“You met at the lake,” I remind her.
Amused, green eyes meet mine. “That’s true. But we kept most of that to ourselves. If we hadn’t, you two wouldn’t have had this silly rivalry. So I’ll spare some of the details, but I want you to know that, even though your father wasn’t there through my pregnancy, we both loved each other very much. We were just too stubborn to admit it.”
Charlie and Ariana burst into laughter. Mom’s knowing smile is equally irritating.
“Not sure what’s so fucking funny,” Knox mutters.
“Language, dear,” Mom admonishes.
“I’m thirty-fucking-four, Ma. If I haven’t learned to censor myself by now, I’m never going to.”
Charlie laughs even harder, bending over and holding her stomach when her husband glares at her. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. It’s just… It’s so obvious where the two of you get your stubborn streaks. Not just your dad, but your mom, too.” She lifts up, pushing her hair back behind her ears, and forcing her shoulders to stop shaking. “Amelia, Ari, Andi, and I haven’t heard the story. We’d love to.”
As much as I want to protest, it’s nice to see a smile on my mom’s face. It’s a welcome distraction. Even though the last thing I want to hear about is how I was conceived, I have three of my own. It’s not exactly a surprise.
“Sure, Mom. Let’s hear it.”
Knox lets out a groan. It ceases immediately when Charlie shoots daggers at him. He clears his throat. “Yeah, Ma. Let’s hear how this little shit came to be.”
“Asshole,” I mouth.
“Prick,” he silently shoots back.
We share a grin, which slowly turns to horror as Mom launches into the first time she saw Dad.
The story doesn’t get better from here.
For Knox and me anyway.
The girls? They’re hanging on to every word Mom says, sighing, squealing, and blushing with dreamy expressions on each one of their faces.
I hate every second of it.
Yet I love it. This is my family. Good, bad, ugly, beautiful. We’re a tight-knit bunch, and even though it took a long time for us to get here, we always will be.
So, if I have to sit in a hospital waiting room wondering if I’m about to lose my father—the man I’d looked up to more than anything, the same man I’d lost once before—they’re the perfect distraction.
They say that, when you’re on the brink of death, your life flashes before your eyes. Why didn’t they tell us that the same happens when you’re on the verge of losing the love of your life, your soulmate, the person who gives you meaning to live?
Ever since Knox collapsed, I’ve been in a fog. In the agonizing hours waiting for news—any news—I’ve done nothing but remember every single moment of our lives together. From the first time I saw him to the first time we made love. To my first heartbreak from his leaving.
Telling my boys and their wives our story—censored, of course—has been a welcome distraction among the chaos and terror waging within me.
A hand—Branson’s—squeezes mine just as the door creaks open. My youngest, my not-so-baby baby, Cohen, stands in the doorway. Cohen, the usually happy-go-lucky goofball with a silly grin on his face. But right now, there’s no grin. Dark circles rim bloodshot eyes, and I can’t read his expression.
Branson rises beside me, bringing me with him in a gentle manner. His hand slips around my waist, and I cling to his arm, thankful my firstborn is keeping me afloat. From across the room, my middle and Knox’s namesake clears his throat.
“Coh?” he grunts.
Cohen’s shoulders fall and I don’t know how to read that. Then his eyes lift to mine.
“He made it through surgery. Mom, he’s going to be okay.”
I nearly collapse, but Branson catches me before I do.
“Can we see him?” Knox asks, his gruff tone even scratchier than usual.
“Not yet, but soon. They’re getting him comfortable in his room and want to monitor him for a bit. As soon as visitors are allowed, I’ll be back.”
Amelia. There she is, sitting behind the wheel of her Mustang, unblinking, emerald eyes glaring at me through her window while tiny droplets of water stream down the glass. Those same eyes widening when I slide into her passenger’s seat. Widening the first time my tongue touches her.
Images of making love to Amelia for the first time flash before my eyes, the way her soft pants echoed through the room, her breasts full and supple, her nipples hardened under the attention from my lips.
And all the subsequent times after. All of it. It gives a man a reason to live for, the love of a good woman like mine.
More memories play on a highlight reel in my mind.
Amelia saying her vows. Amelia giving birth to Knox. And then Cohen.
Amelia throwing a pillow at my head, calling me every name under the sun for allowing our sons to feud in a way that never would have happened if I hadn’t ridden Branson so hard or if I’d been more accepting of Knox’s goals that had nothing to do with the family company.
Amelia bringing Knox back to us. Her holding our first grandchild.
I see Amelia blossoming from the beautiful girl I fell in love with into the extraordinary woman I’ve been blessed to spend my life with.
And because of Amelia, I’m not ready to go. She needs me. Hell, I need her. I can’t move on from this life without the one person who’s made it worth living.
“Knox.”
Ah, there’s her sweet, melodic voice now. Beckoning me. How could I ever leave her?
“Knox…”
The images of her begin to fade away, and I shake my head, willing them to come back. It’s no use. She’s gone.
My head feels heavy, like there’s an anchor weighing me down. The longer I lie here, wherever I am, sounds around me start to register.
A slow, steady beeping.
Low murmurs.
Amelia weeping.
I try to smile, but I can’t move my face. Still, I feel that smile straight down to my soul.
My Amelia.
A warm hand slips into mine, squeezing gently.
“Knox?”
It takes enormous effort to open my eyelids. They’re uncooperative, and it’s only after a few light blinks that I muster up all my willpower to fully open them.
Amelia’s the first thing I see.
The only thing I see.
“Mel—”
Amelia brushes her free hand over my forehead. “Don’t talk, Knox. Just rest. You’re going to be okay.”
A lone tear slips out of the corner of my eye.
My wife wipes it away, her own tears glistening. “I thought I’d lost you. Thank you for coming back to me.”
I shake my head even though each movement elicits sharp pain. “Never,” I croak.
Forty years. Forty fucking years I’ve been married to this woman, and I love her more with each passing day.
“Mel—”
Her forefinger presses against my lips, silencing me. “I said no talking, Mr. Wellington.” She reaches down beside her to bring her purse to her lap. When she takes out a notepad and a pen, I understand what she wants.
She watches intently as I write.
Party.