Conception (The Wellingtons, #4) Read online

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  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

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Other Books

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Epilogue

  Playlist

  The Wellingtons

  About the Author

  The Wellingtons

  Combust

  Conflagration

  Conflict

  Explosive

  Ignite

  Incinerate

  Inflame

  Intoxicate

  Fusion

  Promise in Prose

  Words I Couldn’t Say

  Clandestine Affairs

  Instigation

  Escalation

  Culmination

  Sweet Southern

  Sweet Southern Sorrow

  WHEN I GLANCE ACROSS THE room at the beauty whose infectious laughter captured my attention, I’m captivated.

  Rich mahogany hair cascades in luscious curls I’m dying to run my fingers through. As she elbows the man standing next to her, ruby-red lips curve into a mischievous smile. A hot burst of jealousy flows through my veins as I eye the man who’s made her laugh, even though his own wife seems in on the joke. Emerald eyes dance with delight, widening slightly when she spies me regarding her from where I’m sipping charred whisky and puffing a celebratory cigar. One diminutive hand lifts to clasp the sparkling sapphire hanging from her neck. The piece rests nestled between two perfect breasts that now have my utmost attention. My eyes linger on the spot for a fleeting moment, then ascend to catch those cherry lips quirk.

  Ah. I’ve been caught. Ensnared in her enchanting gaze, drawn to her like a siren’s song with each lingering peek beckoning me closer.

  I place my cigar in the ashtray, no longer having a taste for it. Ice clinks against the side of my glass as I raise it towards the woman I can’t seem to get enough of.

  The woman I’ve never been able to get enough of.

  My wife, Amelia.

  It’s not just the way the viridian-green wrap dress hugs every single curve of her—or how the color makes her bright eyes stand out, even from twenty yards away. It’s not the matching heels that accentuate the curve of both calves. It’s not the sparkling jewels that catch brilliantly in the light of the chandelier hanging above.

  It’s not just one thing. Or a million.

  It’s her.

  Everything about her.

  This beguiling temptress seduces me from afar, eliciting the urge to caress her bare, silken skin until I discover what else she’s hiding underneath.

  Just as I’m about to place my glass on the table and head in her direction, the sounds of Ambrosia crooning come over the speaker system. As the first chords of “Biggest Part of Me” begins to play, I know that this is my moment. Our moment.

  I switch my glass out with a passing waiter who’s carrying half-filled champagne flutes. With my drink, I start towards the love of my life.

  My wife.

  Her eyes soften as I amble in her direction, more than prepared to raise a glass to the woman of my dreams on our fortieth anniversary. The sight of affection reflecting back at me sets my soul on fire. As it’s always been with her.

  Before I can reach her, I stop in my tracks at an unexpected, unbearable pang in my chest. Razor-sharp agony shoots down my arm, and a sudden tightness in my chest has me struggling for breath.

  Everything around me becomes slow motion. A blur as I collapse to my knees. A distant shattering of glass barely registers.

  I struggle to lift my head, finding my wife’s horrified expression before she rushes across the room to my side. She clutches my hand, and as I try to focus on her beautiful face, something tells me this might be the last time I ever do so.

  That just might be the worst pain of all.

  She moves behind me, and I almost protest at the loss of her in my vision but try as I might, I don’t have the energy. Severe, excruciating pain twists in my chest, shooting like crackling lightning over and over again as it strikes the same spot. Every nerve ending in my arm ignites, and each breath I take feels like icicles piercing my lungs.

  This can’t be happening.

  Not here. Not now.

  Not ever.

  Amelia cradles my head in her lap, her gentle touch a contradiction to the orders she’s barking to those around us.

  “Knox,” she murmurs for only me to hear, the crack in her voice nearly breaking the heart that’s currently not so happy with me. “Just breathe. Clay went to grab Cohen from the nursery. He’ll be here before you know it. Just…stay with me, Knox. Stay with me. I can’t…” A hot teardrop hits my forehead. “I can’t lose you. Not now. Not ever.”

  It’s as if she’s read my thoughts. Tears of my own well up. I think of the time I almost lost her, a memory I’ve carried deep down in my soul, so I never forget the lesson I learned.

  I can’t lose her. Not again. Not like this.

  I’ve made so many damn mistakes in my life. But loving Amelia? That’s my greatest accomplishment.

  “Dad!”

  The feminine voice confuses me for a moment because I don’t have daughters. I was never that lucky. When Andi’s concerned face enters my vision, I close my eyes for a quick moment, grateful that all my kids, no matter how grown, still call this house their home. Because if these are my last moments, my last memories, I’m comforted in the fact that this house is filled with my boys, their wives, and an ever-growing brood of Wellington children I haven’t had enough time to spoil.

