Wrong then Right (A Love Happens Novel Book 2) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CONNECT WITH THE AUTHOR

  Excerpt from NEXT TO ME

  WRONG

  THEN

  RIGHT

  A LOVE HAPPENS NOVEL

  JODI WATTERS

  Kindle Edition

  WRONG THEN RIGHT © 2015 by Jodi Watters

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. For permission requests, please contact the publisher.

  Excerpt from NEXT TO ME © 2014 by Jodi Watters

  CHAPTER ONE

  Hope Coleson only knew a few things for sure.

  First, you could never trust a guy with two first names. A sense of entitlement went hand in hand with anyone named John David, and you could bet the family pig farm he was going to cheat on you with some girl named Tiffany the first chance he got.

  Second, there wasn’t an acrylic top coat on the market that could keep her nail polish from chipping only a few days after a manicure, no matter how careful she was when using her thumbnail as a flat head screwdriver.

  And third—and this one was a biggie—unless you happened to be his blushing bride, it was a sure thing that ogling the groom at his own wedding was a first class, non-stop ticket straight to hell. And it didn’t matter how drop dead gorgeous he was either, because the Almighty simply didn’t care. Whether a girl believed in an afterlife or not, she should be aware of the possible ramifications, just in case there was a purgatory for the perpetually dirty minded.

  With a sigh of wistfulness, Hope looked away from the hot groom, along with the equally hot group of men standing beside him, each one looking more uncomfortable than the next as they waited for the oceanfront ceremony to begin. After a damp, drizzling morning that probably had his lucky bride on the verge of tears, the marine layer of gray haze shrouding the coast of San Diego County had finally burned off sometime around the lunch hour. The warm, early June sun shined brightly on the fortunate residents of Southern California, from the sandy shores of Imperial Beach near the Mexican border, all the way north to Torrey Pines and La Jolla, where the streets were paved with hundred dollar bills and lined with recently waxed Benz’s.

  Where the late afternoon nuptials for a couple who could give Brangelina a run for their money in the Most Stunning Couple category were soon to begin.

  A wealth of white roses, cream gardenias and pink hydrangeas, all in peak, pungent stages of bloom, scented the clean sea air with their sweet perfume. Large, abundantly arranged bouquets filled a myriad of vintage glass vases artfully placed on every available tabletop, with clusters wrapped in fraying hemp ribbon tied along the dozen or so chairs lining each side of the makeshift aisle. Trails of variegated ivy and floral garland tastefully draped a rustic wooden arch made entirely of curly willow, showcasing the panoramic ocean view beyond the rocky cliffside. The smiling groom stood under it, waiting patiently for the woman who’d snagged him. The lush, emerald green lawn surrounding him was randomly dotted with rose petals and laid out as perfectly as a finely made Persian carpet, but not so soft that the heel of an expensive shoe would sink. Vistancia Resort and Spa, a premier luxury hotel that also hosted ultra expensive seaside weddings, paid attention to those kinds of details.

  One might think the picturesque Pacific Ocean backdrop and sophisticated fairy tale setting would steal a romantic girl’s breath, but for Hope, the turquoise waters crashing onto a jagged, rocky shoreline couldn’t hold a candle to the tantalizing display of utter masculinity showcased before her. It was beefcake city. Who knew weddings were such meat markets?

  “You know what I just realized, Val?” Standing behind the large, rectangular serving table, Hope carefully placed polished silver cutlery at exact right angles to the stack of fine, bone-colored china.

  “That Helen is as flexible as a Nazi when it comes to table settings?” Val answered, sparing their sour-faced manager a nervous glance as he wiped down the serving spoons, speaking softly even though the woman stood a good fifty feet away.

  A pit bull in control top, suntan pantyhose, Helen observed her catering staff with beady, eagle eyes, waiting to find fault. The intimate sunset ceremony taking place on the scenic grounds nearby was set to begin momentarily and every uniformed caterer worked in a politely hushed, methodical manner, induced by fear.

  “No, I’ve been thoroughly schooled on the proper way to set a table already,” Hope said pointedly, gesturing toward the many brilliantly adorned dining tables with a flourish, her fist clutching a handful of shiny lobster forks. Those perfectly set tables had taken her almost two hours. “It’s that you never see a good looking man with a bad looking woman. You see a lot of pretty women with ugly men. But never the other way around.”

  Val jerked his head, whipping frosted blonde bangs out of his faintly lined eyes and cocking a hip to the side. “Ugly, old men who are also rich,” he emphasized. “That’s the key word, Hope. And don’t judge, because I’ll take old and loaded over cute and broke any day of the week. You know everything’s prettier when you’re seeing it through Chanel sunglasses. Even droopy balls and silver chest hair.”

  Hope cringed at the visual, not convinced high-end designer goods were worth it if they came with wrinkled old guy scrotum, and Val shrugged her off, adding, “The way to a man’s wallet is through his ball sac, sweetie. That should be in a fortune cookie. Or on a bumper sticker.”

