Shawn: The Hartwell Brothers Book 4, page 1
Shawn
The Hartwell Brothers Book 4
M. S. Parker
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2020 Belmonte Publishing LLC
Published by Belmonte Publishing LLC
Contents
The Hartwell Brothers
1. Matthew
2. Shawn
3. Talia
4. Shawn
5. Talia
6. Shawn
7. Talia
8. Shawn
9. Talia
10. Shawn
11. Talia
12. Shawn
13. Talia
14. Shawn
15. Talia
16. Shawn
17. Talia
18. Shawn
19. Talia
20. Shawn
21. Talia
22. Shawn
23. Talia
24. Shawn
25. Talia
26. Shawn
27. Talia
28. Shawn
29. Talia
30. Shawn
31. Talia
32. Shawn
33. Talia
34. Shawn
35. Alice
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1. Joshua
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The Hartwell Brothers
Thank you for reading SHAWN, the final book in my new billionaire series: The Hartwell Brothers. Each book is about a different brother and can be read stand-alone, however, I highly recommend reading the books in this order:
Book 1: KEITH (Hartwell 1)
Book 2: MATT (Hartwell 2)
Book 3: JAMIE (Hartwell 3)
Book 4: SHAWN (Hartwell 4)
One
Matthew
September 14, 1953
Moonlight fell in through the curtains in silver streams, shining down on Alice’s face, highlighting the elegant line of her jaw while softening the shadows under her eyes.
She was nine months pregnant and so beautiful it hurt to look at her sometimes. She also laughed at me every time I told her so, but I could see her eyes glow each time, so I made sure to do it often. It was an easy enough task because I meant every word.
The pregnancy had made her hair thicker, lusher, and her breasts were deliciously full, and so round it was a chore not to touch her at times. And, damn, but had those sweet curves become sensitive, so sensitive that one of my favorite past times now was to bring her to climax simply by teasing her nipples and working her to a fever pitch.
But the pregnancy was also wearing her out, making it harder and harder for her to sleep.
“The baby has turned my bladder into a trampoline, Matt,” she told me when she’d hit her sixth month. “I wake up, and he’s jumping up and down, and I can barely make it to the bathroom. Oh, don’t you dare laugh!”
But now, she was so big with the baby, she claimed her bladder was no bigger than a raisin. “I told my mother, and she was scandalized that I’d even mention it.” She’d thrown up her hands in pure dismay. “It’s a bodily organ. What would she do if she even had a glimmer of the way you’ve convinced me to talk to you in bed?”
That had made me laugh, then cringe. The idea of Alice’s very prim and proper mother even thinking about the two of us in bed was enough to make my balls shrivel. For a time.
The relationship between her and her parents had healed over the past two years. I was under no illusion I had much to do with it, other than warning Claude Cormier that he had his priorities out of line and making sure the Van Hornes kept a clear distance—which they had.
Now both of her parents were so excited about the coming baby, they could barely contain themselves. Even her rigid, stiff as a board father was smiling a great deal of the time.
Not that I could blame them. I felt the same.
Next to me, Alice grimaced, then gasped. Easing closer, I slid my arm around her and pressed against the small of her back, rubbing gently. For the past few hours, she’d been having contractions, but they were spaced so far apart, Alice had wanted to stay home.
“The hospital is a ten-minute drive from here,” she’d told me. “Once the contractions are close together, we can go. But I won’t be comfortable in a hospital bed, and even though Dr. Kessler has promised you can be in the room with me until it’s time for delivery, the hospital still doesn’t like it.”
Dr. Kessler, a newer doctor with dual US and British citizenship, had come over from England after completing his training. The son of a midwife, he had what some called “radical viewpoints” on maternal care, but Alice had been impressed with him after several friends had recommended him. “He listened to me, Matt. He didn’t just decide for me.”
The idea of leaving my wife alone to suffer through labor terrified me. I’d had no choice when she’d delivered the little girl she’d elected to put up for adoption two years ago. The hospital and physician hadn’t allowed me to even be in the room with her as she dealt with the labor pains, and I’d paced in scared silence, feeling helpless.
This would be better, although not by much. It didn’t seem right that a man couldn’t be in the room when his own child was born. I’d told my father so, and he’d grimaced. “Birthing is women’s business, son.”
“How can it be just women’s business when I had a hand in making the baby?”
He hadn’t had an answer. In fact, he’d gone red and changed the subject.
Alice cuddled in closer, as close as her swollen belly would allow, her body already relaxing back into deeper sleep. Rubbing my chin against her hair, I continued to stroke her back.
