Happily Ever Alpha_Until Susan

  Text copyright ©2018 by the Author.

  This work was made possible by a special license through the Kindle Worlds publishing program and has not necessarily been reviewed by Aurora Rose Reynolds. All characters, scenes, events, plots and related elements appearing in the original Happily Ever Alpha remain the exclusive copyrighted and/or trademarked property of Aurora Rose Reynolds, or their affiliates or licensors.

  For more information on Kindle Worlds: http://www.amazon.com/kindleworlds

  Table of Contents

  Until Susan

  A note from Aurora Rose Reynolds

  Titles by CP Smith

  Happily Ever Alpha Kindle Worlds Titles

  Acknowledgments

  Dedication

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Dear Readers,

  Welcome to the Happily Ever Alpha Kindle World. I personally chose each author participating in the Happily Ever Alpha Kindle World because I love their books, and the way they tell a story. That said, this book is entirely the work of the author who wrote it, and I didn’t have any part in the process of writing the story.

  Enjoy the BOOM!

  xoxo

  Aurora Rose Reynolds

  TITLES BY CP SMITH

  a reason to breathe

  a reason to kill

  a reason to live

  Restoring Hope

  Property Of

  FRAMED

  Wallflowers: Three of a Kind

  Wallflowers: Double Trouble

  HAPPILY EVER ALPHA KINDLE WORLDS TITLES

  Happily Ever Alpha Kindle Worlds is based on the bestselling Until Series by Aurora Rose Reynolds. Every single author included in the world has been hand-picked by Ms. Reynolds.

  Some of the authors have chosen to write about characters or couples that you have met in the series, while others have just referred to a place or person from one of the Until books.

  Every book is a stand-alone, there is no reading order.

  Until You're Mine by Jenika Snow

  Until More by S. Van Horne

  Until Nox by Layla Frost

  Until We Meet Again by K.D. Robichaux

  Until Avery by Brynne Asher

  Until Arsen by K.L. Donn

  Until Leo by Rochelle Paige

  Until The Summer by Elle Jefferson

  Until Kayla by CC Monroe

  Until You by Samantha Lind

  Until Sunrise by Sarah O'Rourke

  Until Brandon by Natasha Madison

  Until I Saw You by Jordan Marie

  Until Mallory by Ella Fox

  Until Tom by Mary B. Moore

  Until Susan by C.P. Smith

  Until Rayne Elle Christensen

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  To my family who puts up with me. You’re the wind beneath my wings!

  Thank you, Aurora Rose Reynolds, for allowing me to write in your fantastic world!

  Julia Goda and Mayra Statham, to the moon and back. You never let me quit even when I begged you! I love you both!

  Joanne Thompson and Karen Hrdlicka, thanks for answering my editing questions and making my book shine. It’s been a pleasure knowing you both!

  Gi Paar, Jane Wells, Nichole Hart. I’d put you up against any alpha betas out there. I’d lay down money you miss nothing. Thank you for your hard work, dedication, and love for my words. You make my life easier.

  Thank you, Margaret Patterson, Alexis Whitney, Darlene Somers, and Michelle Reed for beta reading for me! You helped make this book as perfect as it could be! Tonya Pittman, thank you so much for willingly combing the Until Series for the answers to my questions.

  To my Wallflowers, you accept me, flaws and all. Thank you for your support in good times and bad. I love you all!

  To my original Dream Team, none of this would have happened if not for you. Thank you from the bottom of my heart!

  For Aurora Rose Reynolds who took a chance on this little-known author. Your belief in me as a writer is nothing short of an honor. Thank you for allowing me to write James and Susan’s story. I fell in love with them, and hope I did them justice.

  PROLOGUE

  November 2013

  DEEP, GUTTURAL CROAKING emanated from our pond frogs, greeting me as I parked my truck in front of the Mayson family home. A home I’d spent the last twenty-eight years making my own. The porch lights shone brightly, illuminating the path to the front door and most of the driveway. James’s cruiser was gone; he must have been called out unexpectedly on his day off. When I’d left at noon to pick up November for a day of shopping, he’d said his only plans were to tinker around the barn until I returned.

  Turning my head, I stared at the metal structure looming like a sentry on our property and bit my lip, remembering a different barn that had been in its place. One made of timber, which had withstood more than fifty years of living; its red walls and white trim a symbol of the American heartland. I shuddered as memories came rushing to the surface while I glanced at its sister barn that still stood on the property. Memories we never spoke about to anyone. Not Alice or James Sr., when he was alive. And never our boys.

  Closing my eyes, I thought about Asher who’d been conceived in the ashes of our past. I’d chosen his name as a reminder, and for its meaning: happy and blessed. Because that’s what James and I were. Blessed beyond reason because of our love and our boys.

  Now it was Asher’s turn to find what James and I had, though I’d lay money he didn’t have to keep looking. He was his father’s son—all my boys were—so I knew better than anyone that when a Mayson decided you were it for them, there was no stopping them. And from the look on his face when he watched November, I knew she didn’t stand a chance against what my boys called the Mayson curse.

