by Cass Kincaid
Her voice is even, controlled. She’s obviously been trained to deal with people on the verge of impending hysteria. “Ms. Barker has been in an accident, Mr. Connelly. She’s requested that we call you.”
An accident. “I asked you if she was okay,” I repeat, growing more assertive. And more worried.
More hesitation. “She’s currently conscious, Mr. Connelly, but it would be best if you could get here soon. We can fill you in on the details in person.”
There’s something in what she doesn’t say that scares me more than what she does. “I can be there in twenty minutes. I’m leaving now.”
“Take the elevator to the third floor,” she instructs me. “We’ll be awaiting your arrival.”
I toss the phone onto the foot of the bed just as the blonde woman under the covers pulls the blankets back and sits up slowly. “Everything all right?” she asks me, wiping her eyes with the back of her hands.
“I don’t know,” I answer honestly, pulling clean clothes from the dresser drawer in front of me.
“Well, what’s going on?”
I turn around to face her and see that she hasn’t made a move to get out of the bed. “I don’t know.”
“What do you know?” she asks, an edge in her voice.
I tug the clean t-shirt over my head, smoothing it down my abdomen as my eyes meet hers. “Just that you have to go.”
Her expression falls, but she recovers quickly, only letting her raised eyebrows tell of her anger towards me right now. “Too bad,” she says seductively. “I had other plans for you and I this morning.”
It’s all I can do to prevent myself from rolling my eyes at her. “Look—” I pause, wracking my brain for a memory, but nothing comes.
“Bethany,” she advises me through clenched teeth.
“Right. Bethany.” I swallow. “Something’s happened, and I don’t know what. But it’s my girlfr—ex-girlfriend. I have to go. I’ll call you, all right?”
She swings her legs off the side of the bed, pressing her fingers into the edge of the mattress as a sad, knowing smile plays on her lips. “No, you won’t.”
I sigh, reaching for my keys and wallet on the desk. “You’re probably right.” I don’t have time for this, I want to add, but by a sheer miracle the words don’t leave my mouth.
“Thanks for the honesty,” she snaps, rising from the bed in only her panties as she begins to scan the room for her clothes. “You’re obviously a complete asshole, too,” she adds under her breath.
I run my hand through my closely cropped hair, blowing out a long breath of air as I head for the door. “You’re probably right about that, too,” I admit. “You can let yourself out whenever you’re ready.” I let the door shut behind me, heading for the elevators with only one word careening through my mind on repeat in time with my rapidly beating heart.
Ella.
***
The hospital is bustling with activity despite the fact it’s not even seven o’clock in the morning yet. I can count on one hand how many times I’ve been here, not just because I’ve rarely needed to—the only times were due to a broken finger from a hockey practice and a concussion from one of the more rollicking hockey games I played in high school—but also because I despise hospitals. The sterile smell and the hushed voices and the fear that goes along with being inside those walls is not something I handle without an increasing blood pressure and a paranoid mind.
Right now, my paranoia is at an all-time high because I don’t know what I’m walking into, don’t know what I’ll find or what happened. Every person I pass in the corridors, every face that turns toward me in the elevator as I get in and press the third button in the row—I feel like they’re all watching me. Waiting. Observing.
I let out a long breath to steady myself as I step off the elevator without looking back to see if the other people in it are still fixated on me. I don’t want to see the looks in their eyes, don’t want to confirm whether they’re still watching with morbid fascination to see if I can handle whatever comes next.
“I’m Craig,” I say to the nurse behind the desk. “Craig Connelly. Someone named Marla called me.”
My estimation of taking twenty minutes to get there was accurate. Marla’s statements were just as accurate, because a nurse hurries out from behind one of the doors across from the nurse’s desk.
“We’ve been waiting for you, Mr. Connelly,” she says.
I can see it in her eyes immediately, and my stomach plummets. No amount of training or time can eradicate a human’s ability to hide the sad truths of life and the sympathies that come with them. Something has happened.
Something bad.
“Where’s Ella?” My voice is hoarse, thick with trepidation.
“Why don’t you come with me, and I—”
“Where is she?” I ask louder. My heart is beating more wildly each second the redheaded nurse fails to answer. She takes a step closer to me, hands out as though ready to steady me. Or maybe she’s steadying herself, I’m not sure. That’s when I realize she’s wearing a nametag that says Marla. “You said Ella was in an accident,” I say, almost as an accusation.
“She was, Mr. Connelly.” There’s a quiet, soothing quality to her voice that makes me want to scream at her to stop fucking patronizing me. But Marla continues, her tone remarkably even for a woman who can obviously see that I’m teetering on the edge of anger and frustration. “A pickup truck struck her car at a high rate of speed,” she explains. “She was rushed here via ambulance, Mr. Connelly, but her injuries were just too severe. I’m so sorry.”
The floor seems to fall out from under me, and I hit my knees right there in front of the nurse’s desk, purely because I can’t hold myself up any longer. “No,” I whisper shakily. “Ella can’t be dead.”
