Beach Reads Box Set

by Madden-Mills, Ilsa

  They’re oddly adorable, odd in the sense that I shouldn’t find anything about Wyatt adorable. He’s a military man through and through, his body a machine, his mind sharp, his expectations high, his hair short.

  But sitting there with his legs propped up on the coffee table and his arm tucked around a sleeping, bony little boy in pajamas and messy hair, he doesn’t look like a military man.

  He looks like a father.

  Mortal.

  Compassionate.

  Vulnerable.

  Holding his world.

  A world I always wanted but might never have.

  He glances up at me and shakes his head. “Hurting again?”

  “No.” It’s habit to be a petulant ass around him, and I sigh, because now I’m frustrated with myself. “Yes.”

  “Sit.”

  I limp to the edge of the couch and sag into it, then dig into my purse for the over-the-counter painkillers I prefer to the prescription stuff.

  He passes over a stainless steel water bottle, and I thank him politely.

  Because I cannot use Wyatt as a punching bag.

  I’m better than that.

  Plus, my problems aren’t his fault.

  And I really do need to be able to pull off looking like one half of a happy couple in front of Patrick’s parents tomorrow.

  They’re the worst, and they’ll throw the sharpest darts.

  I lift the footrest with the controller sitting in the couch’s cupholder and look at the screen after passing Wyatt’s water back. “Do I want to know who’s winning?”

  “Maybe if you’re a Pittsburgh fan.”

  The inning comes to an end with the Fireballs striking out, and I wince as the score flashes on the screen. “Can’t win them all.”

  “Still three innings to go.”

  Tucker snores, and a gentle smile softens the hard angles of Wyatt’s face. I turn my attention to a commercial about jock itch. “Too much fun wore him out?” I ask without looking their way.

  “He’s an amateur.”

  A surprised laugh slips out of me, because fun and Wyatt aren’t two things I usually put together.

  Except they probably should be. Anyone who hangs out with my brother knows a thing or two about fun.

  “I’m sorry about Patrick,” I tell him.

  He shifts, and I realize he’s watching me, puzzled.

  “For him being so rude at lunch,” I clarify.

  “Happens,” he says with a shrug. “Not your fault.”

  “It was my fault I dated him,” I mutter.

  “True enough.” The puzzlement fades into a frown. “Think I deserve to take some shit. I still haven’t said I’m sorry for what happened. Six months ago. For making you upset enough to leave. But I am. Sorry, I mean. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  I freeze for a half a second, because he’s not supposed to say he’s sorry. “Can’t live in the past,” I say quietly.

  I should go check my phone to see if it’s working yet, but I want to sit for a little bit longer first. Not for the company, I tell myself, but for the rest.

  The game comes back on, and he shifts. “Before I forget…”

  He holds out my phone.

  A shiver rolls through me, because was the man reading my mind?

  “It works, and I didn’t prank call anyone.”

  I stare at the device stupidly for longer than I should before taking it. Our fingers brush like they did over ice cream at Christmas. I remember the feel of his lips against mine, and a flush heats my entire body. “Thank you.”

  He frowns. “You okay?”

  And there’s more stupid staring going on as I blink blankly at him, because there’s something in his tone that’s not quite normal.

  “You didn’t yell at me for not letting you do it yourself,” he clarifies.

  “Twenty-something years of yelling at you hasn’t worked, so maybe it’s time I give it up.”

  He shifts to lean over and touch the back of his hand to my forehead. Tucker grumbles in his sleep, but doesn’t wake up.

  “Yep, definitely warm,” he says. “You should probably strip.”

  “Excuse you?” I gasp.

  He grins. “Ah, there she is. Just checking.”

  “You’re trying to annoy me?”

  He looks down at Tucker, glances at the game and winces as Pittsburgh gets a double off what should’ve been a single, then looks back at me. “You remember we used to play basketball at the Rivers house?”

  “I remember you used to think I couldn’t keep up.”

