Chapter Eleven

Scarlet

I forgot about conning this man. I forgot about wanting to squeeze every penny I could and leave without so much as a look back. I forgot about my old life, about the shit I have to deal with on a daily basis.

For the last four episodes of this scary-as-shit show, all I’ve been able to think about is 1.) we are probably going to die at the hands of evil spirits tonight and 2.) Weston is so big and so warm and it’s taking every ounce of self-control I have not to move over and lean against him.

I want to feel his hands on me. His lips against mine. I want to at the very least press my hand to his muscular chest and see if his heart is racing, because mine is. And it’s not only from being scared of this show.

It’s because I know I’m walking a fine line, one that puts me at risk. And I don’t take risks, not like this at least. When my heart is involved, I’m out. It hasn’t been an issue for me before, because I’ve come to believe my heart is shriveled and small like the Grinch’s, but unlike a children’s story, no amount of singing and kindness can make mine grow and start beating inside my chest.

It can’t.

Because beating hearts get broken.

The floor creaks above us and I tense, turning to Wes with wide eyes. “Please tell me you have a cat I don’t know about.”

Slowly, he turns his head to look at me, eyes vacant. “No cat. Just the Tall Man.” He looks at me, unblinking. My heart speeds up. I swallow hard, waiting for him to crack.

He doesn’t.

“The Tall Man’s coming for you,” Weston whispers, almost scaring me before he starts to laugh.

I throw a pillow at him. “Jerk!”

“I totally got you,” he says, still laughing.

“Not funny!”

Wes picks up the pillow and tosses it back at me. I tuck it behind me and scoot a little closer to him.

“But really…what was that?”

“When the heater kicks off it causes the whole house to creak. There’s a lot of sounds you’ll get used to. The pipes rattle when someone is in the shower. Or the dishwasher is running. If you open the windows upstairs, a draft comes down the stairs and blows the front door shut, and sometimes when you turn on the back porch light, it makes the hallway light come on.”

“And you say this house isn’t haunted.”

Wes laughs again, and dammit, I need to look away. Because this man is beautiful when he smiles. “It’s faulty wiring and a drafty old house with poor insulation.”

“Keep telling yourself that, mister.”

He leans back and puts his feet up on the coffee table. “It’s three AM. You’re sleep-deprived and it’s making you paranoid,” he teases. “We should probably call it a night.”

I grab his arm before he gets up, and the moment my fingers touch his warm skin, I regret it. Because now I know he’s as warm as I imagined, and I’m drawn to him like a moth to a flame.

Though, unlike the moth, I know what will happen if I succumb and fly right into the bright light. I don’t feel like burning to a crisp today, so I pull back.

“We have two episodes left. I won’t be able to sleep until I know how this ends. Stay with me?” I meant to say stay and watch it with me, but somehow the other words got lost on the way out.

Wes is standing above me, with the light from the TV illuminating his back. He’s so big and so tall, and with his long, messy hair hanging around his handsome face, it’s like I’m sitting before Thor himself. I swallow hard, lips parting, preparing myself for him to go up to bed.

Alone.

Which would be a good thing. The right thing.

For him.

For me.

And for Jackson.

But I’ve never been good at doing the right thing.

“Sure,” Wes says, and I watch his beautiful lips curve into a smile. My body is reacting hard to him, and I have to reel in my libido. Trying to convince myself his physical attraction is the only thing that’s pulling me to him, I put a pillow in my lap and tuck my legs firmly underneath myself.

Wes settles back onto the couch, and the TV show cuts to a scene of a bright and sunny day, contrasting with the dark and gloomy mood of the rest of the show. The light illuminates Wes’s face, and I take a few seconds to study him.

It’s the middle of the night. We’re both tired, and if he’s anything like me, he’s questioning the existence of ghosts and demons right about now and feeling very vulnerable.

Very human.

He rests his head against the back of the couch, and this is the most relaxed, the most real I’ve seen him with the exception of the moments he’s with Jackson. Right now, sitting here in the dark, the walls have been lowered, and he’s not resisting the fact that I’m here. I get not wanting to admit you want help, but what I don’t get is why Wes seems resentful of the fact that he needs a nanny.

Maybe it has to do with Jackson’s mother, who walked out on them?

“I didn’t see that coming,” Wes says, pulling my attention back to the TV. I look away from his face, and it takes me a few seconds to catch up to the twist that was revealed.

“That’s fucked up,” I mutter, shaking my head.

“Yeah, it is. But it explains why the shadows always followed her.”

“Ohhh, it does.”

Tiredness grips me, and if I were to lay down and close my eyes, I’d be asleep in minutes. I want to see how this show ends because I know once I get up and walk up to my room, I’ll be awake enough to lay there terrified the shadows cast by inanimate objects will manifest into dark spirits.

And I like being here next to Weston.

