Conception (The Wellingtons, #4) Page 2

  Down, girl, I tell myself.

  I’ve been practically celibate for nearly a year now, and it’s starting to show. Considering that this is the first man to show me attention in that amount of time, I can’t blame myself.

  What gets me the most? What has me wanting to lean in closer? His eyes. They’re the color of creamy milk chocolate, deep pools any woman could get lost in. When another flash of lightning lights up the sky, the illumination changes them to a lighter shade of honey.

  My stomach rumbles along with another roll of thunder.

  Hell, no wonder I’m likening this man to the most delectable foods.

  I clear my throat and focus, realizing that he’s caught my thorough perusal. “I think Leatherface would much prefer yours than mine,” I tell him, immediately regretting the words.

  “I think you should stop talking about a mute serial butcher who likes to wear his victims’ skins. You’re kind of giving me the creeps.”

  My mouth drops open. “Excuse me! You’re the one who stalked me then broke into my car! That’s what serial killers do. Not Southern gentlemen,” I say, tossing the term back in his face, because from where I’m sitting, he’s anything but.

  “Didn’t stalk—more like escorted home.”

  “Can it be an escort if you’re behind me and I don’t even know about it?”

  He waves me off. “And I didn’t break into your car. You left it unlocked. You know, if you’re well versed in horror movies, you should know it’s always the pretty ones who die first.”

  “The pretty, dumb ones,” I counter.

  “Touché. Dumb like leaving the passenger’s-side door unlocked in a terrible storm out by a lake in the middle of bumfuck nowhere?”

  “I suppose it’s my turn to say touché. Now, weren’t you saying something about leaving just a moment ago?” I’m too tired yet too wound up to continue this conversation. All I want right now is a hot bath—which, I guess in this stormy weather, is out of the question. Starting my vacation with getting electrocuted is not on my list of to-do things. So I’ll settle for a warm mug of coffee, dry clothes, and feet on solid ground. And perhaps a nap with my head buried under a pillow to sleep the storm out.

  “Ah, yeah.”

  A car horn honks. The man rolls the window down just a tad and holds his middle finger up to someone. Ah, the universal symbol for ‘screw off’. I should’ve given it to him myself. I glare once again when he shakes out his wet hand in my car.

  “Do you mind? This is pristine leather.” I sound like a snob, I know, and I don’t care. My dad kept this car in mint condition and I’ll be damned if I let some rude, obnoxious stranger spoil even an inch of it.

  He grimaces, his expression remorseful. “My bad.” He glances at his wet T-shirt. “I’d offer to take off my shirt and wipe it up, but… I’m just as wet. By the way, that was my geek brother. He told me not to follow you. Which kinda meant I had to, so let’s blame this all on him, shall we?”

  “I guess we know who got the brains in your family.”

  “Cute,” he mutters, not in the least put off by my insult.

  “It wasn’t meant to be.”

  “Exactly,” he says, like that one word should make all the sense in the world.

  Newsflash for him: It doesn’t. So I just glare.

  “Okay, I can see this is going nowhere. So, yeah, I’ll get outta your hair. But before I go…” He pauses, his eyes flicking down to my lips and then back up to my eyes. “Can I get your name?”

  I open my mouth to answer, but then I change my mind and snap it shut. The way his lips curl into a cocky smile tells me all I need to know. He expects me to give him my name. This man… This blockheaded bastion of testosterone who barged into my car, scaring the bejeezus out of me—and okay, maybe kind of made my insides squeeze in attraction—actually thinks I’m going to swoon at his feet. As if I should be grateful for his “escort” home.

  “No, you cannot.”

  “Come on. Why not?”

  “If I reward you for bad behavior, you’ll never learn.”

  Oh my god. I sound like my home economics teacher, Mrs. Cartee. The woman was notorious for giving out loads of parenting advice when she, at fifty-four, had zero children of her own. Mom just loved those parent-teacher conferences.

  “So you’re saying, if I’m good, you’ll reward me?”

  “That is not what I meant.”

  “It’s a small town, babe. We’re bound to run into each other sooner or later.”

  “I prefer the latter,” I tell him, matter-of-factly.

