Beach Reads Box Set

by Madden-Mills, Ilsa

  “Well, I’m not her,” I remind him.

  “I know that … and I knew it in Italy, too. By the time the report came, I didn’t care what it said.”

  “Why not?” I ask.

  “I already knew everything that I needed to know about you. You’re the woman who leans in when most people lean away,” he says. I want so badly to throw my arms around his neck and tell him it’s okay. That I see him, and that I’ll always lean in.

  “I’m going to show you why us. How us. I’m asking for a lot. Your future. Your love. Your loyalty. Your body. Your children. Your life,” he says. “But I’m offering you the same things in return.”

  Tears sting my eyes and I search his. All I see reflects my own feelings.

  “I want you to be my partner. I’m not taking no for an answer, not when I know you feel the same way,” he says.

  He reaches up and swipes a tear off my cheek with the pad of his thumb.

  “I miss you,” I admit.

  His eyes flare. “It’s about fucking time.” Fierce need replaces the tenderness, and he surges to his feet. Without pausing, he steps between my legs and pushes my knees open.

  “And I’m going to let you go home without fucking you. Even though I know you want me to.” He chucks me under the chin.

  “But let me tell you, when we’re right and we’re back, I’m going to wreck your pussy. I’m not good with words, baby, but when I fuck you, I feel like you always know what I’m saying.” He grinds into me.

  “But let me speak your language for a minute, so that when I tell you that I love you, you don’t just hear it. You understand it. And you don’t question it,” he says.

  “I know you love me. I do …”

  “Then let me show you just how much.” He takes my hand in his and puts it to his lips. “Let me show you what you’ve shown me,” he says softly.

  “What’s that?”

  “What it’s like to be part of a team that you can trust. That won’t let you down,” he says.

  “Give me a chance. Please.” He comes as close to begging as I’d ever like to hear him again.

  “Okay,” I acquiesce. “But you better not fuck it up.”

  “Oh, I intend to fuck it up, but in the best way possible,” he says and then he kisses my blues away.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Biased

  Hayes

  “You’re early,” Confidence groans, one eye open, but squinting. Her hair is tousled all over her head and her face is creased with the indentation from her pillow. She looks like every single fantasy I ever had as a boy and everything I thought I’d never have as a man.

  I hold up the white wax bag full of pastries and wave them in front of her face.

  “Breakfast,” I say and drop a kiss on her warm, sleep plumped lips and step inside of her apartment.

  “The place looks like nobody lives here,” I say as I look around at the blandly and sparsely decorated space. “Where did you get this couch?” I ask as I drop onto the gray loveseat. Besides the glass coffee table, it’s the only furniture in the entire space.

  Well, except her bedroom. Not that she would let me in there. But the door is open, and I can see her sea of white comforters and pillows strewn all over the queen-sized bed in the center of the room.

  “Ikea,” she grumbles.

  “Sleep well?” I ask and start unpacking the bag.

  “Uh, not really,” she says, and with a resigned sigh she sits down next to me. She draws her knees to her chest and hugs them. Her pink tank top pulls tight across her back and I watch her shoulder muscles flex when she rolls her neck as if trying to loosen it up. I slide my fingers under the drape of her hair and caress her nape until I find the knot of tension. I start to rub it and she closes her eyes and moans.

  “That feels so good,” she whispers. I don’t respond. I just watch her. The skin under her eyes is dark, little lines bracket her frowning mouth. She looks tired and stressed.

  “Why aren’t you sleeping well?” I ask. Her eyes open and she looks at me wearily.

  “Because I’m afraid I’ve given my clients bad advice,” she says and then jerks her head to the side. “Ugh, what am I doing?” she says in a harsh whisper to herself. “I can’t be talking to you—of all people—about this.” She sighs. “I’m losing my mind; I’m so tired. And Barry getting fired has turned into a nightmare. Word has gotten around, thanks to Barry spreading it, that I asked Remi to choose between him or me. And that’s earned me a flock of …” She trails off, searching for the right word.