Dr. Kessler said she was due any day and had reassured us over the phone earlier that her contractions weren’t close enough to worry about coming to the hospital yet, but he hadn’t allayed my concerns.
And that was what I did for the next few hours, worry, wonder, wait.
The moon had traveled across the sky, the angle of its light now falling across Alice’s belly, the blankets long since shoved off. Bringing my hand up, I rested it on the hard curve. The baby bumped hard against my touch, almost as if in acknowledgment, and I’d winced in sympathy even as I smiled because I had no doubt that it must have been uncomfortable.
Alice stirred, mumbling under her breath, then sighed.
A moment later, both of us gasped.
The contraction that seized her belly this time was so powerful, I felt it.
A startled cry tore from her as she arched her spine, one hand flying out to grab onto me. Her hand connected with the bare flesh of my waist, and her nails sank in.
“Breathe, sweetheart,” I said when I realized she had stopped, holding in her air as the pain twisted through her. “Remember what the doctor said. You have to breathe through it.”
She went limp a second later and looked at me with wide, stunned eyes. “That’s easy for a man to say. How can anybody breathe through that?”
I had no response. Deciding to change the subject, I forced a smile. “Maybe it’s time to get to the hospital.”
“Indeed.”
The sharp, acerbic tone had me biting back a smile, but then she gasped, clutching at her belly.
“Matt…hospital. Now.”
* * *
I blasted through the red lights, my emergency blinkers on while Alice sat next to me, breathing in stops and starts. Another contraction had hit only minutes after I pulled out of the driveway.
Worry twisted inside. I spoke to her in what I hoped was a calm, reassuring voice, but I couldn’t fully quell that worry.
It hadn’t been like this the last time.
Even as I thought about that, I wanted to hit myself.
Alice had cried as she held the little girl before turning her over to a nurse, and every second that passed as the nurse walked away, I expected to hear Alice call the woman back. I would have understood, accepted it no matter the choice Alice made, but in the end, she’d said it was best the baby go to the family who wanted to adopt her.
I hadn’t asked questions, just held her as she cried.
Now, worries I thought I’d silenced came back in full force. She’d hidden it, but even after returning to Boston, she’d thought of the tiny baby girl. So had I. Van Horne might have fathered the child when he raped Alice, but that genetic contribution was the only tie. Had Alice wanted to keep the baby, she would have been my daughter, and I would have loved her as fiercely as I loved Alice.
The guilt had haunted her for months.
Would this bring it all back?
“That was a bad one,” she said, breathing hard, the grip she had on my thigh finally easing. “I’m so sorry. I…it didn’t hurt so much last time.”
Taking her hand, I kissed her fingers. “Don’t apologize to me. That’s my baby in there, sweetheart. You can gouge me bloody with your fingernails if it will help you deal with the pain. Scream until you break the windows. I don’t give a damn.”
She laughed weakly. “It all seems so…undignified.”
“Undignified.” Amused, I kissed her hand again and slowed down for the corner. The hospital’s bright lights gleamed like a beacon up ahead. Finally. Those ten minutes seemed to have taken a lifetime. “You didn’t worry about dignity the night we made that little guy, so there’s no reason to worry about it now.”
“It’s terribly rude of you to bring that up,” she said in a prim voice that made me want to kiss her.
Whipping my car into an empty parking space that was thankfully close to the front doors, I laughed. “And you get so prissy when I do. Why on earth do you think I do it?”
“Awful,” she murmured. “You’re just awful sometimes, Matthias Hartwell.”
I went around to help her out, pulling her close so I could kiss her. “But you love me, anyway.”
She went to respond, but before she could, her face contorted, and she grabbed onto my arms, her head falling to bury against my chest.
“Another one…get me inside…please,” she said, panting through the pain.
Scooping her up into my arms, I kicked the door shut. “Good plan. I’m ready to meet my child.”
Her eyes glowed up at me, and even through the pain of the contraction, she smiled. “Me too.”
Two
Shawn
Present time
The old house was quiet.
It was part of the reason I was there working on a Saturday—none of my crew was on schedule this weekend. We tried not to have them come in and work unless we were on a tight deadline, and things with this project were moving along just fine. More than fine, actually.
I’d come in after the cleaning crew we used had finished their task. As the head project manager and I’d expected, we’d finished everything this past week.
That was why I was here. Even though the line I gave the guys on the team and my partner was that I liked to give everything one final look, the fact of the matter was, I wanted a little more time here.
Before too much longer, I’d have to turn this gorgeous old Bostonian home over to somebody else, and part of me hated it.