  Valentino Sabato was a plain speaking, designer-label wearing man who stood no more than five and a half feet tall, but had just enough gumption and personality to make up for it. And he’d been Hope’s best friend since their first day of kindergarten. Back when his name had been Manfred Stump. No shit. And you didn’t dare call him Manny, or even Fred, without a verbal dressing down from Manfred’s mother that you’d likely never forget. No wonder the pint-sized dynamo had changed it as soon as legally possible, spending the morning of his eighteenth birthday in line at the county courthouse. The hand picked name suited him, even though there wasn’t a drop of Italian blood in his bony body and despite the fact that in the seven years since, Mrs. Stump still refused to call him anything that wasn’t of Polish origin.

  “Where’s that observation coming from, anyway?” He glanced toward the crowd of people gathering near the neatly placed white chairs, ready to watch
a seemingly perfect couple pledge their undying love to each other. For life. “I saw the bride and her wedding coordinator do a walk through with Helen earlier today and she’s as beautiful as the groom. And so are their peeps.” Turning back in the direction of the guests, he let out a low whistle. “Look at that penis party on the groom’s side. Do you see the big, blonde one with the dreamy dimples? I wonder if he’d mosey on over to my side of the aisle for the night.”

  Of course Hope had seen them. There wasn’t a single female within eye shot—and a few males, based on Val’s commentary—who hadn’t noticed them. Four men, all gorgeous in their own devastating way, huddled near the groom, looking large, in charge, and completely out of their element amidst the bounty of flowers and flickering candles. They reluctantly broke ranks when the soft sounds of a harp signaled the beginning of the ceremony, each taking their seats in too small chairs.

  Truth be told, one in particular had caught Hope’s eye, shortening her breath and setting loose a hoard of butterflies in her stomach.

  And luckily for the well being of her eternal soul, it wasn’t the groom.

  It was probably the suit. The way the charcoal pants fit him perfectly, sitting low on his hips as if they’d been tailored specifically for his long, lean body. Hope had never seen a man wear a pair of suit pants so well. His perfectly pressed white dress shirt was rolled up at the cuffs and the top two buttons were left undone, whether in deference to the heat of the late day sun or the fact that he didn’t really want to be here, Hope wasn’t sure. And yet, he somehow still looked appropriately attired and comfortable in his own skin. There was no suit jacket. There was no tie. He wasn’t the kind of man who needed them. Looks alone, along with the confident air surrounding him, had no doubt taken him far in life. Mirrored aviator sunglasses covered his eyes and even though Hope couldn’t see them, she held his gaze when his head turned in her direction once again. He’d been doing that a lot in the last twenty minutes. Watching her as she’d readied the dining tables to Helen’s impeccable standards, the steak and lobster buffet set to be served immediately following the vows and champagne toast.

  Glancing behind her, she looked back at him and tilted her head in question, needing confirmation that Mr. Man Candy was indeed checking her out and not some beauty pageant blonde inconveniently posing behind her. His lips quirked and he gave her a slight chin lift, the subtle acknowledgment enough to make her cheeks flush. Helen’s rudely snapping fingers broke their silent, promising exchange.

  “Focus on the task at hand, Miss Coleson,” she said, her dry lips pursed in disapproval. “We are here to cater an event, not mingle with the guests. Do you know how many applications I receive every day, young lady? Your position could be filled by noon tomorrow.”

  Apparently Helen had never been taught how to positively motivate a workforce as threats of termination seemed to be her preferred method. And in this case, it worked wonders.

  “What a bitch.” Val smirked as the woman marched away, giving her a dirty look on Hope’s behalf. “Doesn’t she know who you are? I’d have her demoted for that comment, if I were you. Put her on overnight laundry detail for the next month. Or just fire her altogether and have her run out of town. Blackballing is a real thing, you know.”

  “Well, you’re not me, Val,” Hope snapped, reaching for the fragile glassware packed in foam cartons. Carefully wiping fingerprints from silver rimmed champagne flutes, she placed them exactly one half inch apart on the white Belgian linen covering the cake table. “And unless you want a new roommate sleeping in your bathtub, I need to stop drooling over a man I’ll never meet and get back to work.”

  All this love and romance in the air was becoming a real hazard of the job.

  “Wait, what?” Clearly confused, Val looked around. “Which man? What did I miss?”

  Wanting to tell Helen to kiss her ass, and Val, too, for bringing up her family’s influence, Hope bit her bottom lip and held back the retort. He wanted to push for more, but thankfully took the hint and kept his mouth shut, busying himself by filling crystal bowls with pale pink buttermints which, oddly enough, were in the shape of tiny firearms.