  “Enemies?” I offer and press deeper against the muscle in her neck.

  She lets her head loll backward, and her hair spills around my hand. It’s warm and soft and my fingers immediately start to close into a fist to capture it. I want to yank her head back and kiss her like I should have when I walked in. But I relax my hand when she closes her eyes and groans.

  “Enemies may be a little strong,” she says and then chuckles ruefully. “But only a little.” She shakes her head and sighs. “This is why I hated my last job. No one cares about anything but their careers, their egos, kissing the ass of the person they think can help them. And it’s like everyone here has forgotten why we practice law,” she says, her voice full of frustration.

  “You’re being awfully judgmental. They’re practicing law, too. Everyone, even white-collar criminals and profit-driven, billion-dollar companies deserve a fair defense,” I push back.

  “I didn’t say they didn’t. Everyone is entitled to whatever protections and remedies the law affords. But working in areas of law where there’s no money to be made is so disheartening,” she says.

  “Why? I thought you were doing some good?”

  “Well, we would be if law firms like Wilde did it for more than the tax write-off. Our clients are too poor to even keep a roof over their head, much less pay for our very expensive, very well researched advice. But that’s what we promised them. I wouldn’t want them to be worse off than they would have been if we hadn’t brought the suit at all,” she says and worries the inside of her lower lip.

  “How’s that possible? They’ve got you,” I say.

  “I’m not enough. Wilde is committing minimal resources to their pro bono cases. But this one is different. The implications of its outcomes are huge. Precedent setting potential, and it’s barely staffed. So I’m doing the work of four people because I can’t leave legal research that is going to determine what our brief argues to second year law students. This is too important. And no one else seems to think so,” she snaps bitterly, and I feel the same guilt I felt when she challenged us the day Barry was fired.

  It got me thinking about what I came home to do. What I wanted the legacy of my leadership for my family to be. Did I want to reaffirm our roles as society leaders or did I want to do some good for the city that had made us rich? Did I want my name on a stadium? Or did I want to build schools? Affordable, quality housing, fill food deserts with grocery stores?

  I’ve decided—and I wanted to show her, instead of tell her—what my plans were.

  “What more ideal conditions would exist for it than with Wilde Law? They have deep pockets and nice office space and yeah, it’s a tax write-off, but you didn’t see other firms clamoring to take the case for free in the first place. They do good work. They have some of the world’s best legal talent to choose from,” I say and hand her one of the kolaches from Sweet and Lo’s.

  “Yeah, but they don’t dedicate those resources, people, or money that the case deserves because they think their clients should just shut up and be grateful,” she says resentfully.

  “You’ve got a chip on your shoulder about this,” I say and she nudges me with that shoulder.

  “Hey, watch out—that thing is heavy,” I tease her. That earns me a fierce little scowl.

  “I do not.”

  “You do. And you tend to paint wealthy people into shapes that are distorted by your bias for, and dislike of, them,” I ch
allenge her.

  She lets go of her legs and plants her feet on the ground. Her mouth opens in an affront, her eyes wide with offense at my word.

  “I am not biased,” she says in a high-pitched, loud voice.

  I laugh. “Chill, it’s okay. We’re all biased. You just don’t know it. Because you’re walking around thinking that you’re being judged for being poor. You wear it like it’s Joseph’s multi-color cloak. Your suffering is not more valid because you didn’t have money at the same time, Confidence,” I say and her face turns red.

  “And yes, I agree that I have an obligation to the people whose money I’ve collected in the form of rent. But you’re a lawyer, so you know that the way this plays out won’t have anything to do with what my beliefs are. It’s not a personal decision, it’s a business one. And the business will do what is best for it. It’s not going to pay them more money because we feel sorry for them,” I tell her.

