Conflict (The Wellingtons Book 3) Read online

  Conflict

  Copyright © Tessa Teevan

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication

  may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Editor: Mickey Reed

  Cover Designer: Robin Harper of Wicked by Design

  Photographer: Scott Hoover

  Formatter: Champagne Book Design

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Other Books

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Epilogue

  Sneak Peek

  About the Author

  The Wellingtons

  Combust

  Conflagration

  Explosive

  Ignite

  Incinerate

  Inflame

  Intoxicate

  Fusion

  Promise in Prose

  Words I Couldn’t Say

  Clandestine Affairs

  Instigation

  Escalation

  Sweet Southern

  Sweet Southern Sorrow

  GROWING UP a Wellington wasn’t always as easy as people thought. To many in my circle, I was privileged, pampered, and born with a silver spoon, when in reality, that was so far from the case it was laughable. My grandfather built Wellington Enterprises from the ground up, and it was my father and his brother who made it into the conglomerate it is today. Being the son of a man who lived, breathed, and practically ate business didn’t lend oneself to laziness. No, instead of spending all my play days in the park with other pre-school kids, I was already being shown the big man’s office, that one day could be mine if I worked hard enough for it.

  It was even worse when you’re the only child of the younger brother, the one who always felt he couldn’t quite measure up. Don’t get me wrong. I love my pops; he’s the greatest man I’ve ever known and one hell of a role model. But his constant rivalry with his older brother, Knox, was never beyond my notice. He loved his brother, loved my cousins, but it was his dream to see his son on top. So, even though I didn’t want to go into the family company, I did it anyway. If he knew, Pops would’ve been pissed. That’s part of the reason I never let on I had ambitions that lay elsewhere. If I could make Pops happy, I’d be happy. And even though I had other ideas, the biggest goal in my life was making him proud. The only person who ever knew I wanted to take a different path in life was my cousin Branson, and the guy’s a vault when it comes to secrets, especially since I know many of his own.

  The funny thing is that I ended up loving my job and excelling, much to my father’s enjoyment. My other passion, cooking, stayed my hobby, and once I found a routine with both, I realized maybe I was wrong and being a Wellington isn’t all that bad. In fact, it hadn’t taken long for me to understand my last name was more blessing than curse. After all, if I’d become a chef like I used to dream, I’d have probably ended up hating food, and that would just be a travesty.

  There’s something else about being a Wellington, though this one I won’t simply roll over and give into, no matter how often my mother and my paternal grandmother, Kate, love to remind me of it. The Wellington Way, they call it. They insist that it’s some unique familial male gene that causes a Wellington man to stop in his tracks when he meets the woman who is supposedly his destiny. Mom’s eyes gloss over and Grandma Kate clasps her hands together each time they tell me about the heart-stopping, pulse-racing, can’t-live-without-her kind of love they expect me to one day experience.

  I never bought into it. Sure, Pop and Mom have always been annoyingly happy and Aunt Amelia and Uncle Knox love competing with them in the P.D.A. department—something my cousins and I all thought was super gross when we were growing up. But it seemed to have missed the next generation. In fact, I can’t remember the last time I even heard one of my cousins mention the stupid phrase. For the longest time, I thought the phrase had ended with the generation before us.

  See, there are four Wellington boys. Three—Branson, Knox (a III, yet second-born, which caused some family drama), and Cohen—were born to my aunt and my uncle. I was the only child of my parents, not through lack of them trying, I was unfortunately once told during Pop’s awkward version of the birds and the bees talk when I was a kid.

  Branson, the oldest, married his brother’s high school sweetheart. Now, I’m a gentleman and don’t believe in calling a woman anything derogatory, so let’s just say Megan Caldwell Wellington—now again Caldwell—was never quite wifey material.

  Knox, the middle and the family namesake… Well, like I said, his brother married his high school sweetheart. The whole thing caused a rift in that side of the family and Knox joined the army immediately after high school graduation. Cohen and I are the only ones he kept in contact with until about a year ago. That’s a whole different story.

  Cohen, well… He never seemed to have bad luck with women. Then again, he is the baby of the family, and by the time his dating years came about, I was already rising to the top of the Atlanta branch of Wellington Enterprises and wasn’t exactly checking in with a high school kid to see what his conquests were like.

  So, you see, I didn’t think this generation of Wellington men had that fall-hard fast gene the women in our family insisted we possessed. Settling down, monogamy, and relationships just weren’t for us and that was fine by me. I didn’t want or need the heartbreak I witnessed both Knox and Branson go through.

  Better to have an empty heart than a broken one.

  All the dominoes in the Wellington chain, however, began to tumble when Knox met a good woman and fell. Hard.

