Fated: An Alpha Male Romance

  Dear Reader,

  * * *

  Welcome, welcome, welcome (in my Terry Crews voice) and welcome back to those of you already familiar with my writing. This is Ethan and Alexandra’s story.

  So, what is Red Velvet Punch?

  Red Velvet Punch has its roots in the different Caribbean lore that I’ve been exposed to during my lifetime. Many of these tales came from my parents, grandparents, friends, and my own research. As you probably already know, Caribbean people believe heavily in the power of the Earth to heal the human body. Approach any older Caribbean person and tell them you have an upset stomach, and they’ll tell you that all you’ll need is a cup of “bush tea.” They’ll likely even direct you to other forms of tea depending upon your chief complaint!

  The concept comes from a real herb that has been touted in the islands as a natural aphrodisiac for more than a century. It is known as bois bande (Richeria grandis) which literally means “hard wood,” and many Caribbean concoctions use it in raw bark or powdered-bark form. It has even been used in rums. I don’t know about you, but even though it’s only “reputed” to have aphrodisiac effects, one-hundred years is saying something.

  Happy Reading!

  -Alex

  Acknowledgements

  * * *

  For my late grandparents: My Nenen and Papa.

  And, as always, to my beautiful readers.

  Jessica Watkins Presents

  FATED

  K. Alex Walker

  Prologue

  * * *

  Evelyn Sara Miller

  They had no idea that I was watching them — my lovely granddaughter Alexandra Miller and her handsome coworker Dr. Ethan Stewart. They were standing in the sparse grass in the middle of the racing track at Martin High school, and though we were already deep within the month of December, this Louisiana winter permitted only light sweaters and the occasional flannel cap.

  All around the track, booths were set up by students and community officials advertising their respective plans to add to the Lower Ninth Ward Community Advisory Board’s initiative to restore the area. Major sponsors ranging from the local American Heart Association to the American Diabetes Association had also come out to show their support.

  I can say with pride that the entire event had been organized by my Alexandra with input from Dr. Stewart, both members of the advisory board and employees of the highlighted sponsor: Stewart & Associates Pediatric Practice. Stewart and Associates was Dr. Stewart’s private practice which saw children from all backgrounds, but specialized in providing care to those with developmental disabilities. Bottom line: the man had a heart made of gold and the face of a young Clint Eastwood. You’ll stumble across an albino alligator dancing in the swamp before you find another combination like that.

  Alexandra, dressed in a black blazer and charcoal knee-length dress, was chatting with a group of students who’d developed an award-winning science project to deliver more crop-friendly land to the Ninth Ward for the upcoming spring season. Yet, when she thought no one was looking, she would turn as though studying the crowd of attendees only to end up hopelessly deadlocked on Ethan. Then, when she turned away, he would do the same thing — stare at her from across the room like she was a mirage that, if he got too close, would disappear.

  They were rooted to each other. Their souls were ingrained. I could feel it. The electricity that passed between them wasn’t a mere fascination with unleashing the desires of the other. I mean, there was desire, which I think is necessary for any palpable connection. But, as much as my little Alexandra fought it in order to always be the “good girl” as she was so well-taught, her core temperature rose and fell whenever she was in Ethan’s presence. Likewise, his temperature never cooled as long as she was around.

  Now, although my roots do hail from the Caribbean, I’m not a witch doctor, voodoo woman, or Obeah woman, if you will. I do, however, believe in West African folklore and human spirituality, both of which have been entrenched in African culture centuries before my time. I do believe in the concept of spiritual connectedness and that we are unconsciously drawn to certain people because we are supposed to be.

  I know that you’re thinking that I sound like a crazy old woman, but even science now shows that human beings have energy fields that can be measured. Haven’t you ever wondered why some dogs can sense when a person is about to die? Or how about that odd sensation you get when you meet someone and just know that either you will or will not get along?

  When I say that Ethan and Alexandra are rooted to each other, it’s simply a measure of matched energies. It’s like when you meet someone and feel like they are your kindred spirit or that there’s something drawing you to them. I can feel that, but from the outside. My grandmother called this a sensitivity. Here’s how it happens:

  I’ll be sitting at the Starbucks on the corner not far from my son’s home watching a couple interact. It can be either a first date or hundredth date — I’ll instantly know whether or not they are suited for each other. Unfortunately, most of the time, I can’t do anything about it.

  I’ve seen women whose bodies reflected so much heat when in the presence of a match that I’ve had to remove my own coat and start fanning with a paper towel. But many times, these are relationships that will never happen.

  We all have the capability in different strengths. But, over time, most of us eventually pushed it to the back burner. As the world gets busier, we listen to our instincts less and less.

  Alexandra and Ethan are rooted, but Alexandra is timid. Ethan, if given the opening, will love her until she starts questioning if she truly understands love. He will love her until she starts to see the love within herself. Alexandra, on the other hand, actively avoids how she feels about him because over the years, my son (her father) and daughter-in-law have taught her how to repress that energy. That feeling of heat in the blood. That raw attraction. That compelling need to be next to a particular person.