  She needed this stupid job, even though it paid squat. The rent on her crappy efficiency apartment was already four days late and her landlord was in a tizzy, no longer extending her a generous grace period for late payments. The first was the first, he’d warned her, not the third or the fifth, and definitely not the tenth. But coming up with eight hundred bucks on her own every month wasn’t easy. Eating shrink wrapped noodles and generic cereal every day wasn’t either, but payday was still another week away. The unexpected rise in tuition costs for the upcoming fall semester meant even less money in her small stash of savings. What was once a decent chunk of money her domineering father had given her specifically for college was dwindling at an alarming rate. The University of San Diego thought pretty highly of their four year degree in Landscape Architecture and they charged an obscene amount of money for the education. Hope had just completed her junior year a few weeks ago and what little she still had in the bank was already allocated for her final year. She didn’t dare use the money for anything else. Fortunately, she had the next three months of summer to work a full time schedule and the busy wedding season would help to get her rent current. And maybe buy her a decent dinner, too.

  Becoming an architect hadn’t always been Hope’s dream, but getting a college degree had, and it was first and foremost on her agenda. There were people in this world—powerful, morally corrupt people—who preyed on the kindhearted but uneducated, using them for personal gain while their own lives spiraled out of control.

  Control. It was such a perilous thing.

  A short childhood spent watching her mother maintain another woman’s palatial mansion while coveting her lifestyle had taught Hope a valuable lesson. Seeing her work day and night, tirelessly caring for the unstable woman’s successful husband and neglected teenage son as her own young daughter fended for herself in cramped staff quarters above a four car garage, had shown Hope the way of the world.

  Money equaled control and control equaled freedom.

  And the best way to earn it was with an education, not by being an overworked and underpaid member of the help. Since she wasn’t exactly BFF’s with math and science, Hope chose art. Horticulture, specifically. Growing things, it seemed, was in her blood.

  As a little girl, she’d spent many of her long, lonely days chasing hummingbirds through the gardens spread across the vast property that made up Coleson Creek Winery. Endless hours spent secretly exploring the award winning vineyard, with its constant buzz of activity and unending rows of twisted grapevines providing a forbidden place for her to play. To daydream. But no matter how strong the temptation was, she knew not to pick the plump fruit, even though the dark purple ones were her favorite. Marshall Coleson had eyes everywhere.

  There had been only one time, on a warm spring day when she was six, that she’d been caught snatching a handful of the prized grapes, cradling them in the fabric of her dirty gingham skirt. He’d grabbed her hand and never let go, walking her the entire way to the main house, a big, beautiful place where she’d never been allowed. Motioning her into his wood paneled den, Hope had done exactly as he’d told her, barely holding back tears as she climbed into the chair facing his massive desk. Staring at her dusty Mary Jane’s and picking at a scab on her knee, she’d fearfully awaited her punishment. The air conditioning gave her goosebumps and a clock on the wall ticked loudly, just like the one in her nursery rhyme. There were books stacked on top of each other, filling shelves that spanned floor to ceiling, and Hope wondered if he could read all of them. Even the ones without pictures.

  “Do you know what this is, Hope?”

  She looked up sharply at the sound of his voice. He was holding a one dollar bill.

  Nodding, her chin wobbled and she pinched the skin on her arm to make it stop. She was a big girl, her mommy said. Too old to be crying and carry
ing on, her mommy said. Old enough to stay by herself, even when it was dark outside.

  “You do?” he questioned. “What is it, then?”

  She was six, she wasn’t stupid. “Money,” she whispered, looking at the framed photo on his desk. Three people stared at her, smiling big. Like a family on a television show.

  “That’s right. And here at Coleson Creek, this,” he said, waving the bill in the air, “comes from these.” Pointing to the stolen merchandise—the grapes—sitting on his desk, he picked one up. “Every time you pick one of these, I lose one of these. Do you understand?”

  She nodded even though she didn’t.

  “If I lose too many, then your mother loses her job. She would have to leave the vineyard and find a new place to live, and that would be a very bad thing, Hope. Because you can’t go with her. You have to stay here. With me. Do you know why?”

  Hope couldn’t stop them then. Her tummy twisted in a knot and she began to cry, her tiny shoulders shaking. She didn’t know why her mommy would leave without her. Because she sometimes cried? Because she was scared of the dark? Because she picked the grapes?

  “It’s because I’m your Daddy, Hope. And you belong here, at Coleson Creek. This house and this vineyard,” he clutched a handful of the grapes, “are your destiny. It’s for you and Ash—”

  “Dad!” The door to the den was thrown wide open and the boy, the one her mom looked after, rushed in, dropping his backpack to the floor. Last week he’d been given a pool party for his sixteenth birthday, with a big chocolate cake and a fancy red truck. Not invited, Hope had watched the party from the window above the garage, overlooking the backyard. “An Army recruiter was at school today and I’m gonna sign—oh...”

  He stopped mid-sentence, staring at her with a furrowed brow before looking back at Marshall. He’d never spoken to her, but one day he’d let her follow him to the deepest part of the creek running along the back of the property, where schools of bluegill swam and tiny frogs hid under moss covered rocks. She’d watched him bait a hook and cast a line, but after a minute with no bites, she’d lost interest and gone in search of a new litter of barn kittens. Soon someone else might see her and she’d have to go back to the garage.