  Not long after, Cohen’s fiery redhead stole his heart and changed the course of her life to join him at medical school.

  And, now, even Branson’s on the verge of his own happily-ever-after with a woman who adores him more than I thought possible. Not once did the family motto come up, so I’d put it out of my mind.

  This domino effect seemed to have missed me. Or so I�
��d thought.

  Because, in the least likely place, I met a woman I never expected.

  Just like Grandma Kate said, I was knocked on my ass, flipped inside out, head over cock for Alyssa Covington.

  The only problem?

  At the present moment, she wants nothing to do with me.

  Little does Alyssa know, I never give up what’s mine.

  One Year Earlier

  MY NAME is Alyssa Covington and I’m a twenty-five-year-old virgin.

  Not for lack of trying. Ish.

  Seriously. My V-card isn’t something precious I’m trying to hold on to. I don’t have religious beliefs that make me want to save myself until marriage. No, absolutely not. I’m a firm believer in test driving, because if life gives you sour lemons in the bedroom department, how the heck are you supposed to make delicious lemonade without knowing you’re going to need a whole lot of sugar?

  I’ve just…never gotten to that pleasurable test drive. Sure, I’ve seen a few shiny models I wouldn’t have minded taking for a spin over the years, but I’ve never gotten to the point where the key goes into the ignition.

  Or perhaps my baseball-loving cousin Lexi has a better metaphor for it. I’ve gone to first base, plowed right through second, and even rounded third with a dash toward home, yet I’ve never scored. Not even close.

  I mentally take a trip down memory lane, feeling quite woe-is-me that I can count my sexual experiences on one hand.

  The first pitch: It was Davey Richards. Yes, I know, not exactly the sexiest name on the block, but for a fourteen-year-old country boy, Davey was incredibly fitting. Davey was my first kiss. He was from a small town in Alabama and had the deep Southern twang to prove it. He was tall for eighth grade, already at least six feet, towering over my five-foot frame. I felt like Thumbelina next to him, and God, I loved it. His hair was the color of baled hay, and his eyes? Blue as the Georgian sky on the clearest of days.

  When we touched hands as we both reached for the last Chipper Jones bobblehead at a Braves game, electricity sparked. It was as electrifying as whatever a fourteen-year-old girl could imagine. Davey gave me a lopsided grin and told me that Chipper was all mine, and it was practically love at first sight. We spent the rest of the game together, laughing and munching on popcorn and peanuts, and when the kiss cam didn’t showcase us, I was sorely disappointed. That feeling didn’t last long, however. During the seventh-inning stretch, he placed one arm around my shoulder, used his other hand to caress my cheek, and leaned in close. His lips brushed mine once, soft, sweet, and salty. Not exactly what I’d expected for my first kiss, but what did I know?

  See? Baseball equals romance, even when you’re in eighth grade.

  Alas, it was not meant to be. Davey went back to Brewton, and though we exchanged AOL instant messenger names, my first kisser faded into a summer memory as soon as freshman year of high school started.

  First and second base: Since Davey was basically a peck on the lips and not much more, I don’t actually consider him as having reached a base. My real first base—a.k.a. making out, sucking face, not coming up for air for what seemed like hours—came about in the middle of my freshman year of high school.

  My sister, Ariana, was a junior when I was a freshman. It should’ve been perfect, right? I’d get to tag along to all the cool high school parties, hang out with the older crowd, and meet the guys in her grade.

  You’d think that, but you’d be wrong. Ariana wasn’t a partier. She wasn’t even really into boys. Whereas I was boy crazy. So I’d been biding my time, wondering when I’d get to sow my wild high school oats, when Robert Weaver asked me to the winter formal. Not gonna lie, I totally squealed. I mean, Robert was not only one of the hottest guys in school—he was captain of the soccer team and every girl in school wanted to be seen with him. Including me.

  After a night spent dancing, drinking punch, laughing, and having a great time, we ended up in his parents’ basement, watching a movie an hour before my curfew. And I’m using the term “watching” very loosely. By now we were both primed and ready for something more. Robert was a gentleman and I’d told him that I’d only been kissed once. So he went slow, asked permission to touch, and I was eager to give it. I have no idea how long we made out. I just know it was heavenly. Where I was a novice, he was an expert, and boy, did I want an education. Lips devoured, tongues tangled, hands roamed. Over the clothes only. As I said, Robert was a gentleman.

  Just as I was about to have the courage to ask to see it, Robert pulled back, panting, his cheeks flushed and his eyes darting back and forth between mine.

  “Alyssa, I…” he said, sending butterflies soaring in my belly.

  Perhaps I was about to be asked out, and I was thrilled at the idea of him becoming my first real boyfriend. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the case.