The notion seems ludicrous, and just saying it out loud makes it that much more unbelievable. I can’t breathe, can’t feel anything. Just numbness, like my entire body has shut down, refusing to feel the pain and hurt and regret that is threatening to completely destroy me.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Connelly.” Marla’s voice is closer to me now, and I can see her in my peripheral vision, crouching down to comfort me. “She tried to hang on as long as she could. She told us to contact you, and—”
“Stop.” I choke out, on the verge of tears. “Ella’s gone.”
“She is,” Marla says softly. “But Mr. Connelly, the baby’s fine. He’s premature, but you’ve got a remarkably healthy little boy.”
My head snaps up and I stare at her through wide, blurry eyes. “What?”
My confusion must be obvious, because her own eyes narrow. “Your son,” she explains apprehensively. When I don’t say anything, waiting for her to continue, she speaks again. “Ella was almost eight months pregnant. She told us to contact you...the baby’s father.”
My mind is racing, yet it’s somehow stuck, unable to process what she’s saying. “She wasn’t...she didn’t...”
Your son.
If Ella was pregnant, why didn’t she tell me?
If Ella was pregnant, why did she leave me?
Questions catapult through my brain, but the only thing that sticks, the only thing that keeps bubbling back to the surface of my consciousness is one simple phrase.
Your son.
“Can...can I see him?” The question is out before I even realize I’ve said it out loud. But, in that moment, I’ve never wanted anything more.
Marla looks reluctant, and maybe some kind of protocol or repercussion is preventing her from wanting to take me to him. But, despite the war going on in her eyes, the nurse nods her head, rising to her feet and offering out her hand to help me up. “Come with me, Mr. Connelly.”
I let the woman help me stand. At this point, my pride and dignity mean little to me. There are tears stinging my eyes and two realizations that are taking up all the space in my brain.
Ella is dead, and I have a son.
I have a son, and Ella is dead.
I don’t know what I’m supposed to do next, or how I’m supposed to cope with those two things. But the moment Marla leads me through the heavy steel doors of the nursery, guiding me up to the glass window that separates us from the line of newborns on the other side of it, something happens inside my chest.
The smallest baby I’ve ever seen lays in a covered cot, a blue blanket covering his tiny legs. For a while, I just stand there, taking in the sight of him, watching the rhythmic rise and fall of his little chest as he sleeps, eyes closed and face smooth with serenity.
“He’s doing well,” Marla assures me quietly. “He’s premature, but he’s strong. He’s a fighter.”
Of course he is, I think to myself, feeling my chest squeeze again. He’s definitely both of those things. He’s strong, and he’s a fighter. But there’s something else that makes him just as strong and determined to show the world what he’s made of, despite all odds. Something else that I know without a doubt, deep within my soul.
He’s mine.
Chapter One
Ten Months Later...
Megan
There’s something to be said about a car that listens to exactly what you say. I mean, I did specifically say, “C’mon, please just get me to Cardon Springs.”
When I said it, however, I was hoping for a little more than barely making it inside the town limits before my car gave up completely and died a loud, smoky death on the side of the road. I’m not even joking when I say I can see the welcome sign from my vantage point—that’s how literal my car took my request.
Welcome To Cardon Springs! A Little Town With A Big Heart.
How original. I’m hoping that the owner of the automotive repair shop I end up having to take this car to has a really big heart, because it’s the only way I am going to be able to get my car back considering how shallow my pockets are.
Shallow might even be an exaggeration. I knew I was going to have to live on a shoestring income when I embarked on my trip to get here. Now, it looks like that shoestring has just snapped completely.
“Aunt Nancy? Is that you?” I ask when I dial her number on my cell. It’s kind of a silly question seeing as my aunt lives alone, but the wind is howling something fierce, making it difficult to hear her on the other end of the line.
“Megan!” she cries in her signature high-pitched squeal. “You must be getting close to here by now?”
“Oh, I’m close, all right. Pretty much right beside the welcome sign. But my car won’t start. Any chance you can come and get me?” I feel guilty having to ask. I know how hard it is for Aunt Nancy to get around, even after her knee replacement last year.
“We really need to get you some better wheels, Meg. Give me a few minutes and I’ll get this sorted out!” She barely gets the last word out before hanging up the phone. That’s my aunt in a nutshell—high strung on a good day, almost always in pain from osteoarthritis, but ready and willing to do almost anything for anyone at any time.
I climb back in the front seat and slam the door to block out the wind while I wait for her to arrive. I’m not even sure what she drives, but seeing as the welcome sign of this town says the population is only fifteen hundred, I’m sure there won’t be that much traffic coming and going at this time of day with the storm that’s rolling in.
Aunt Nancy is my mom’s sister, but she’s been just as crucial in my upbringing as my own mother. My Uncle Doug died three years ago, leaving my aunt with a void in her heart and a three-bedroom bungalow on a three-quarter acre lot to maintain by herself.
Hence the reason she is so damn excited about the fact that I’m moving in with her. And I can’t deny that I’m just as excited to live with her as well, but it’s just not the path I had thought I’d be on in my life at the age of twenty-one.