  “You couldn’t, but that’s not the point.”

  My breathing is coming easier as we slip back into the old habits. “You are so lucky that innocent child is sleeping on you right now, or you’d be dead.”

  “I used to wait until you’d sink the perfect shot, and then I’d tell you that you could’ve done it better, just to watch the steam roll out your ears. And it’s still that easy.”

  I gape at him, because he does it on purpose?

  And what does it say about me that I still take the bait?

  “You-you’re—you’re an ass,” I gasp.

  Tucker stirs, and I slap a hand over my mouth.

  Wyatt just shrugs, but not the shoulder that would disturb Tucker. “I have to have some flaws. Otherwise I’d be insufferable.”

  That is not the guy who’s been Beck’s best friend for over twenty years. I narrow my eyes at him, but I don’t call him on it. Because I have the oddest feeling that’s exactly what he wants me to do.

  But I can’t resist asking, “Why only to me?”

  He holds my gaze longer than I expect. “Because I was so tired of being coddled, and you gave it right back, every time.”

  Just because I don’t know what he’s talking about doesn’t mean he’s not telling the truth. And there’s a truth so clear in the ring of his words that I get a bone-deep shiver.

  “Who coddled you?” I ask.

  He shakes his head with a snort. “Better question is who didn’t?”

  “Why?”

  He glances at the TV, and just when I think he’s not going to answer, he does.

  “Last guy my mom dated before she finally realized what she was doing to both of us and moved in with my grandma to reboot her life was a first-rate asshole,” he says. “Let’s leave it at that. But it meant my gran went around the neighborhood looking for any parents who had enough control over their kids to make them look after me.”

  “Beck didn’t coddle you.”

  “At first he did. All of them did. I might’ve been small and damaged, but I wasn’t blind.”

  My heart’s starting to hurt, because no kid should ever feel damaged.

  “Didn’t mean I could take care of myself though. That I didn’t need it. Wasn’t big enough for that.” He shakes his head. “Thought I could. But I couldn’t. And Beck saved my ass when I got into it with his best friend. Could’ve left me behind. Instead, he dropped him. Hard. Broke his nose. Got a detention in sixth grade. And then he thanked me for showing him what a douche Andy Brentwood was. Dude all but saved my life and thanked me for it.”

  I swallow hard. I remember Andy, vaguely, but I never gave any thought to why Beck stopped talking about him. “That’s not coddling you. That’s doing the right thing.”

  “I started it. He got detention. I got chocolate chip cookies and milk. From your mom. From Mrs. Rivers. From my grandma. I shared so the Wilsons would teach me to lift weights and so Davis would teach me his Tae Kwon Do moves. I didn’t want to be fucking helpless.”

  The groan of the crowd carries through the television, even at low volume, and I glance at the game, almost relieved by the distraction.

  I had no idea I’d been being an asshole to a kid who’d had enough asshole in his life.

  And that doesn’t make me feel any better about my life choices.

  Two-run homer. Fireballs are down by six now.

  In the fifth inning.

  It�
��s going to be a blood bath.

  Copper Valley’s home team has never won a World Series, but they’ve never been quite as bad as they are this year either.

  Even with Cooper Rock and his unbelievable gymnastics at second base.

  “I always appreciated that you didn’t cut me any slack, and I admired your determination,” Wyatt says, speaking so softly I half think my ears are playing tricks on me. “If you could be that determined, then I could damn well be that determined too.”

  When I glance at him, he’s still staring at the game.

  But I know he said it.

  And I know he knows I heard.

  He settles deeper into the reclined seat at the other end of the couch. Tucker sighs and snuggles closer to him.

  Little Tucker, safe, happy, and loved.

  I overheard Wyatt telling Beck once, about eight years ago, that he didn’t want to be a dad. He didn’t know how. He was going to mess it all up, and it wouldn’t just be himself, it would be him and a wife and kid.

  But Tucker?