  Instead, his expression went sour and he shook his head. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

  And then he ran toward the bathroom and proceeded to puke up all the Jell-O shots he and his friends had taken during the dance. My sister, God bless her, picked me up, and that was that. Robert barely looked at me when we returned from winter break, and though I hadn’t minded (after all, who hasn’t gotten sick after too many Jell-O shots?), he was apparently too embarrassed.

  After Robert, I dated around, crafting my making-out game, but there wasn’t anyone who gave me that fire in my belly that told me to go further.

  Until Ryan.

  Third base: Ryan Masterson. The last name says it all, right? Wrong—at least for me.

  During my junior year of college, I got a job at a bar not far from my apartment, wanting extra cash that didn’t have my parents’ stamp on it. Also, it was a way to meet people outside of those I went to school with. Ryan was the bass guitarist for an up-and-coming local band that regularly played gigs at the bar. He was sin on stage. The opposite of what I’d gone for in the past. He was only a few inches taller than I was and lean. He lived in black tank tops that fit his form, highlighting muscles hiding beneath his shirt, and the look was incredibly sexy. The swirling black ink on his arms, the pierced lip, and the darkest blue eyes I’d ever seen probably helped with the whole sex factor. I could’ve spent hours watching his forearms flex with each strum of his guitar strings. He had this thing where he’d bite his tongue if he were in deep concentration, and the sight? It made my lady bits tingle, probably for the first time in history.

  At least for the first time I could remember. And boy, do I still remember.

  Ryan Masterson’s penis was my first taste, and surprisingly, I couldn’t get enough. He didn’t mind my innocence, and he guided me, showing me what he liked, coaching until I got the hang of it. I felt a rush of pride when he laid his head back against the couch and bucked his hips up, thrusting his cock deeper until hot liquid spurted out onto my tongue in waves. Hell, I even swallowed.

  Thanks, Cosmo.

  Ryan then returned the favor, and I learned that he more than lived up to his name. My vagina practically sang as he licked, sucked, fingered, and caressed the place between my legs. He was my personal Magellan, leaving nothing unexplored, no place untouched. At this point, I was quite excellent with my fingers, but still, I hadn’t known that someone sucking on your clit could be life-changing. I kinda understood all of those rumors about Marilyn Manson removing a rib so he could orally pleasure himself. Because after Ryan’s mouth, my fingers would never be enough.

  It was pretty freaking magical.

  That is until his mom walked in on us.

  Oh yes, his mother.

  Now, I’m no snob. There’s nothing wrong with a twenty-something-year-old dude living his with his parents while trying to make it big with his band. I get it. That’s cool. It worked out for many recording artists. My problem was that when dear old mom walked in, she didn’t freak out. She didn’t scream. No, mama bear sat down next to us on the couch, picked up the remote, and started flipping through channels until she got to the Bravo channel. Then she
settled in to watch the Real Housewives of whatever freaking city.

  All while her son’s tongue was spelunking in my vagina.

  I mean, it’s kinda hard to reach the big O when the guy’s mother is rattling off questions like, “Which housewife is your favorite? Oh my God, did you see what Tamra said about Vicki? Do you think Slade’s as big of a dirtball as they say? I don’t know. I think he got a bad rap with Gretchen.”

  The worst part? Ryan didn’t even notice. Or if he did, he didn’t care.

  Me on the other hand? I was mortified. I mean, who wants to think about sleazy Slade when she’s trying to have an orgasm?! If my clit were a cock, it would’ve deflated until it was inverse inside me. I couldn’t get out of there fast enough, and my vagina has never been the same.

  Sure, there were guys in between. And some after Ryan. But nothing ever came to fruition. It was as if the universe was saying, Uh uh, girl. Not today. No wang for you. So, instead, I threw myself into my school work and my internship and haven’t looked back. Until maybe now. Since I’m no longer juggling school and work, perhaps it’s time to put myself out there again.

  So here I am, a twenty-five-year-old virgin who just finished her master’s program, and I’m headed to the beach for a week of sun, sand…and hopefully a freaking home run. After all, Lexi did lose her own V-card at the beach, and she’s now happily married to the man who took it, with a baby girl to round out their happy family.

  Who says I won’t have the same kind of luck?

  Or hell, at least a little bit of fun.

  “WINTER BREAK!” I exclaim the moment my sister opens the door to her apartment.

  I barely notice she’s still wearing her pajamas as I push past her, looking around for her luggage.

  “Winter break? Really, Lyss?” Ariana scoffs, wrinkling her celestial nose in my direction.

  Her lack of enthusiasm has me rolling my eyes. Ari graduated with her bachelor’s nearly six years ago, and I just finished earning both my MBA and CPA, but still, this is technically my last winter break as a college student, even if I’m not quite that anymore.