It wasn’t anything new. The construction company I owned, along with my partner, specialized in rehabbing old homes with historical value, like this one in Beacon Hill.
This house had fallen into disrepair when the owner, who had no children or close relatives, had gotten too old to keep up with it. He’d had money at one point in his life, but health problems had eaten away at it, and those problems, along with other issues, had made it harder and harder for him to put in the work needed to fix the ever increasing costly problems affecting the house.
And those problems dated back more than just years or decades.
We’d gotten our hands on this place because the owner had known my partner, Conall McDowd.
Conall had been my mentor before becoming my boss and then offering me a chance to buy into his company. He mostly handled the business side of things now, and he’d known the former owner for years. When he’d been offered the chance to buy the house, he’d jumped on it.
The old man hadn’t been looking to do much more than have somebody take the place off his hands after he’d fallen down the steep stairs and broken his leg, but Conall had never been one to cheat anybody.
We’d paid a pretty penny, but when we were done with it, this place would be a hot property. We were already vetting calls from people interested in buying the place, either for residential use or business, or both.
Smoothing a hand down the banister that had been stained just the other day, I took a step back and looked up the stairs. We’d ripped out the old staircase and broadened the narrow passageway, putting in wider, deeper steps that would no longer serve to trip the wary and cautious alike.
Not everything inside had been changed, though. The stained-glass window that hung over the massive front doors was authentic. Although beautiful, the doors had been replaced because the wood had been rotting away at the edges. I’d insisted we get a set custom-made that would be identical to the carved style we’d had to take out, and I was glad we had.
Now, the stained-glass window, carefully cleaned and restored to its former glory, was in beautiful harmony with a set of doors bearing the same Celtic cross motif.
“I swear, if Conall wouldn’t tear me a new one, I think I’d buy this place and keep it for myself,” I mumbled.
Then I laughed. I said that to myself once a year, at least. That was the thing about having a job like mine—and loving it. You always fell in love with the project and never wanted to leave it.
Until it was time for the next one.
Conall ribbed me about it—a lot—but I knew he felt the same way. “This is hard work, son. Back breaking at times, and it comes with more than a little frustration too. If you don’t love what you do, then go build fancy new shit somewhere else. It will be easier and less stressful in the long run.”
He told me that when he’d first hired me on full-time, and I’d heard another reiteration of it when he’d asked me if I wanted to take on the role as partner just a year ago.
My answer had been the same both times. “There’s nothing else I rather do, Conall.”
Blowing out a breath, I checked to make sure I had all my gear and gave the place one last look. “It was nice knowing you, gorgeous,” I told the grand old house, gleaming and beautiful once more.
This wouldn’t be the last time I’d see this old place, but likely, the next time would be with a realtor as we did a walkthrough for the photographs needed for the property’s sale.
Maybe it was sentimentality, but I’d rather make my goodbyes in private.
Locking the door behind me, I headed out to my work truck.
I’d grab a cup of coffee from the café, then head home and spend the rest of the day being a lazy bum.
* * *
Or…maybe not.
Cup of coffee in hand, I came to a stop in the parking lot outside the café and studied the cute redhead leaning against my work truck.
She wore a snug-fitting t-shirt bearing the logo of the café and a pair of jeans that looked to be painted on, showing off curves that might be considered illegal in some counties—perhaps even this one. I didn’t know her real name, but she’d introduced herself as Cherry back when I’d first started hitting this particular café months ago.
Cherry and I had been engaging in a friendly, casual flirtation, but it wouldn’t go beyond that. I wasn’t looking for a relationship. Two of my brothers had recently fallen—and hard—and while I expected I’d eventually want the same, that wasn’t where I was at in my life.
“I heard you guys were about finished with Mr. Etheridge’s house,” she said, her lips plump and slicked raspberry red.
“That’s right.” I took a sip of the coffee, straight and black, strong enough to raise the dead. That wasn’t just my opinion. Strange Brews, the coffee shop and café where Cherry worked, advertised it that way, and they were on target. “You on break?”
“No.” She canted her head to the side. “I opened today. Was getting off when I saw you walking in, thought I’d wait and say hi. Or…maybe bye, seeing as how you won’t be coming around so much once you finish up.”
She took a step forward, then another, now so close I could smell the lush, exotic scent of whatever perfume she wore—and coffee. She smelled like coffee, but I didn’t mind that a bit. I loved coffee.
“I’m going to miss seeing you around so much, Shawn.” She held my gaze for a moment before her eyes lowered to my mouth, lingering there.
A stir of interest warmed my blood. But…