  I chuckled softly, thinking back to earlier when I told November about James and my past. It was a tad bit G-rated and not exactly true. “A lie never hurt anyone if it’s for the right reason,” I mumbled, as I grabbed my shopping bags and made my way inside the house.

  When I locked the front door, I caught my image in the entryway mirror. Where had the years gone? Dropping my bags, I moved closer to my reflection and scrutinized the small lines etched into the corners of my eyes.

  Laugh lines . . . No. Scowl lines from repeatedly narrowing my eyes at James.

  My sons may drive the women crazy in the twenty-first century, but their father was the original, arrogant, bossy, full-of-himself Mayson.

  “What was it I said to November about James?” I asked my reflection, tugging at the frown lines he’d given me. She didn’t answer, so I filled her in. “I told her James asked me out daily for two months before I finally gave in.” The older and wiser version of Susan Elizabeth Montgomery Mayson smirked at me. “Yes, I know I lied. But my boys don’t need to know the truth.” Not the truth about how it started or what came after. I was as weak back then as I am today. James only had to look at me a certain way, and I was utterly powerless against him.

  Speaking of looks. He’d shot one my way as I pulled out of the driveway this morning.

  Time to collect on that promise.

  Glancing at the clock, I wondered if I had enough time to prepare. “Shower, then sexy nightie,” I muttered, grabbing my shopping bags. I’d bought a surprise for James, one he’d receive the minute he stepped through the front door, so I needed to hurry.

  Twenty minutes later I was freshly showered, buffed, and plucked. Then I donned a lavender silk nightie, trimmed delicately with antique lace that I’d purchased at the mall, and climbed onto our king-sized
bed. I positioned myself for optimal effect, then grabbed my cell phone and took a picture, angling from my breasts up.

  I examined the image. Good God . . . No woman my age should take a picture from that angle.

  I changed position and tried holding my arms up high, hoping for less double chin and more cleavage.

  No. No. Hell, no.

  Maybe just a leg shot with a hint of the lavender silk?

  I deleted the first two images and tried again. Bingo. The result was tasteful, while being sinfully sexy, with the added bonus of no double chin.

  Now to send it.

  My finger hovered over the doohickey symbol that meant attach an image to media, but I bit my lip, uncertain. Should I or shouldn’t I? I’d spent all day with a twenty-four-year-old woman who was full of life and exuberance—reminding me of the carefree and bold woman I used to be—and I realized I missed that side of myself. I wanted to be her again, even if only for a little while. Sending a sexy image of myself was something I’d never done before, but thinking about James opening it, made me feel daring and young. However, the question still remained, should I send a sexy image to my husband, the Sheriff of Murfreesboro, Tennessee, and risk it being seen by someone else?

  Decisions. Decisions.

  Glancing at our wedding photo on my bedside table, I picked it up and ran my finger lovingly down the side of James’s face. He was, and still is, the sexiest man I’d ever met. The way I felt about him hadn’t wavered since the day I’d first laid eyes on him. I loved him desperately and always would.

  Looking back at the image on my phone, I decided to be spontaneous, and a little reckless, for the first time in years, and hit send without further thought. There may be lines etched into the corner of my eyes and steel gray threading through my dark brown hair, but my heart still beat wildly like a young woman’s when James was near. On duty or not, I wanted him to know, in no uncertain terms, that even after all these years together, I still wanted him like he wanted me.

  Mind.

  Body.

  And soul.

  My phone vibrated within moments of sending the image. Grinning like a hormonal schoolgirl with her first crush, I opened his reply.

  James: Jesus.

  Me: Like?

  James: I’m at the scene of an accident.

  Well, this didn’t turn out the way I had planned.

  Me: Sorry, hope it’s not serious. I’ll try to stay awake until you get home! Be safe.

  I started to put my phone down to climb under the covers, but it vibrated again.

  James: Baby, if you fall asleep after sending me that shit, we’re gonna have problems.

  That was more like it.

  Me: What kind of problems?

  I hit send and waited patiently for him to respond, but the phone rang in my hand instead, startling me. I gasped “James?” as I answered, and even I could tell I sounded breathy with anticipation.

  “I’m standin’ at the scene of an accident. The mayor’s idiot son wrapped his truck around a tree after drivin’ drunk. He managed to live, but I’ve got four men waitin’ for me to finish this phone call so I can get this shit sorted, then deal with the press,” he barked down the line. “But they’ll have to wait ‘til I’m ready.”

  “Why? Are you still dealin’ with the mayor’s son?”

  “Nope. It’s ‘cause I’m fuckin’ hard thinkin’ about that image you just sent me. So fair warnin’, baby; if you fall asleep before I get home, I’ll tan your hide,” he growled.

  My breath caught in my throat at the implication. “I’ll stay awake,” I whispered because drawing a lungful of air at that moment wasn’t possible.

  He didn’t respond immediately, but I could hear him breathing deep and steady. He was still agitated. “Fuckin’ love you, baby,” he finally said, his voice low and husky.

  “James—”

  “Never lettin’ go.”

  My lungs froze. He’d said those exact words twenty-eight years ago on a night similar to this one; the night I almost lost everything.