  At the same time, it’s the fact they’re all here that makes me want to stay that much more. Because even though I made countless mistakes as a parent, my sons make up the other half of my world, and life without them wouldn’t have been worth living. I wasn’t always the father I should have been, and though I’ve spent the last five years making up for it, it hasn’t been enough. I’m not sure it ever will be.

  Branson, the headstrong chip off the old man’s block who was always there, yet for some reason, I couldn’t see the man he’s become even though he’s exactly like me—for better or worse. From the day he was born, I loved him more than life itself. They say you don’t know love until you meet your firstborn, and
it’s true. I knew I loved Amelia. I hadn’t known how much more my heart would expand until the first time I heard Branson cry. I spent my life molding him into the man I wanted him to be. Who I thought he should be. Never once did I realize how hard I was pushing—or that some part of me was trying to make up for the fact that he didn’t have my name. Far too late, I learned what it’d done to him, and to this day, I don’t know if I’ve forgiven myself. I haven’t had enough time.

  Knox, my namesake and the son I lost for nearly a decade because of my own foolishness and pride. I don’t know if I’ve ever hurt Amelia the way I did when I pushed our son away, and I haven’t had the time to make it up to her. To him. He’s back in my life, as my son, because he found what I did: the love of a good woman. I haven’t had enough time.

  And my youngest boy, Cohen, the one son I didn’t seem to screw up, though I’m pretty sure I can thank my wife for that. I’d nearly ruined two sons. She wasn’t letting me ruin her baby boy. I certainly haven’t had enough time with him.

  Through it all, she’s stood by side. She’s been my rock, my lifeline, my everything even when I was too stubborn to see it. I haven’t had enough time.

  I haven’t had the time to make amends. I need more time. I need more…

  I love my boys. But as darkness envelopes me, it’s Amelia I see.

  Always.

  Only ever Amelia.

  It’s true that Amelia and I didn’t always have it easy. In fact, I fucked up royally along the way. But now that death seems to be knocking on my door, I see beyond all my regrets, and not a single dreadful memory lingers. Because while those moments mattered and helped shape who I’ve become today, those aren’t the memories that give me the desire to live. Instead, flashing before my eyes are a lifetime’s worth of memories of my wife, my sons, and my entire family who’s loved me through it all.

  I can die a blessed and happy man.

  Just not today.

  Summer 1980

  A FEROCIOUS BURST OF LIGHTNING flashes across the ominous Tennessee sky. Thick, swirling clouds blacken to the point it could be the middle of the night instead of early afternoon. I brace myself for the impending crash that’s never far off from Mother Nature’s incandescent bolts of fury. I squeeze my eyes shut, practice my breathing, and count slowly, waiting for the explosion.

  It wasn’t always like this. I didn’t always have this fear. When I was a little girl, before I learned the terror thunderstorms could bring, my meteorologist dad made it a game. He taught me to see the beauty in lightning, enjoy the crescendo of thunder. I can’t begin to count how many nights I spent drifting off to sleep to the lullaby of raindrops. The louder, the better.

  The nights with the thunderstorms became my favorite moments with Dad. We’d sit out on the covered porch, with me on his lap in his favorite old rocking chair. On occasion, Mom would grab her camera and it became a family affair. After each luminous streak across the sky, he’d tell me to hold my breath and count, just waiting for the beautiful melody thunderstorms designed.

  Bonding over storms brought us together.

  The same thing tore us apart.

  The answering rumble comes on the count of seven, informing me that the storm is approaching. Rather than sit on the side of the road, I need to carry on and get to the lake house before the worst of it arrives. Yet I find it hard to move.

  Clammy fingers clutch the steering wheel. I press my forehead to the leather, appreciating the coolness and forcing myself to take deep breaths, keeping the panic at bay.

  This too shall pass.

  I can practically hear my grandmother’s old adage of a promise, feel the way her soft hand rubbed my back after we left the cemetery. Part of me hated that she felt the need to provide comfort when she’d just buried her son. The other part of me? The daddy’s little girl? I reveled in my need for it.

  Brilliant gold flashes flood my vision, barely muted by closed eyes.

  Once again, I count.

  One…two…three…

  BOOM!

  The sound is so close, so powerful, that I jump with a shriek, my head jerking up and my eyes popping open. I try to catch my breath when I realize that the sound wasn’t from thunder, but from a man standing at my driver’s-side window.

  A fresh wave of terror chills me to the bone.

  He’s yelling at me through the window, but with the wind howling and the rain pounding, I can’t hear him through the glass. I could—and probably should—gather my courage, turn the car back on, and put pedal to the metal, but the threat of hydroplaning is enough to give me pause.

  At the same time, I’m reminded of the serial killer, that Bundy guy, who wreaked havoc on young, single woman driving alone, and I’m torn.

  The man appears to be about my age, with an amiable grin and keen, vibrant brown eyes that watch me curiously. I’m immediately drawn to handsome features that appear kind, helpful.