  That was how I felt about my late husband, Ellis, and let me tell you…that kind of love is nothing like fire. Fire, you can douse. That kind of love is like perpetual energy; it never dies and it gives life to everything around you.

  As I watch Alexandra and Ethan walk past each other, I can feel a sharp stab of heat along my fingertips. I can feel Ethan pull back from wanting to lightly touch her elbow, and Alexandra use a massive amount of strength to pull away from stepping into his chest. Their connection is stronger than any I’ve ever felt, and even stronger than that of my other granddaughter Gia, and her husband, Elliott Westwood.

  It is possible that I feel Alexandra and Gia so strongly because they share my blood as my son’s only two children, but that only makes it more imperative that I don’t allow Alexandra to scissor through this connection. It must happen. One of the worst things in the world is for someone to make a poor decision, most of the time based on the insistence of others, and spend the rest of their lives cold. It has happened. I’ve seen it, and I’m sure you have as well in your own lives or lives of people that you know.

  Now, I know at this point you’re thinking, “Old lady, don’t you dare interfere,” but…it’s too late. I’ve already mixed it and it’s sitting in the back of the ice chest at my son and his wife’s house where I’ve resided since my husband passed. This “it” is a drink that dates back years in my family but didn’t have a name until our family settled in the Bayou. The name is said to come from a time when lots of foods were associated with the “red” of nineteenth-century Juneteenth celebrations. The way my mother told it, she later gave it the name “Red Velvet Punch” because of its relation to the sweet confection Red Velvet Cake that had been weaving its way into being a staple in African
American Culture. Whatever the history, all I know is that it is very potent and therefore must be given with care.

  I’ve had my reservations about interfering between Ethan and Alexandra, but I’ve slept and prayed on it. All women deserve passion. Why have feelings if we don’t allow ourselves to delve into them? Why should we not have the benefit of feeling our deepest desires roaring hotly throughout every vein in our bodies?

  But, like I said, the damage is done. The punch is made. I just hope that my little bit of mischief can stand up to my granddaughter’s hesitance. Ethan is the one for her; that certainty burns even within me.

  But, please don’t think I’m wrong that even in Alexandra’s “current situation,” I still intervened. She needs this. I cannot bear to see the little girl whose eyes used to light up like fireworks whenever Ellis and I would take her and her sister farming (simply because it was a chance to get dirty), spend the rest of her life cold.

  Alexandra’s waving me down. We’re supposed to have lunch together. I will see you all later.

  Jessica Watkins Presents

  Red Velvet Punch Series: Book 1

  -Fated-

  By

  K. Alex Walker

  Chapter One

  * * *

  Alexandra

  My grandmother was standing in the doorway of my office on the day before Christmas Eve, but she was supposed to be back at my parents’ house preparing for a Christmas Eve fundraising banquet taking place the following evening. To be honest, being around my father, a retired military general, for too long could wear down anyone’s nerves, so I didn’t completely blame her for wanting to get away. He was the epitome of military order both inside and outside our home. Even his gait was as ramrod straight as books on a shelf. Yet, despite his ability to transform even the most informal events into a black-tie affair, I still didn’t feel comfortable just letting her traipse around the streets of Louisiana as though she didn’t have a care in the world.

  “Don’t fuss,” she said, putting up one hand to stop the gentle scolding I was about to throw her way. The second hand was wrapped around a glass pitcher filled with a red liquid. “Your father knows I’m here.”

  I leaned back in my chair and took in her seventy-two year old face. Always the fashionista, a self-proclaimed Dorothy Dandridge of her time, she was dressed in a yellow Pea coat with the hem of a checkered black and white dress peeking out of the bottom. She’d traded in her usual mid-heeled pumps for flats, and the fancy blue cloche hat on her head pulled the entire outfit together.

  “Does he really?” I asked. “He didn’t call me to tell me that you were coming, and you know how Daddy is.”

  “Well, maybe he thought I was going to the market,” she answered, walking over and placing the pitcher on my desk. She tugged off her black leather gloves and a perfect French manicure gleamed beneath my office lights.

  “Uh huh.” I stared into the pitcher. “What’s that?”

  “Where is that handsome doctor friend of yours? I was hoping to see him today.” Her cheeks lit up beneath her rose-pink blush. “I wanted to take a look at him. If they’d made men like him back in my day—”

  “Grandma, it was illegal for you to be with a man like him back in your day,” I reminded.

  She smiled wickedly. “Like that would have been the only illegal thing I did.”

  I shook my head and laughed.

  My grandmother came from some of the most well-known, high-society circles around the state of Louisiana. She and my late grandfather, General Ellis Richard Miller, had rubbed elbows with some of the nation’s most elite due to his impressive rank in the United States military. However, when he died, Grandma Evelyn slowly removed herself from the spotlight in order to take some time to mourn, eventually coming to the conclusion that she didn’t want to return to their prestigious social circle. She claimed that she’d left the honor to my father, their only child, but would always put the word “honor” in air quotes.

