Chapter Four

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 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.”