  That kid is so very, very loved. With two parents who might live in different states, but still happy. Well-adjusted. And loved.

  And I realize I need to go.

  Not so I can check my email and any messages that came in while my phone was drying. Not so I can call Beck and give my brother grief for sending Wyatt here during Monica’s wedding week.

  No, I need to go before I start seeing Wyatt as the man I glimpsed the night we hooked up in my parents’ basement six months ago.

  The angry father who just wants to be with his son.

  Because that man is dangerous to my heart.

  Chapter Eleven

  Wyatt

  There’s exactly one sound that I will move heaven and earth to stop, and that’s the sound of my son in pain.

  Except as I sit here with Tucker sleeping peacefully on me, listening to Ellie limp up the stairs, I want to tear something in half to make her pain go away too.

  I shouldn’t. We’re not exactly the enemies we were as kids, but we can’t be much more than casual friends, or one of us will start wanting something the other can’t give.

  And she won’t be the one unable to hold up her end of making something work.

  No, that would be all me.

  I hear every step as she makes her way slowly from the kitchen to the bedroom upstairs. Not because she’s walking loudly. Not because there’s a lack of insulation. But because I’m listening for it. When the distinct sound of running bathwater carries through the pipes behind the walls, I get hard as a brick.

  She’s taking a bath again.

  And there’s nothing I can say to my dick to convince it she’s getting wet and naked for therapy and that there’s nothing sexy about her soaking in a tub of hot water and bubbles.

  I don’t have enough fingers to count the number of times I’ve heard someone say Ellie’s annoying, or god knows, the number of times I’ve thought it myself in my lifetime, but at Christmas, and again now, I’m getting pissed thinking about it.

  She is smart. She is brave. She is strong. She is determined.

  Why does that have to translate to annoying?

  Why does she have to be disparaged for wanting something and going after it?

  She’s not power-hungry. She doesn’t tear people down. She just wants her own bar set higher, and she doesn’t apologize for it.

  I force myself to sit through the rest of the game, which is painful more for knowing Ellie’s upstairs naked than it is for watching the blowout. Tucker doesn’t wake up when I carry him upstairs and tuck him into the queen-size bed that makes him seem even smaller, and my heart lurches even though I know he’s getting the childhood every kid deserves, safe, happy, and loved, despite the hiccup with me not being able to leave Georgia to join him in Virginia yet.

  He’s not growing up hiding in shadows.

  He has a capable mom who takes good care of him when I can’t.

  He’s not me.

  And I’m sure as hell not any of the sorry excuses for human beings my mom used to date.

  I should go to bed too, but I’m restless, and I want a snack, so I creep softly downstairs. I expect Ellie’s in bed, but I hear her voice drifting down the hall when I get to the kitchen. “Don’t even try to play innocent. You did this on purpose.”

  I swallow a grin, because it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to know who she’s talking to, and I’m not surprised to hear the echoes of Beck’s voice, even though I can’t make out the words.

  None of my business—he can tell her whatever story he wants, and she won’t believe him, because she shouldn’t—so I dig into the fridge instead.

  The same carton is sitting there, right in front, calling my name, just like it has been since I spotted it yesterday.

  A take-out carton of banana pudding from Crusty Nut.

  Ellie would probably kill me if I ate it.

  There’s a line between annoying her and going too far, and I can’t decide which side of the line eating her leftover banana pudding would fall on.

  On the one hand, it’s not a donut. On the other, it’s still banana pudding.

  “He has a what?”

  The surprise and sudden hush in her voice makes me pause.

  “You’re lying,” she says. “Because it doesn’t make any sense. He freaking carried me to my room last night.”

  And now I’m interested.

  I grab the banana pudding, pop the lid, and snag a spoon and meander down the hallway. Beck’s voice gets clearer.

  “—undiagnosed cardio-telepathy-rhymmeria. He’s being a stubborn goat and refusing to admit something’s wrong, so we need you to be extra nice to him. And watch out for his kid too.”

