezes, looking around as if she has no idea what the fuck is going on, and then recovers fast. She blinks, puts on a smile, and comes up the porch steps. Scarlet is the definition of a hot nanny, even in that stupid fuzzy sweater. Perky round tits bounce underneath it as she walks, and it doesn’t look like she’s wearing a bra.

  My dick jumps and I turn away. She’s been here all of a minute and I’m already reacting to her. Dammit. I don’t even want her here, let alone want to find her attractive. She’s here for Jackson, and he’s all that matters.

  He’ll always be all that matters.

  I don’t move, and we stand there in a weird stare-off. My face is set, and my mind is made. Letting her into my house means I can’t do it all and that’s not something I’ve admitted to myself. When Daisy left, I swore I didn’t need her. That I didn’t need anyone. Jackson was more than enough, and I have to be enough for him.

  Knowing I can’t stand here staring at Scarlet forever, I take a step forward. She smells amazing, like fresh flowers and clean laundry and sunshine. Impossible, right? I fucking wish it were. She sweeps her eyes over me, inhaling quickly. Her lips part and we both reach for the same suitcase at the same time.

  Her nails catch on my skin and she jerks back.

  “Sorry.” She makes a move to grab my hand but stops, holding hers awkwardly out in front of her. “Did I hurt you?”

  “No,” I say gruffly, fully aware how easily a woman like her could hurt me. She shuffles back, and I grab her two big suitcases with one hand, pinching my fingers between the handles, but wanting to get them inside so we can move off the porch. I’m suddenly sweating, and I’m blaming it on the hot sun.

  Hah.

  Once inside, she leans over to unzip her boots and I get a clear view of her tits behind that sweater. She’s definitely not wearing a bra. She’s well-endowed and I can’t help but imagine what those gorgeous tits would feel like in my hands.

  Obviously, I’m still attracted to women. Very attracted. But being married due to a technicality complicates the shit out of things, and even more pressing is not wanting to get Jackson’s hopes up.

  He’s still too young to fully grasp what happened, but he knows his mother left him. I’m certain he doesn’t actually remember her, but he understands the idea of a mother and asks every now and then if either his mom is coming back or if I’ll get married again. I can usually sidestep those questions with an ‘I’m not sure’ or ‘Mommy is busy,’ but what really gets me is when he asks why his mommy doesn’t love him.

  Because I don’t fucking know why.

  That kid is my moon and stars. He’s my reason for getting out of bed every morning. He’s everything to me, and the only reason this Scarlet woman is even here is to offer him a sense of stability that I can’t on my own.

  Everything I do, I do for him.

  “So, you talked to my sister yesterday,” I start, stepping into the living room.

  Scarlet’s eyes zero in on me, and she takes a few seconds to study my face. She makes no attempt to hide it either, and her brazen move to check me out throws me.

  “Quinn is your sister?” she asks, tipping her head to the side a bit. Why does she sound surprised?

  “Yeah, she is.”

  Scarlet’s long eyelashes come together as she blinks. “Oh. I thought she was your wife. You, uh, have the same last name.”

  I let out a strangled laugh. “No. She’s my baby sister, and she won’t be a Dawson for much longer anyway.”

  Scarlet’s lips part but no words leave her mouth. Then she smiles again and looks me over once more. “I can see the similarities.”

  I shrug. Dean and I look alike, Logan and Owen are obviously identical, and Quinn holds a resemblance to us all. Only prettier. “I guess. This whole thing is her idea,” I add. I want to keep pretending I can do it all, play the role of perfect father and devoted police officer to our town, but dammit, I can’t. Sticking to a schedule will do Jackson a world of good, especially now that he’s in school.

  “Oh.” Scarlet brings her arms in, looking a little unsure of herself. The gesture throws me, and it takes me a few seconds to realize why. Her body language says she’s shy and uncomfortable—expected in this situation, of course. But her face is set with determination and she has a distant look in her eyes that reminds me of a huntress on the prowl.

  I hate that I find it so fucking attractive.

  “She was supposed to explain everything.”

  “Yeah,” Scarlet says without missing a beat. “She did.” She smiles and grabs the remaining bags, bringing them from the foyer and into the living room. I know they’re heavy and she’s struggling under the weight, but she doesn’t let on or ask for help.

  “But we can go over it again.” She sets her purse down on the coffee table and looks around. The determination in her eyes gives way to a moment of panic, but she hides it well. I wouldn’t be able to see it if it weren’t something I’ve experienced myself.

  “Jackson is watching cartoons in his room. He’s excited to meet you.” I give her another few seconds to look around. The house is historical and has been fully restored and professionally decorated. Buying and fixing up this place was a dream Daisy and I shared back when we first started dating, and we saved for years to have enough to do things right.

  “Your house is beautiful,” she says, but almost sounds disappointed.

  “It’s haunted,” Jackson quips, appearing at the top of the stairs. “The Tall Man comes into my room at night.”

  “Jackson,” I scold, hoping Scarlet doesn’t go running out the door. Though on second thought…nope. This is for Jackson. I can grin and bear anything for that boy. “We talked about this. Ghosts aren’t real.”

  “The Tall Man isn’t a ghost. He’s a zombie!”

  Scarlet smiles, going over to the base of the stairs. “Well, you’re in luck. I just happen to know that zombies don’t like cinnamon. All we have to do is put a little pinch of it by your door and he won’t be able to come into your room anymore.”

  “Really?” Jackson’s face lights up.

  “Really.”

  Jackson comes down the stairs. “Are you my nanny?”

  “I am. My name is Scarlet.”

  “I’m Jackson. I’m four years old. Did you know that babies grow inside their mommy’s tummies before they pop out of their belly button?”

  Scarlet smiles. “I didn’t, but I do now.”

  I close my eyes in a long blink. It’s Dean’s fault Jackson won’t stop talking about where babies come from.

  “Want to see my room?” Jackson takes Scarlet’s hand. “I got a new PAW Patrol blanket for my bed. I have a big boy bed!”

  “Hang on, buddy,” I tell him. “Let’s show Scarlet around the rest of the house first and give her a chance to get settled.”

  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 d
oor 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?”