Chapter Nine

Scarlet

I pull the blankets tighter around my shoulders and bring my legs up under myself. It started raining not long after we got back from the park, and it dropped the temperature by twenty degrees. A damp chill took hold of the house, and while the heater is on and running, I haven’t warmed up yet.

Which has nothing to do with my cold heart, I’m sure.

Wes put Jackson to bed, and knowing that he actually wants to spend time with his son is charming. Wait, no it’s not. There’s nothing charming about him. Nope. Not at all. And he certainly didn’t look good in those gray sweatpants. And offering me his jacket wasn’t a smooth move or anything. And putting my arms in the sleeves of said jacket and feeling the heat from his body was a turn-off. Big time.

He’s closed off but not socially inept, and his charm isn’t lost on the people of this town. Ms. Soccer Mom at the park was flirting with him, and we got stopped three times on the short walk home. Two more single women just “wanted to say hi” and find out who I was, of course. His next-door neighbors are an elderly couple, and they thanked him for helping mow their lawn a few days ago.

He’s the golden boy of this town, and pulling any sort of trick on him will probably cause the townspeople to grab their torches and pitchforks and march after me while singing “Kill the Beast.”

I roll over, debating if I should get up and get socks or if moving out of the covers will make me even more cold. I cuddle my unicorn close to my chest and make myself into a little ball, too lazy to get up.

Someone softly knocks at the door, and I shoot up, thinking it’s Jackson.

“Scarlet?” Weston calls, voice low. “Are you awake?”

Suddenly, I’m nervous, and it’s not because I don’t want him to come in here and make an advance. It’s because I do.

“Yeah, I am.” I get up, pulling the top quilt from the bed and wrapping it around my shoulders. Ignoring the urge to smooth out my hair, I open the door. Weston is standing there, wearing a white T-shirt and plaid PJ pants. The look is casual, completely appropriate, and not at all sexy. So why do I feel heat rushing through me?

“I never opened the vents in here.” He motions to something on the ceiling. “I just remembered.”

“Oh, um, how do you open them? I’ll do it.”

“I got it.” He doesn’t look at me, and for some reason, it annoys me. “You probably won’t be able to reach it.” Stepping aside, I flick on the light and pull the blanket tighter around my shoulders. “It’s cold in here. Sorry,” he mumbles and walks through the room, reaching up and opening the vents. Warm air rushes down on me. He turns to leave and spots the unicorn on my pillow.

“You sleep with that?” he asks, lips pulling up with a bit of amusement.

“Every night. His name is Ray.”

“Interesting name,” Wes says.

The half smile turns into a real smile and, dammit, it’s doing bad things to me. I sit on my bed and pick Ray up. “He’s yellow, like a ray of sunshine.”

“That makes sense, I guess.”

I shrug. “I’ve had him forever. I know it’s weird.”

“There are weirder things to have in bed.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Speaking from experience?”

“Unfortunately, no.”

“I suppose that’s good to know,” I laugh.

Weston smiles, holding my gaze for a few seconds, and I see the man under the tough exterior. He’s a bit damaged, like me, and the strangest feeling takes over, making me want to comfort him. Then he stiffens, inhaling deep and pushing his shoulders back. I watch his chest muscles rise and fall, feeling so little next to him.

“Goodnight,” he says and walks right past me out the door. He doesn’t shut it behind him, and I watch him disappear down the hall. Jackson is in his own room tonight, and Wes closes his door halfway, probably leaving it open to be able to hear if I get out of bed and decide to kidnap his son or something.

I close my door, twisting the knob before it clicks into place, silently shutting it. Then I get back in bed, still cold but feeling hot and flustered inside. Along with having little experience with good parents, I have little experience with good guys. My track record is unimpressive, and I haven’t had anything serious since I broke up with Tommy three and a half years ago.

I can feel warm air filling the room, but I’m still chilled. I get up and grab a pair of socks from my suitcase—no, I haven’t unpacked yet and probably won’t until I’ve worn everything at least once and doing laundry is a necessity. Hunkering back down into bed, I curl up with Ray and fall asleep.