  “They are not them. They are us. A country is only as strong as its poorest citizens, Hayes. So you should feel sorry for us as a nation because we are poor. And it should be a personal decision. This is not about contracts to rebuild. This is about Kingdom admitting that they have contributed heavily to the catastrophe their fellow Houstonians find themselves facing, and we will, in equal measure, contribute to the mitigation of the damage,” she shouts at me.

  “I agree,” I say grimly.

  “God, Hayes… I’m sorry,” she says and covers her mouth with her hands. “This is inappropriate. For me to be discussing this case. And I understand about your hands being tied. I get it. You can’t commit Kingdom to terms that are completely against its interests.” She drops back down and rests her head on my shoulder. I wrap my arm around her and pull her into me.

  “I wish I could snap my fingers and have them make different decisions. But, I can’t.”

  “No, I know …” she says as if she’s trying to convince herself as much as me.

  “Maybe I’m being crazy. I’m committing career suicide by being the architect of a case that could change the way insurance companies, cities, governments, and banks treat people who have been the victims of natural disasters. I’ll never find a job in this industry again,” she says.

  A lightbulb goes on in my head, and I sit up.

  “What are you thinking?” she asks.

  “You could always come work for me,” I say.

  “No way,” she says with an incredulous laugh. She looks at me sideways. “And have you signing my paychecks?” she groans, but with a laugh and right then, I know we’re going to be okay. We always have this. Our ability to talk. Connect, argue, challenge each other and yet find humor in the midst of it all.

  “Why not? Think about it. The foundation could create a legal defense fund that you could run,” I say. She starts to cough.

  I hop up to get her some water.

  I pull open her fridge and it’s completely empty. “Where’s all the fucking food?”

  “I don’t have any,” she croaks defensively.

  “Not even a bottle of water?” I ask, incredulous. She shakes her head and her coughing subsides.

  “Who doesn’t have water?” I ask, and walk back to the couch.

  “Me. I haven’t had time, and I’m barely here. And when I am, it’s just to sleep,” she confesses.

  I want to tell her that she should be sleeping in my bed, that she was supposed to be living with me. But I’m not going to ask her again. I want her to be the one to say it.

  She yawns and eyes the pastries I’ve spread out. “Thanks for the … croissants, but can we go out for coffee? I want to get a latte from Sweet and Lo’s. They’re delicious, Hayes,” she says brightly. I’m glad for the subject change because it was getting too heavy.

  “Croissants? These aren’t croissants. They don’t even remotely resemble them,” I say and pick up the eclair shaped like a piece of bread.

  “This,” I say dramatically while I rip the dough in half, “is a kolache.” I put the two halves under her nose. “Lo style,” I add and her eyes light up and she sniffs the fragrant steam wafting under her nose.

  “Who would give such a magical smelling miracle such a terrible name? What the heck is a koalachee?”

  “You’re mispronouncing it. And it was brought here by the Czech immigrants who settled in Texas. I would say I’d take you to the Kolache Factory, because growing up that’s all there was. But Sweet’s in Rivers Wilde is next level.”

  “Mmm,” she moans and licks her lips. “Gimme.” She snatches half from mine. “What is this magic?” she drawls excitedly.

  “It’s grilled chicken, eggs, and potatoes wrapped in this dough and baked,” I tell her and she takes a huge bite and swallows greedily.

  “Is this a Houston thing?” she asks.

  “More like southeast Texas. No one else anywhere I’ve lived has ever heard of them,” I tell her.

  “Oh my God, that chicken. Does it have … curry or something on it?” She smacks her lips together, and I frown at her in mild disgust.

  “What’s all the smacking for?” I ask.

  She smirks and smacks louder. “I’m country, Hayes. We smack our lips when something tastes this good. This is Czech food?”

  “Well, the concept is. But, Sweet’s pastries are all made with a flavor of her home country, Senegal—that’s in West Africa. And Lo, his real name is Lotanna, is her husband. He’s from Nigeria, and he’s the reason that Sweet doesn’t give away everything she bakes and makes,” I tell her.