But a whack of student debt and the loss of a dream job will do that. I just need to be thankful that Aunt Nancy was able to help me get the journalism job at the Cardon Springs Chronicle. Judging by the population number on the sign in front of me and the lack of cars that have driven by since I’ve been stranded here, I’d say it’s probably not going to be the most exciting newspaper to write for, but a job is a job.
At this point, that’s all I need.
You’re doing it again, I silently chastise myself. Judging the situation before you’ve even given it a shot.
A scoff of anger at my own criticism topples from my lips just as a loud series of raps on the driver’s side window scares the ever-loving daylights out of me, making me flinch enough to almost lift me off the seat.
I look up into the darkest chocolate-colored eyes I’ve ever seen, rimmed with black lashes so thick they would make any woman envious.
But the eyes don’t belong to a woman. In fact, they don’t belong to someone with any semblance of femininity at all. Instead, the man with the sexy eyes is the blatant definition of masculinity with his chiseled features and plain black t-shirt stretched over muscular, broad shoulders, exuding enough testosterone and manliness that I’m convinced he could melt the glass window between us with the heat that radiates off him.
I’m still gawking at him in awe when he holds up his hands in askance. He doesn’t say it aloud, but his arched eyebrow and hand gestures say it for him. Are you going to open the door or roll down the window?
In the city, I probably wouldn’t, but I doubt Cardon Springs has its own resident serial killer so I take my chances and open up the car door. You know, once my hormones stop taking over every synapse firing in my brain, allowing me to think of something other than what this man’s angular jaw must be like to touch.
“Hi,” I say, trying to be polite. “I already called someone to help me out. They’re on their way.”
“I know. Your aunt called me,” he explains in a voice that’s low and gritty. “Looks like I’m that someone you’re waiting for.”
I don’t know why, but a rush of heat creeps into my cheeks at that, flustering me even more. I don’t even know what I’m supposed to say to that. My body is screaming, Yeah, Mister, I’ll bet you are, and my mind still hasn’t gotten past the sexy huskiness of his voice or the dark eyes that look through me, not at me.
Through me, not at me. My brain finally catches up a beat later, and I realize just how right I am. Because he’s not looking at me the same way I’m taking him in at all. In fact, this man is barely meeting my gaze now that he’s managed to get me to open the car door. The realization deflates me slightly.
“I’m Craig,” he continues when I haven’t spoken out loud. “I own the repair shop here in Cardon Springs. Nancy called and said your car wouldn’t start, wanted me to take a look. When she mentioned she was just on the way to pick you up, I told her I could drive you home so she didn’t have to come out.”
The city girl in me knows damn well I shouldn’t take his story at face value—it’s a typical story for a serial killer. Except that he knows Aunt Nancy. Or says he does. The man is too gorgeous to be a serial killer. Maybe.
“She said she was coming here herself.” Technically, she didn’t say that at all, but I’m not mentally prepared to leave my life in this stranger’s hands without at least questioning something.
His gaze is fixed on the car I’ve just stepped out of—stupid move if he is a serial killer, I know—and he takes idle steps around the front of it. “Your name’s Megan, right?” he asks, crouching down to check out something near the wheel well, then proceeding to stand up and continue on toward the front of the car, popping the hood. A gust of grayish smoke rolls out from under it. “Nancy’s been going on about you for years. I think just about everyone in town knows something about you.”
That’s embarrassing to think about, but it sounds exactly like my aunt. She loves to gush about me. I’m just a little worried about what topics she has chosen to spread around town. “It sounds like you know Aunt Nancy pretty well.”
“Hard not to when we’ve lived in the same town pretty much my entire life.”
I can�
�t even see his shoulder or head anymore. He’s bent over under the hood of the car. Even from where I’m standing near the driver’s side door, I can see that his worn jeans are slung low on his hips, and he wears a faded leather belt.
Damn, he’s attractive, I think. Even when I can’t see his face.
“Funny, she’s never mentioned you,” I say, immediately regretting it once I realize how rude I might seem if it’s misconstrued.
Craig pokes his head out from under the hood, a faint, crooked grin curving his mouth upward. “Well, I’m not the one who’s Nancy’s cherished genius of a niece, am I?” When he winks at me a moment later, I’m not sure whether to be mortified or flattered.
“I’m not a genius,” I retort.
He has already ducked back under the hood. “You’d never know it by the way Nancy talks about you.”
I reach in and pull my purse from the passenger seat of the car and slam the driver’s side door, giving myself a moment to collect my thoughts. “What else has she told the fine folks of Cardon Springs about me?” I step forward, peeking under the hood, taking the chance to view the way his dark hair is cut short, clipped close to his head, revealing the smooth muscles of his neck at the base of his skull.
He doesn’t look up from the engine he’s inspecting—or at least I think it’s the engine—but I hear a scoff erupt from his throat. “That you’re overqualified for the job you got at the Chronicle with your degree in journalism, but that she’s pretty much busting at the seams with excitement at having you live with her. Oh...” He glances up, slamming the hood down, his cocky grin still in place. “And that you need a new car.”
I know he’s trying to be funny, but the falsity of his first comment and the truth of his last one hits home just a bit too much. I do my best to keep a lighthearted expression on my face, but my smile must falter because I see the flash of apology in his eyes.