  “Never,” I answered in a broken breath. “You come home to me, soon,” I ordered.

  “Soon as I fuckin’ can,” he grumbled low, then the line went dead.

  I dropped my phone and pulled his pillow over my body, wrapping my arms around it as I buried my face in the fabric. Then I took a long, deep breath and drank in his scent.

  “Never lettin’ go,” I mumbled, repeating his vow. One made on this very farm.

  “What if I’d never broken down on the side of the road?” I asked the room, relaxing further as James’s unique scent pulled me under.

  Images looped in my mind’s eye like a movie on a spool, pulling me back toward the past. Me in my nurse’s cap after moving to Murfreesboro. James in his uniform, a sexy smirk masking his features as he leaned against my car. The old convertible Mustang I used to drive recklessly. They all swam together in a collage of my life.

  I fought the onslaught, as well as sleep, but eventually I drifted to that place where memories and dreams collided—both the good and the bad—and pushed back against them, trying to avoid the darkest moments of my past. But sometimes, no matter how hard you tried to forget, the past demanded to be revisited—if only to appreciate what life had given you.

  ONE

  June 1985

  EVEN BILLY JOEL SINGING about his “Uptown Girl” couldn’t put out the fire burning through my veins. I was too furious to calm down after a phone call from my ex, so I pushed the pedal of my ‘67 Mustang convertible to the floor and let the wind temper my anger. I’d been in Murfreesboro, Tennessee exactly one month, but somehow the jackass had found out where I worked and called me right before I got off shift.

  “Stupid jerk,” I hissed, flying down US-41 toward the farmhouse I’d rented. I’d grown up in Nashville and planned to stay there after I graduated from nursing school, but for some reason, when I caught my ex-boyfriend cheating, I decided it was time for a fresh start. I wanted the room to breathe rather than a stuffy apartment in the city, so I applied to hospitals around the state and signed on with St. Thomas in Murfreesboro. I got the breathing room I wanted, and five acres to boot. I loved the solitude of the country, however, mowing five acres—not so much. “He screws any woman who looks in his direction, then blames me for ending things?” I raged at my radio.

  Billy Joel ignored me. He was too busy singing to Christie Brinkley about her beauty.

  It’s always the blondes that get the guy. Brunettes like me were invisible in a room full of Sun-in using Barbies; it’s been scientifically proven by the FDA. If you put ten blondes in a room with ginormous boobs, the best-looking brunette wouldn’t even get a second look.

  Okay, that probably wasn’t true. It’s more likely I’m a little prejudiced since Jonathan threw away two years of my life to hook up with a ditzy blonde.

  Looking into my rearview mirror, I realized I still had my nursing cap on and groaned. No wonder the cute guy at the convenience store looked at me funny. I barely stood five foot four, so I wore hats most days to look taller, but my nurse’s cap was not a hat I wanted to be seen in outside the hospital. It was hideous.

  Letting go of the steering wheel so I could drive with my knee, I pulled out the hairpins quickly and let the cap drop to my passenger seat.

  “Better,” I told Billy, shaking out my long, dark brown hair. Except Billy was gone. Now Steve Perry was serenading me with “Oh Sherrie.” Another blonde. Kill me now.

  I rolled my shoulders, trying to relax. I’d just finished the three to eleven p.m. shift in the ER, and I was ready to pull off the damn white support hose they made us wear. St. Thomas hadn’t moved into the twentieth century yet by allowing its nurses to wear colorful scrubs in the ER. White. White. White. Everything was still sterile white. Even our makeup had to be subdued. No perfume. No nail polish. Nothing that made us to stand out was ever allowed. We were to appear clean and competent at all times. If we personalized our uniforms in any way, w
e’d be written up. And if the disregard for the rules were repeated, we’d ultimately be fired. Well, fired or not, I wasn’t spending another second in these hose. They were sucking the life force from my body.

  With comfort in mind, I took my foot off the accelerator and began to brake, looking for a spot to stop. I wasn’t waiting until I got home. I wanted these hose off now.

  As I eased onto the shoulder, I ran over something large and heard a loud pop under my car. Afraid I’d hit an animal, I crept forward another twenty feet and felt my steering wheel pulling to the right. Shoot. I knew what that meant. I had a flat tire.

  I looked down at my white uniform and moaned; then scanned the road in front of me for any houses with a light on so I could use their phone. Darkness met me. Dangitalltohell. What I wouldn’t give for one of those brick looking portable phones I’d read about. Technology was advancing at a rapid pace at the end of the twentieth century. Pretty soon we’d all be carrying a portable phone and making calls from our car like we were sitting in our homes. And I couldn’t wait.

  Throwing my car into park, I opened my door so the interior light would come on and then reached inside my glove box for a flashlight. The stretch of road I was on had no streetlights, and the houses were acres apart, if not miles. I was in farm country, where your closest neighbor required a vehicle to borrow sugar.

  “Whose bright idea was it to live in the country?” I grumbled as I climbed out of my car. Steve’s velvet voice still serenaded me as I moved to my trunk, opened it, and found it was still full of boxes from my move.

  Dangit, I forgot to empty it.