It shouldn’t surprise me that I dream of Weston. Of his large, rough hands running up the back of my thighs. Of his lips against mine as he kisses his way down my neck, over my breasts, and down my stomach. He yanks off my panties and dives between my legs, and his warm tongue against me is the best thing I’ve ever felt.

I wake up with my hand between my legs, body begging to go back to sleep and finish the dream. Rain patters against the window, and I let out a breath, no longer cold. I close my eyes and try to get comfortable, but I’m too hot and bothered to peacefully fall back asleep.

What am I doing wrong here? Well, besides wanting to cheat an honest man out of money—don’t judge me on that. That’s a topic for another day, one that will require confession, ten Hail Marys, and hours of community service.

Weston isn’t a wealthy asshole with money to burn. I can’t convince myself I’m a sexy Robin Hood with him, stealing from the rich to give to the poor—aka me. I can’t take anything from him. I don’t want to.

I hoped to get through to him, to knock down his walls and see what makes him tick. But I think he’s going to get to me first…and he’s not even trying.

*

I plunge my hands into the warm, soapy water. I didn’t sleep well last night, and around five AM I gave up and came downstairs to start breakfast. Wes works today and said he leaves the house around seven.

So far, I’ve made blueberry muffins, cooked an entire package of bacon, and have eggs whipped up and ready to scramble once the boys come downstairs. They’re best fresh out of the pan and don’t take long to make. I’ve piled the bacon onto a plate and put it in the oven to stay warm. The muffins are neatly arranged in a bowl on the table. I even found a white cloth napkin to put in the bowl first, making it look all fancy and proper.

And now the dishes are almost done, and the table is already set. Show me an attractive single dad and suddenly I turn into Betty fucking Crocker.

What.

The.

Fuck.

Compartmentalizing and not dealing with my feelings is my thing. My claim to fame. The only reason I’ve been able to get by this well for so long. My deck has always been stacked a few cards short, and in a dog-eat-dog world, I’ve never had the chance to stop and think about a better life.

And I mean really think.

Like muffins and bacon kind of thinking.

Opening the oven, I grab a piece of bacon before making a pot of coffee. The smell of French roast fills the air, and something inside me relaxes.

“Morning,” Wes says when he comes into the kitchen. He’s dressed in his uniform, and he looks so good I don’t think I’d be surprised if someone started playing “Hot in Here” and he started taking off all his clothes in a private strip show just for me.

I’d grab the bacon, sit back, and watch.

“Morning,” I say back, going to the cabinet to get him a coffee cup. Assuming he’ll have his coffee the same way he did yesterday, I fill the cup and add just a little bit of cream and sugar. “Do you want eggs? I was just about to make some.”

Wes’s brows move together, and he looks around the kitchen as if I finger-painted the furniture, not made him breakfast.

“Sure.”

“Okay. Have a seat. It’ll only take a few minutes.” I already preheated the pan. With my back to him, I focus on the eggs, doing my best not to turn around and make small talk, because I know if I look into Weston’s dark eyes, there’s a good chance I’ll turn into a pile of goo on the floor.

And then who’s going to finish making breakfast?

“You didn’t have to do all this,” Weston says in a level tone. “We usually eat cereal or Pop Tarts in the morning.”

“I was up, and that’s the kind of thing I usually eat too. Something hot for breakfast sounded nice.”

I turn down the burner and risk a look back at Weston. He’s pulled his hair away from his face and is leaning back in the kitchen chair. He looks right at me, and something burns behind his stormy eyes.

“Yeah, a hot breakfast is nice every now and then.”

He’s literally agreeing with words I just spoke, yet I’m feeling flush like he’s filling every syllable with a secret innuendo. And dammit—I want him to. And now there’s no denying that Weston Dawson has done the impossible: gotten under my skin and is weaseling his way into that dark cavity in my chest that some call a heart.