  She and Grandpa Ellis had been the real deal, best friends ever since meeting on the concrete steps of Xavier University. She’d been an education major at the time; he’d been studying political science. Grandpa Ellis eventually had to leave school to join the military, but later enrolled at West Point after receiving several glowing recommendations from some of the higher-ups in the U.S. government.

  According to her, it was love at first sight — she’d always known that Grandpa Ellis would be her husband. My grandmother had a notion that people were something called “rooted” to each other whether they knew it or not, and that she could always tell when a couple belonged together. She claimed that it was an ability that was passed down to her through my West Indian great grandmother’s side of the family, but the reason that Gia and I didn’t have the ability was because it conveniently skipped a generation.

  She also claimed that she could tell the opposite — when two people were so unsuited for each other that a union of any kind would result in misery. Although we were always tempted to denounce her opinions as indigenous folklore, the day that my sister Gia met her now - husband Eli, Grandma Evelyn had claimed that they were “rooted.” Now, Gia and Eli had a marriage so passionate that it was as though you could reach out and grab a handful of it.

  Unfortunately, despite the strength of my grandparents’ love and all of the people they always had around, my grandfather had still died alone. He’d pulled into a vacant parking lot after suddenly taking ill only to end up suffering a massive heart-attack. It had been a long holiday weekend so his body wasn’t discovered until the following Monday. As a beloved man across the nation, the funeral had been widely televised and even people that hadn’t personally known him had bawled liked children.

  Grandpa Ellis’ death changed my grandmother, but in a way that made me believe that all those years she’d spent smiling, shaking hands, and rubbing elbows had been covered in plastic. In the last couple of years, Gia and I were continuously being introduced to the woman our grandmother truly was underneath the pearls and rouge — the woman in the picture we found of her on a beach when she was younger in a passionate lip-lock with our grandfather…topless.

  “Good evening, ladies.”

  Dr. Ethan Stewart poked his head inside my office door and I stopped myself before I let my breath catch in my throat. We were coming up on the end of an extremely long day, but even with eyes that reflected hours filled with fussy patients and their belligerent parents, he still pulled off attractive extremely well. His grey eyes, sun-kissed complexion, and chocolate-brown hair made him look more like the feature of a Calvin Klein ad than a Johns Hopkins-educated physician.

  Grandma Evelyn flitted over to him, leaving me with a whiff of the expensive rose-scented perfume she constantly tried to sneak-attack me with because she’d claimed it was a surefire man-getter.

  “Hello Ethan,” she greeted, extending her hand. He gently pressed his lips to the back and she giggled like she always did whenever Ethan touched her. His eyes then found me at my desk.

  “How was your day, Alexandra?” he asked.

  “Probably the same as yours, Dr. Stewart,” I answered.

  A touch of a smile appeared at the corner of his mouth. “You can call me Ethan, Alexandra.”

  “You always say that, but it’s not very professional.”

  I also chose not to add that it was because I always referred to him as Ethan in my dozens of fantasies which, most of the time, left me hot and bothered with several minutes missing out of my workday. In my head, whenever my hands were in his hair as he licked a trail down the middle of my body, his name flooded from my lips like water.

  “How about if I call you something else?” he added. “Maybe Alex? Or Xandra?”

  “We call her Alle,” Grandma Evelyn blurted out.

  “Alexandra is fine,” I jumped in, knowing that if I let her talk too long, we’d end up somewhere in the middle of a story about me running around naked during a diaper refusal stage when I was a year old
.

  She sighed and moved over to the pitcher on the table. “I brought this for you two. By any chance would you happen to have some glasses, Ethan?”

  “I have some in my office,” he replied. “Will you have a drink with me Alexandra?”

  Grandma Evelyn frowned until I was forced to submit.

  “Just one drink,” I caved.

  She clapped her hands. “Excellent.”

  “Will you have one with us?” Ethan asked her.

  “Oh no,” she immediately came back. “I have to get back before her father comes looking for me.”

  Ethan disappeared, reappearing a few moments later with a couple of long-stemmed glasses between his fingers. He moved over to the desk and the scent of spice and sandalwood wafted underneath my nose. I forced away one of my usual fantasies — the one where he’s behind me with his erection pressed against my butt, his fingers in my hair, and his lips sucking my neck — before I became completely consumed by it.

  “I’ll do the honors,” Grandma Evelyn offered, filling the two glasses with equal amounts of the pitcher’s mysterious contents. It looked a lot like sangria, but Grandma Evelyn wasn’t the type of woman that would show up at my office across town toting something that was “just sangria.” With her, it was never “just soup” or “just stew.” A few hundred years ago, she would have been burned at the stake as a witch.

  “What is this, anyway?” I asked, standing and peering into the pitcher.

  “It’s an old secret family recipe,” she answered. “I usually only make it for special occasions, but figured that since the two of you are out here busting your butts working overtime so close to Christmas, it called for a reward.”

  “And you’re sure you don’t want to join us?” Ethan asked, lifting a glass between his fingers and handing the other one to me. His fingers grazed mine as I took the stem, and another fantasy tried to surge forth as though it had been waiting for its turn in a game of double-dutch.