  “Hard to get. I like it.”

  I huff. “Do you ever back down?”

  “Not when I like the chase.”

  “There’s nothing to chase.” My insides liquefy as his eyes travel down to my own damp T-shirt.

  “Funny. I see everything worth chasing.”

  Without thinking, I lean forward and use my thumb to push his chin up so he’s no longer ogling my chest. “My eyes are up here, buddy.”

  “Not buddy. But until I get your name, I’m withholding mine.”

  “As if I care.”

  Except I kind of want to know what to call him instead of just buddy. Not that I’m going to give in. Nope.

  He sighs. Smooth, flat palms rise in surrender. “Okay, okay. I’ve taken enough of your time. I’ll find out who you are soon enough.” He shoots me a wink. “And I’ll wear you down soon enough, too.”

  “Wear me down?” I ask, my voice nearly squeaking.

  He ignores me. “And I guess I’ll just have to call you Sally until I found out your true name.”

  I wrinkle my nose. “Sally?”

  Dark eyes crinkle in their corners as his smile widens and turns wicked. There are not butterflies in my belly right now. There aren’t. Maybe an annoying locust swarm, but definitely not butterflies.

  “Ya know. Ride, Sally, Ride,” he croons.

  And those not-butterflies take flight at the innuendo. Still, I can’t help but roll my eyes. “Clever.”

  “Thought so. What can I say? I’m kind of a gearhead.”

  Dammit. Why do my insides go all twisty over a man who’s into cars? I just nod as if it’s whatever. “Cool.”

  “I can see you’re impressed,” he says, the sarcasm evident in his tone. “All right, Sally.”

  “Don’t call me Sally!” I exclaim, punching the leather beside my leg. “That’s a horrible name.”

  He gasps in mock horror. “No, it isn’t. It’s a beautiful name. In fact, it’s my grandmother’s.”

  “Oh gosh, I’m so sorry,” I rush out. But when his eyes flash with mischief, I’m pretty sure he’s lying.

  “Now that you’ve insulted me, it’s only fair for you to give me your name,” he insists.

  I fold my arms and glare at him. This is becoming routine. “That’s not your grandmother’s name, is it?”

  His answering smile tells me all I need to know. “Okay, Sally it is. If you’re interested…”

  “I’m not.”

  He continues as if I hadn’t said a word. “I’m staying here for the summer across the lake. At the old Schaffer place.”

  I know the house he’s talking about—one of the biggest on the lake, with the best views. After Mr. Schaffer passed away, his kids couldn’t agree on who’d take it over, so it ended up on the auctioneer’s block in disrepair. I wonder if he’s staying there alone, or with a family.

  Or a woman…

  I shake the thought out of my head.

  It doesn’t matter.

  I’m not interested.

  “So, yeah. I’ll see you around,” he says. “Stay safe in this weather, okay?”

  “Um. Okay. Thanks. You, too.”

  We’re locked in a stare down, me waiting for him to leave, him waiting for…who knows what. I squirm under his unnerving scrutiny, and just as I’m about to break the silence, he tosses me an easygoing grin.

  “And hey, listen, I really didn’t mean to cre
ep you out, but now, I can see why you’d be uneasy.

  “It’s fine,” I respond, surprised that I actually kind of mean it.

  “Good. I’m sure I’ll be seeing you around this summer, so let’s start over. Next time I see you, I’ll approach. You don’t want that, just tell me and I’ll back off.” He leans in close, and my gaze drifts down to full lips that look oh so good for kissing.

  Damn. It’s been too long since I’ve been this immediately attracted to a man. Why does it have to be this one?

  Before I can say a word, the man gives me a small squeeze on my bare thigh. The touch elicits chills that shoot straight down to the tips of my toes. But then he pops the door open and hops out, gone before I can even feign outrage that he dared to touch me.

  That was the longest conversation I’ve had in what feels like weeks. Now that he’s gone, the car suddenly feels empty. Just like my life’s been ever since Robert dumped me. Ever since my parents died.

  Why the hell did I come back here?

  Oh yeah. Grams insisted.