  “Rymmeria? What’s a—Beckett Ryder, so help me, if you’re lying to me—”

  “Ellie, it’s three in the morning here, I have a ten-hour plane ride tomorrow, and I’m talking about one of my best friends. Do you think I’m lying to you?”

  “Yes.” There’s a hint of doubt in her voice.

  Beck grunts in frustration. “You really want to take that chance? If he has a heart attack on your watch, you’re going to feel like an asshole for the rest of your life. He might even get kicked out of the Air Force.”

  I knock and don’t wait before pushing the door open. Ellie gapes at me wide-eyed from the bed, holding her phone out in front of her. “What the hell are you—do you have a heart condition—is that my banana pudding?”

  She starts to leap, winces, looks down at her white tank top that leaves little about her nipples to the imagination, and pulls the covers up to her neck. “You are dead,” she tells me.

  I cross the room to lean into the screen on her phone, which puts me right in the sweet spot to have Ellie’s dark hair tickle my face while whatever fruity bath crap she used tonight fills my senses.

  Beck grins on the other end of the video call. “Wyatt, buddy, how you doin’?”

  “A heart condition?” I say.

  “Ellie was all we had on short notice to watch you, but you’re gonna pull through.” He winks, his blue eyes the same as Ellie’s, though his face is sharper and his hair weirdly more styled. “Hang in there. More help’s on the way.”

  “We beat your high score in Frogger,” Ellie growls at the phone.

  Beck’s eyes go round. “The hell you did.”

  “We did,” I agree. “Ellie ditched wedding stuff all day today to cook for me, and Tucker kept running to refill my Dr Pepper.”

  “Prove it, motherfuckers.”

  “Maybe tomorrow. I’m tired, and we didn’t get any sleep last night,” Ellie replies.

  “You two couldn’t get along well enough to tie a shoelace.”

  We make eye contact, and I don’t have to know what she’s thinking to know that I’m thinking the same thing.

  What’s the one thing worse than ruining his high score?

  We move in sync like we’ve planned this, and suddenly I have my fingers
threaded through the loose tendrils of her curly hair to cradle her scalp while she fists my shirt at the collar and pulls me to her mouth, still holding the phone out in front of us.

  I don’t know if I’m kissing her or if she’s kissing me, but our tongues are clashing just like they did at Christmas, and her sweet taste is the perfect complement to the lingering banana pudding flavor in my mouth, and she’s making whimpery moaning noises that might be real or might be for show but I don’t care, because fuck, this feels good.

  So damn good.

  Just like it did six months ago.

  “QUIT FUCKING MY SISTER’S MOUTH, YOU ASSHOLE!”

  I don’t want to. But Ellie starts to pull away, so I let her go. She smiles sweetly at Beck, holding the phone close enough to her face that I’m not in the picture anymore. “We totally beat your Frogger score,” she informs him.

  He’s glaring at her, jaw flapping like he wants to say something.

  “Also, I think I’d know if Wyatt had an undiagnosed heart condition. Especially after what he did to me this morning.”

  I start to talk, because isn’t undiagnosed kind of hard for anyone to know if I don’t even know it?, but she holds up a hand, and since I don’t actually want to give her a reason to notice another condition that kissing her makes me suffer from, I shut my mouth.

  “You—” he starts.

  “Goodnight, Beck,” she finishes sweetly. “I have to go do…something.”

  She hangs up the phone and flings it on the bed, then grabs the banana pudding that somehow ended up on the nightstand. “Thank you for delivering dessert. You may go.”

  I watch her for a minute, and when she looks at me, the craziest thing happens.

  We both start to grin.

  “Davis,” we say together, and it’s suddenly a race to see who can call him first.

  There’s no telling if he’ll answer—there’s a lot I’ll never know about Davis Remington, despite living next door to him for half my childhood—but if he can’t do what we need, he’ll know who can.