Side Hustle (Dawson Family 3)

I wasn’t always successful.

The simple fact that I like this—putting Jackson to bed, straightening up the house, and sitting down with a cup of fucking tea and a book—is rocking my whole sense of identity right now. I never understood why some people criticized women who chose to stay at home and look after their household. If that’s what they want and aren’t being repressed into anything against their will, then it’s no different than a woman going out and getting a job. She’s doing what she wants. What makes her happy.

I didn’t realize this could make me happy.

“It’s only been a few days,” I tell myself and stand, needing to reheat my tea by now. Before I make it into the kitchen, the alarm beeps and Wes steps into the house. I get to the keypad first and punch in the code to disarm the system.

“Hey,” he says, closing the door behind him. I open my mouth to say hi back, but the words die in my throat. I was not prepared to see what I’m seeing.

Weston is wearing a fitted suit, and dear God, it’s worse than if he were standing naked before me. I want to throw myself at him, wrapping my fingers around his sleek black tie and using it to pull him up to the bedroom with me. His hair is neatly pulled back away from his face, and a slight five o’clock shadow covers his strong jawline.

And I thought he looked good in his uniform.

“Look at you,” I say, raising my eyebrows. “Looking all GQ.”

He smiles and looks down at himself, almost as if he forgot what he’s wearing. Fuck, it’s adorable.

“I had a debate tonight.”

“For the race?”

He nods and takes his suit jacket off. “Yeah, and then I had a meet-and-greet.” His face tightens, and he shakes his head. “I don’t like this part of it. I just want to do my job as the Sheriff and not convince Mr. and Mrs. Johnson why they should donate to my campaign over anyone else’s.”

I smile at him, body still tingling. He hangs his jacket on the back of a kitchen chair. Then he starts to roll up the sleeves on his button-up dress shirt.

And now I’m dead, lying motionless on the kitchen floor.

“That’s why you’ll be good at the job,” I say, words coming out thinner than I’d like. I tear my eyes away, trying to convince myself that Weston looks like the homeless man who used to sleep in our crawlspace instead of Chris Hemsworth at the Met Gala.

It doesn’t work.

“You want to do the job for the job. Not many people in politics are that way.”

He chuckles. “It doesn’t feel that political, to be honest. I’ll be the Sheriff of our county, not governor of Indiana.”

“You’d be good at that too.” I put my mug in the microwave.

“How’d Jackson do at bedtime?”

“He was good. I ended up reading like four extra stories. Maybe I’ll get used to saying no when he asks for another with time, right?”

Wes smiles. “I have a hard time saying no to books too. Someday he’s not going to want me to sit in bed with him and read.”

“Right. They don’t stay little for long.”

He holds my gaze for a moment too long, and blood rushes to my cheeks. He goes upstairs to change, and I take my tea back to the living room. I read a few pages and already I’m imagining the alpha werewolf in my book to look like Weston.

Dammit.

“I have something for you,” he says, coming back down the stairs. He’s wearing black athletic pants and a Chicago Bears hoodie. I’m not a big sports fan, but I do support my city.

“You do?”

“Well, kind of.” He crosses the room. “Grab your coat.”

Setting my book down, I get up and hurry after him. “If it’s a cat, you should have waited until Jackson wakes up.”

He gives me a playful glare. “It’s not a cat.”

“Darn.”

We put our shoes on and I grab my coat, following him to the back porch. There’s a telescope standing on the sidewalk, pointed up at the night sky. I pause, suddenly forgetting how to move my feet.

“So you can see the stars.” Wes is standing by the telescope, a smile on his face. He takes a cover off the lens and wipes away dust. “It was mine when I was a kid. It’s been at my parents’ and I grabbed it on my way home. I have no idea if it still works, but it’s not like these things go bad, right?”

I fumble with the zipper on my coat, and for some reason, I’m still unable to move. I stare down the telescope feeling the weirdest sensation prick at the corners of my eyes. And an even weirder one inside my chest.