  Something from that exchange stirs within me. I place my hands on my steering wheel and tighten my fingers around the leather. Half of me is grateful for the distraction. The deterrence, even if it only delayed going back into a home filled with so many memories for mere moments.

  The other half is annoyed. Not necessarily at him—more at myself for the way I felt attracted to the guy, no matter how infuriating or initially terrifying I thought he was.

  I could definitely use a distraction to make it through this summer.

  Then again, I’ve met men like him. Cocky, arrogant, expects every woman to fall at his feet, then throws a fit if she doesn’t. So maybe he’s not the distraction I need.

  Fine by me.

  The door opens once more, and the man ducks his head back into the car, his lips split open in a grin that doesn’t make my insides swim.

  When did I start lying to myself?

  “By the way, sweet ride. Babe.”

  I glare even though the endearment brings heat to my cheeks. His laughter’s muted when he closes the door. I hurriedly lean over and push the lock down, effectively shutting him out. It doesn’t faze him. He gives me a thumbs-up then turns away. I watch as he jogs to the end of my drive and slips into a sleek red-and-white Ford. He beeps his horn twice, and I try not to smile.

  I fail.

  Pretty sure he sees it. He flashes a peace sign then blows a kiss.

  Ugh. Men.

  That man.

  Another flash of lightning behind the house causes me to jump. The accompanying crescendo of thunder booms, wiping all thoughts of the mystery stranger from my mind. I’m torn between wanting to wait the storm out in the car and wanting to risk making a run for the house, where I’ll be safer. As an onslaught of rain pounds the windshield, I know it’s now or never.

  After my heart stops racing as if I’ve just run a wicked-fast hundred-meter dash, I allow myself to lean forward and peer through the window up at the house I spent most of my summers as a kid. Grief-stricken tears fill my eyes, and I quickly wipe them away as the traitorous drops spill onto my cheeks.

  “No more stalling, Amelia,” I mutter to myself.

  With the rain still barreling down from the raging sky, I grab my overnight bag from the back seat, deciding to leave the rest of my luggage in the car until the rain lets up. I make a mad dash for the front door, grateful to find it unlocked. At the same time, considering that a stranger just followed me home—no matter how gorgeous he was—I hesitate to step inside. Then I remember that Grams told me to expect the house to be unlocked, as the weekly caretaker would be cleaning and filling the kitchen with supplies for me.

  Once inside, I shrug out of my rain jacket and slip my thongs off my feet. Though the heat wave rolling across Middle America is in full force, the combination of my wet clothes and the blast of air conditioning evokes full-body chills. Standing in the foyer, I rub my hands up and down my arms. My eyes are instantly drawn to the family photos hanging on the wall. Just like I did, my father also spent his childhood summers here. It’s even where he met and married Mom.

  “Yoo-hoo. Amelia, is that you?”

  Mrs. Mayfield’s dulcet voice takes me out of my reverie and into a warm comfort zone I hadn’t anticipated. With the first genuine smile I’ve had since Grams all but pushed me out the door, I walk towards the kitchen, where I’m more than thrilled to see her pouring a cup of coffee that smells heavenly.

  “I know it’s darn near one hundred degrees out there, but your grandmother told me to have a cup ready when you get here.”

  This is when I realize I’m shivering. From the chill of the rain or the unexpected visitor in my car, I’m not sure. “Bless you, Mrs. Mayfield. Coffee is precisely what the doctor ordered.”

  She turns around, her eyes crinkling at the sight of me. “Oh, Amelia,” she says sweetly. “It’s been too many summers since you’ve come to visit. Look how you’ve grown. You’re a woman now.”

  I blush at her inspection, which causes her to chuckle. “I’m the same age as Sunny,” I remind her.

  Sunny Mayfield’s been my best friend since before either of us could walk. The Mayfield family lives in a house across the lake, with Mrs. Mayfield having been the caretaker of my grandparents’ house since my dad was a boy. He became best friends with her son, so when Sunny and I were born just one month apart, we were destined to follow in their footsteps. She’s one of the reasons I always looked forward to spending my summers at the lake. From Memorial Day to Labor Day, we were inseparable, with tearful goodbyes in September. Pen pals throughout the year, we never seemed to skip a beat, even after nine months apart.