  That’s what they said about Bundy.

  Five miles and a thunderstorm lie between me and my grandmother’s lake house. Only five inches and a thin sliver of glass protect me from this stranger.

  So, with a whispered prayer, I put my dad’s 1975 Mustang Cobra into gear and take off, hoping I don’t run over the stranger’s toes.

  With a quick glance in my rearview mirror, I see the man gaping after me. Though the raindrops on the back window make it nearly impossible to make out his features, a shiver runs down my spine from his intense stare.

  If my dad could see me now, creeping his prized possession down a wet road at 15 miles per hour, no doubt he’d roll his eyes, tell me to everything’s fine, and not worry about a little rain. This car, however, is all I have left of him, so fifteen minutes later when I pull into the driveway of my home for the next three months, my fingers are tight with tension. It’s not until I place the baby-blue beauty into park that I rest back against my seat and heave a sigh of relief.

  The moment is short lived. Just as another rumble of thunder echoes in the air, the sound of knuckles against the passenger’s-side window accompanies it. Expecting to see my best friend, I nearly jump out of my seat when a hulking figure opens the door and quickly enters my car.

  It’s the same man.

  In all my worry about the storm, I didn’t even realize he was following me. Shit, shit, shit.

  At this precise moment, lighting cuts a jagged line across the dark sky, illuminating his face and casting a menacing glow around him. Ominous thunder rumbles in the not so far distance. I take hold of my keys, just like Dad taught me, ready to puncture his skin or gouge out an eye if I have to.

  Backing up against my door, I watch him closely. “Who the hell are you and why did you follow me?”

  The guy has the audacity to smile. And my brain has the gall to recognize handsome sitting in front of it rather than send warning bells like it should be doing at stranger danger.

  He shakes out his hair, and I flinch as water droplets hit my bare arms.

  I glower.

  He smirks.

  “Do you mind?”

  “Nah, babe. Don’t mind at all.” He casts what I presume he thinks is a charming grin.

  I hate to admit it, but I’m slightly charmed. And still pretty damn freaked out. I’m not sure if it’s his brawny good looks or the fact that he’s a complete and total stranger breaking into my car that has my heart pounding like a battle drum and my hands clammier than the first time Zach Street held my hand in the fifth grade. Either way, I position my keys in my hand the way Grams showed me if I ever have to attack someone with them.

  Sure, it’d be a shame to scar that magnificent face, but it beats him wearing mine.

  “Look, I didn’t mean to scare you,” he offers, and I notice a slight Southern drawl. “You just seemed spooked back there. I wouldn’t be the Southern gentleman my momma raised if I didn’t make sure you got home safely.”

  I narrow my eyes at him, and he holds his palms up, resting his back against the passenger’s door as if
he’s settling in for frickin’ teatime. “You thought to follow me home.”

  His jaw twitches. “Now that you mention it, perhaps it wasn’t the brightest idea.”

  “Ya think? Was it also your bright idea to get into the passenger’s side of a stranger’s car? You saw I made my destination. What’s with the intrusion?”

  “Well, I was about to drive away, but then you just sat here. So I got curious.”

  “You got curious.”

  “Yeah, babe,” he drawls.

  “Don’t call me that.”

  He grins. Of course. “Why not? It’s the truth. Not sure what you see when you look in the mirror, but you’re a babe. Long, blond hair that I bet is smooth as silk if I run my fingers through it. Green eyes that are so damn gorgeous I’m still turned on when they’re tossing daggers in my direction.” His own dark eyes flick down to my lips, and the nerves in my belly awaken. “And those pretty, pouty lips? Well…I won’t tell you what I think about those.”

  “Is this the part where you tell me your friends call you Leatherface and you’ve been looking for a face like mine?”

  The man roars his head back with resounding laughter. I place my hand on the door handle, ready to make my escape by the time he sits forward.

  He must see the panic in my eyes, because he quickly retreats. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean to scare you.” He holds his hand up in some sort of salute. “Promise. Scout’s honor. I just wanted to make sure you were okay. Which, it looks like you are, so I’m gonna get going before you start screaming bloody murder and I get arrested on my first day in this Podunk town.”

  I roll my eyes. “Considering there are about two cops in this town and they’re both probably currently sitting at Mae’s, drinking coffee, and eating pie, I doubt you have anything to worry about.”

  His lips quirk up into a half smile. I try not to notice how incredibly handsome he is, with features far more masculine than my ex. From a squared jawline that’s growing stubble to sharp cheekbones I’m jealous of. His patrician nose, intense and chiseled, is like something carved during Roman times and meant to be on display in extravagant museums. Since he took in my lips, I don’t hesitate to do the same to him. They remind me of that fairy tale Mom loved telling me. Not too big or full. Not too small or thin. But just right. Plump enough for me to suck the bottom one, not large enough to swallow my face.