by Sylvia Fox
As people moved into line behind them, Mick shifted Preston out of line and walked him over to where the two women stood.
“Preston, this lady is my mommy. Her name is Bev. She’s come all the way from England to visit us. That’s very far away. She flew on an airplane.”
“That’s cool!” Preston said, flashing two thumbs up.
“Do you think maybe you could give Miss Bev a hug, Preston?” Ayla asked.
Bev’s expression softened, and she squatted down slightly to get closer to eye level with her grandson.
Preston threw his arms around her neck, and Mick and Ayla watched as she closed her eyes and choked back sobs, squeezing Preston with all her might.
Bev tousled Preston’s hair when she let go, marveling at him. “You remind me very much of two little boys who used to live at my house,” Bev said to Preston, in a thick Sheffield accent with which he struggled to keep up.
“She says that when I was your size, we looked a lot alike,” Mick explained.
“You were never my size!” Preston argued. “Otherwise, your muscles could never be so big!”
“Ah, but if you eat the right things and keep exercising, you can be even bigger than me!” Mick insisted.
Preston seemed satisfied, and he flexed his muscles as they returned to the line.
The four of them ate and laughed and talked the afternoon away. Ayla found Bev to be charming and sweet, contrary to Mick’s reports of his mother as irascible and argumentative.
Preston had softened her; letting her heart return to a place and time when her husband and both her sons lived at home. Just seeing Preston, watching him eat, hearing him plead for “just one more” slice of pie or scoop of ice cream, just like her Mickey and Frankie had done, thawed the block of ice that losing Frank and Harry had implanted in her chest.
Hugs all around concluded the meal, and the Mick’s amazement, his mum had made no mention of her letter from the Queen.
Bev was exhausted, and Mick knew she needed to get back to the condo and take a nap. Ayla drove Preston back home to watch a movie and digest.
On the way home, Preston posed a question. “Are we going to see grandma again tomorrow?”
Ayla almost drove off the road.
“What grandma, buddy?”
“Grandma Bev. Mr. Mick’s mommy.”
“Is she your grandma?” Ayla asked, turning the radio down.
“Hey, I love that song!” Preston protested when Ayla silenced his favorite song, the new Lia Melody hit.
“I’ll play it for you when we get home. Now answer my question. Is Miss Bev your grandma?”
“Grandma is mommy or daddy’s mommy, right?”
“Yes.”
“Well she called Mick my daddy, so that means she’s my grandma.”
Ayla felt herself go pale.
“She did?”
“I was eating shrimp, the crispy ones, just like Mr. Mick, and she said ‘Your daddy loved shrimp when he was a boy, too. He liked biting the heads off.’ And she watched us eating them, just the same way. Is Mr. Mick my daddy?”
Ayla was startled. She never expected Preston to unravel the truth on his own. “How would you feel about it if he was?”
Preston clapped his hands. “It would be awesome. He’s cool. And strong!”
Ayla sighed. The crushing weight of having to deceive her son for so long was gone.
She had money in the bank for the first time in her life. Real money, not just enough to hopefully make it to the next paycheck. She was desperately in love, and madly in lust.
A life that just a week prior seemed to be spinning inexorably down the drain, no matter how much she scratched and fought, was in a better place than her wildest dreams dared to imagine.
Mick got his mum back to the condo and tucked her into the spare bedroom.
He sat in the living room with a glass of his favorite Scotch, swirling it in his hand as he replayed the events of the past few days in his mind.
The longer he thought of Ayla, the more his cock strained in his pants. He was obsessed with every inch of her body, and longed to be alone with her again.
He took a burning sip and his thoughts turned to Preston and the joy with which he filled Bev’s soul. Preston’s spirit and exuberance were contagious, and Mick found himself imagining the adventures they’d share.
In his pocket, he felt the box with the ring in it, and he wondered if it would be absolutely insane for him to propose to Ayla. He could count the days they’d known each other since their serendipitous reunion on one hand, but it didn’t matter. This was love. True love. And he couldn’t bear the thought of risking losing it ever again.