  At least that’s how we were until the summer of my senior year. Until the accident that took both of my parents’ lives.

  I haven’t been back to Crystal Cove since that day nearly four years ago. Instead, I packed up my belongings at the home I shared with my parents, moved in with Grams, and finished out my senior year. Grams wanted me to go to the lake house the summer following graduation, but I couldn’t bring myself to go there. Too many memories. Too many reminders.

  This year? Grams put her foot down and said I was going. That or she wouldn’t pay tuition for my final year at the University of Tennessee, where I’ve been taking photography classes for the past three years. Since getting my undergraduate and following in Mom’s footsteps was number one on my lifegoals list, I had no other choice. Not that packing up and making the couple hours’ drive to the lake was easy, but after a year in a deteriorating relationship and subsequent breakup, I know I need this break.

  While Dad was the meteorologist, my mom haled as the photographer of the family. She often accompanied Dad on his storm-chasing, something he loved to do in his spare time. Mom filled the house with albums of haunting skies, vibrant rainbows after a rainstorm, and even a few sinister tornadoes off in the distance.

  After they passed, Mom’s prized 35mm camera became my own. Over the past few years, I’ve wished that I’d spent more time with her, learning the ins and outs of how she framed the perfect shot. I can recall countless times that I walked past her darkroom to see the bulb lit up outside, signaling that she was developing film. Not once did I have an interest in what she was doing. It wasn’t until Grams and I were going through the house, packing up their things, that my feelings changed.

  I found an undeveloped roll of film, and it became my obsession to get them developed. Unfortunately, I had no clue what I was doing in the darkroom. No longer wanting to follow in my father’s footsteps, I decided to study photography in hopes of one day discovering what’s on the film.

  I’ve developed copious amounts of film since my discovery, but not that roll. I’m not really sure why. At first I think it was too soon. Too real. It was all I had left of them, and a piece I think I could hold on to for as long as I needed. I guess I wasn’t ready. I’m still not sure I’ll ever be.

  Now? I know I need to do this. I nee
d find a way to move on, move beyond the trauma and really life my life again. First step? Find peace in Crystal Cove. Find peace with their loss. That’s why my goal this summer is to find out what the last pictures my mother took were, even if it breaks my heart to do so. I just wonder how long it’ll take me to muster up the strength to actually do it.

  “Earth to Amelia,” Mrs. Mayfield singsongs.

  I blink, my eyes coming into focus as she pushes the mug across the counter towards me.

  “You look like you’re miles away.”

  I plaster on a smile. “Just a long drive,” I assure her. “I would’ve been here sooner, but I hate driving in the rain.”

  Understanding crosses her features. “Hopefully it will let up soon. Sunny wanted to be here, but she couldn’t get out of her shift at Mickey’s.”

  I raise an eyebrow at the mention of Crystal Cove’s only bar. “Sunny’s working at Mickey’s now?” I ask. Gee, it really has been too long since we’ve talked.

  Mrs. Mayfield eyes crinkle with a smile. “She started waitressing there after graduation, and now that she’s twenty-one, she’s behind the bar. Making darn good money, too. I don’t know why it came as a surprise. You know Sunny. There isn’t a stranger she’s ever met. She’s bartender, counselor, and best friend to anyone who walks through those doors.”

  Mrs. Mayfield’s description of Sunny is spot-on, and it causes a sudden ache to squeeze my heart.

  Now that I’m here, I’m eager to see her. “I’ll get settled and changed, then head over to Mickey’s. I have orders from Grams to lounge by the lake, read to my heart’s content, take plenty of photographs, and—most importantly—have fun.”

  She pats my hand softly. “I don’t think you’ll have any problems if Sunny’s involved.”

  That’s precisely what I’m counting on.

  At the same time, I’m wondering about the stranger with the soulful brown eyes and arousing lips. Sure, I wasn’t about to let my guard down for him or even introduce myself, but there’s a piece of me that hopes Sunny knows him, that he’s not the creep (the super, incredibly hunky creep) my brain should have told me to run from.