It’s weird. It doesn’t make sense. We’re not talking. Not touching. Yet his presence is calming, and the faint scent of his woodsy cologne clings to his muscular body, and I know if I were to inch close and snuggle up, resting my head on his chest so I could count his heartbeats, the smell would fill my nostrils and I’d be a goner. There’s something about an attractive man who smells good that makes them irresistible.

I’m so comfortable right now and feel so safe around him. I close my eyes for just a minute.

“Scarlet,” Weston whispers. “Scarlet.”

My eyes flutter open, and I realize I’ve fallen to the side, drifting to sleep. Wes is looking down at me, his face dangerously close to mine.

“You’re falling asleep,” he says with a chuckle. “Go to bed.”

“No way.” I stretch out, moving closer to him. “We’re too far in to give up now. I don’t take you to be a quitter.”

Wes laughs again. “I’m not, though I never looked at turning off the TV because it’s now almost four AM as quitting.”

“We’ve got, what, one episode left? It’s quitting in my book.”

“Well, I guess we have to watch until the end.” The smile is still on his face as he leans back, but the second he relaxes, he gets up again, moving in between the couch and the coffee table, reaching over to get the blanket that fell onto the floor. He grabs it and spreads it over me.

My heart speeds up, and suddenly I feel like I’m in a rickety boat, being tossed about in stormy water. Not because Wes scares me, but because he does the exact opposite.

You’re walking the line of dangerous territory, I remind myself. He’s my boss. Sleeping with your boss is never a good idea.

“Thanks.” I smooth out the blanket and sit up, fixing the pillows. “Is it just my imagination or is it colder in here now?”

“It’s colder. I have the heat set to go down a few degrees between midnight and five AM. It goes back up at six-thirty, around the time Jackson gets up.” His brows furrow. “Though I suppose I can change it to seven-thirty now since he doesn’t have to get up so early anymore.”

I nod, knowing what he’s talking about. They used to leave the house around seven in order to drop Jackson off at Wes’s parents’ before Wes went in for work.

“Are you cold?” I ask him, swinging my legs over the side of the couch and offering to share the blanket.

“I’m okay,” he says and kicks his feet back up on the coffee table. 

“Really?” I ask dubiously and reach out—against my better judgment, of course—and press my hand against his bicep. “You are warm.” I push up and eye him suspiciously. “Are you really a shifter?”

“Huh?”

I shake my head and laugh. “Shifter. Or werewolf. In paranormal romance books, any sort of were or shifter is always described as being warmer than normal humans.”

Wes raises an eyebrow, looking amused. “I didn’t know that.”

“I’m a little weird. Maybe I should have warned you.”

Slowly, he angles his body toward me and brings one arm up, resting it on the back of the couch behind me. “I like weird.”

“Well, you’re in luck.”

Our eyes meet and my heart flutters. This is the most real I’ve seen Wes, and this is the most real he’s seen me. Because right now, I’m not Scarlet, the con-artist, scourge of the South Side. I’m just Scarlet, the quirky blonde who reads smutty vampire and werewolf romance novels in her spare time and gets way too wrapped up in scary TV shows.

Wes’s fingertips brush against my shoulder, and I shiver. I tip my head towards his, lips parting. He moves his head down toward mine.

He needs to stop.

I need to look away.

But I don’t.

And he doesn’t.

Our eyes meet again, and I know he’s feeling the exact same thing as I am. My heart flutters in my chest, like it’s taking flight before it starts flapping its wings as hard as it can, beating away like a drum inside my chest.

He sweeps his hand down, and his fingers trail along my arm. His touch is gentle, making me want to lean in and feel more. He’s doing it on purpose, knowing exactly what kind of reaction he’s going to get from me.

I don’t know if I should be mad at him for it or not. Swallowing hard, I take my bottom lip between my teeth and slowly lean in. He brings his hand up again and pushes my hair back behind my ear.

He’s going to kiss me.

The little bit of logic that hasn’t left me is screaming to stop, because if he kisses me, things won’t end there. I’ll climb into his lap, press my core against him, and feel his cock harden beneath me. I’ll wrap my arms around his neck and buck my hips back, rubbing his cock against me once, maybe twice, before going in for another kiss. His hands will settle on my waist, pushing under my T-shirt, feeling the soft skin on my back. He’ll shift his weight, rubbing himself against me until the top of his boxers dampens from the glistening tip of his cock.

He’ll press his lips to mine again, and I’ll push my tongue into his mouth. We’ll fall back on the couch, kissing with fervor as we peel off each other’s clothes. He’ll want to carry me upstairs, but I’ll be too impatient to wait even half a minute to feel his big, rough hands sweeping over my body, moving down my thighs, parting my legs, and rubbing over my clit.

If I let him kiss me, I’m going to end up sleeping with him. And nothing good ever comes from sleeping with your boss.

My heart flutters again, and the little bit of logic dissolves into nothing.

He’s going to kiss me.

And I’m going to let him.