The next time he saw Ayla, he’d propose to her. If they were married, the whole “How do we explain all this to Preston” matter would be, in a way, resolved.
Mick finished his glass and walked over to the Strip, watching the cars and people go by, far below. He wondered if, in a trillion multiverses, alternate timelines, and abstract realities, everything had ever converged so perfectly to have him fall so deeply in love with Ayla Murray. He decided it was impossible.
His phone rang, and Ayla relayed the news regarding Preston’s happy discovery that he had a Dad. And a grandma.
Mick poured himself another glass and lifted it into the air, toasting his father, his brother, and nearly seven years of what he thought had been an unhealthy obsession with the mysterious blonde in the blue dress.
23
Epilogue
Mick Merryweather held up the newspaper his mother had mailed them from Sheffield. The headline said:
Yank Nephew of Fallen Local Star is Sporting Legacy
“I hate that term, ‘Yank,” Ayla said. It sounds crass. Sexual.”
“That’s just in your dirty mind, my love,” Mick said to his wife as he wrapped his arms around her from behind and pressed his hips forward, against the ass he’d spent two decades mesmerized by.
“You’ve made me this way,” Ayla said, reaching behind her to squeeze Mick’s cock through his pants.
“Careful, or you’ll wind up with a baby younger than your grandson,” Mick teased.
His union with Ayla, the marriage following their whirlwind reunion nearly twenty years ago, had produced five younger siblings for Preston, four girls and one more boy.
All six had, or were in line to, graduate from Oasis Academy.
The large Merryweather clan settled permanently in Las Vegas, although Bev, the matriarch of the family, could never be convinced to permanently leave Sheffield.
Besides her own grandchildren, she had five grand-nieces and grand-nephews thanks to Ayla’s sister, Amy, and brother, Allan. Despite being eighty-seven, she could recite all eleven children’s full names and birthdates, as well as what was on their ever-changing Christmas and birthday wish lists.
Mick had risen to head of corporate security for Watterson Gaming International, a goliath casino conglomerate with properties on three continents. His seven-figure salary meant that Ayla had given up her pre-dawn shifts at NPE long ago to be a stay-at-home mom for her beautiful brood.
Preston had been named to the United States Olympic rugby team for the 2036 games, prompting The Sheffield Telegraph to interview Mick and Preston and pen an article about the athletic legacy of the Merryweather family, focusing on Frank and his tragic death, all those years ago. His mother was quoted in the article, “Preston is my son come back to me.”
His statue still stood at Bramall Lane, where mourners still covered it with flowers each year on the anniversary of the accident.
Preston’s wife, Mya, was a Sheffield girl he’d met while visiting his grandmother prior to his senior year at Stanford. They were wed within a month of meeting, against the advice of all their family and friends. Preston knew better.
Love doesn’t wait.
Their first-born, Harry, arrived two weeks after Preston’s graduation.
Mick had tried to broker peace with Ayla’s family, but to no avail. He ha
d the door shut in his face when he knocked on it and introduced himself, and although he sent Christmas cards and birth and graduation announcements, they received only silence in return.
The entire extended family, all of Amy and Allan’s kids, as well as Ayla’s, spent a traditional week at Disneyland every year during Christmas break, financed by Mick and Ayla. Bev attended each and every one, the sweetest, most loving grandmother and grand-aunt imaginable.
Ayla and Mick poured themselves into their own children, raising four girls and two boys who shared the beauty and grit of their momma, the courage of their daddy, and a single-minded obsession to bring glory to the Merryweather name, and never bring it shame.
THE END
Thank you for reading OBSESSION! Look for the final book, SUBMISSION, coming soon. To get news on when it’s released, sign up for my newsletter! No spam ever. Just fun!
About the Author
Sylvia Fox writes steamy stories about alphas who aren’t afraid of taking what they want, and the women who love them. Each release is a stand alone with a guaranteed happily ever after. Cliff hangers and brooding angst won’t be found here — Sylvia prefers a man who delivers a good spanking and a diamond ring.
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