  “I love their coffee; can’t wait to actually eat there. Let me get dressed and we can head out,” she says and stands and hurries to her room. And instead of following her like I want, I pull out my phone and call Gigi.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Sweet and Lo

  Confidence

  Haye holds open the glass paned French doors of Sweet and Lo’s. “After you.”

  “Thank you,” I answer absently. I’m distracted by the sensory delights that started when we approached the bakery. I pass it every day on my way to work, but haven’t had the time to stop. But the smell of sugar, butter and coffee that fills the air around it always makes my mouth water. But as I step around the glass window between the door and the dining room that reads, “We Bake the World.”, my foodie soul is dancing a jig at all the delicious promises the scene before me is making.

  The cafe’s abundance of windows, on both the front street facing side and the left wall that opens onto a small garden where people are seated reading and talking, give it a warm airy feel. It’s packed with people, and the only thing louder than the concentrated murmur of conversation is the whirring of the coffee grinders, the hissing of steaming espresso makers, and the background music that’s too low to make out clearly, but loud enough that you know it’s there. I eye the huge chalkboard behind the small hostess stand ahead of us. The menu is written in neat cursive and lists everything from pastries and sandwiches to omelets and salads and specialty breads.

  I crane my neck so I can see above the heads of the people clustered and waiting to be seated in the smaller-than-comfortable waiting area. My stomach tightens, as if to remind me how long it’s been since I ate. Hayes is scanning the dining room and I tug his arm to get his attention. “Think we can order and take it to go instead of waiting for a table?”

  “Nope,” he smiles and turns back to the dining room.

  “Why not?” I complain and tug his arms until he looks down at me.

  “My aunt is meeting us. She’s here already seated. Come on.” He drops that bomb then takes my hand and turns us toward the young woman smiling and waving at us from the hostess stand.

  We take a few steps before I can gather my wits and pull my hand out of his and stop dead in my tracks.

  The person behind me slams into my back and the sharp edge of his shoulders poke my back and the toe of his rubber-soled shoes scrape against the backs of my heels. I spin around just in time to see a very old, frail looking woman
falling backward.

  I cry out, my hands over my mouth in horror. She sits right where she fell, flat on her ass, her spindly green floral-painted legging covered legs sprawled in front of her like a newborn foal.

  I reach down to help her up and glare at Hayes who’s just made it back to my side. He looks between us with an expression of complete bewilderment on his face.

  “I’m so sorry,” I say and reach down to cup her elbow. She swats my hand away and says, “I can get myself up. I look old, but I bet you I could beat you in a race around the block.” Her voice, thin and frail, says otherwise. But she hops up in one quick, acrobatic movement. “See? Right as rain,” she says proudly.

  “I’m Sally, Sally Turner.” She says her name like it’s a compliment. She’s got to be eighty years old. Her face is covered in a spray of freckles that even kiss her eyelids and lips. Her eyes, a sparkling dark brown, are full of mischief and her smile is disarmingly youthful.

  “Are you okay, Sally?” Hayes asks as if he’s been saying her name his whole life as he puts a hand at the small of both of our backs and ushers us out of the way of the customers trying to get to the booth.

  “Oh, I’m fine. I was just distracted by the specimen of man meat ahead of me.” She nods at Hayes and winks. “You’re Hayes Rivers. Nice that you finally came down from your tower to visit us,” she says.

  Hayes, as unflappable as ever, doesn’t correct her and say that he’s actually been spending a lot of time in town. Instead, he smiles roguishly. “I heard this was the place to come if I wanted to find a pretty girl to talk to. Of course, I came to see.”

  She throws her head back and laughs delightedly. “Oh, how wonderful, and you’re charming, too. Those Wilde boys pretty things up nicely. I’d say you’re about to add something better than pretty,” she says and laughs again.

  “I’ll leave the prettying to the Wildes and my woman.” He slips a hand around my waist. Her eyes roam Hayes’s body like someone contemplating what part of their steak they’d like to eat first.