Beach Reads Box Set

by Madden-Mills, Ilsa

  She squirts again, and I dive out of my chair to miss the red stream. “That was an accident, you jerk!” she shrieks.

  “Likely story,” I retort, aiming the mustard just to her right.

  A bird squawks indignantly. “Motherfucker, kiss my ass.” There’s a flap of wings, and Long Beak Silver shoots into the air with a streak of yellow that wasn’t on his feathers before.

  We both stare at the bird.

  “Oh my god, you shot Long Beak Silver,” Ellie whispers in horror.

  “All your fault,” I repeat, hastily stealing her ketchup bottle and moving all the condiments two tables away.

  She’s wiping the mustard off her face when Davis appears at the top of the stairs. His man bun is freshly straightened, his beard thick enough to be hiding a squeeze bottle, and he’s shaking his head. “Foreplay?”

  “Shut up,” Ellie says.

  I grab a napkin and wipe the mustard she missed under her jaw.

  “How’s the patient?” I ask him.

  “Sitting pretty with Ellie at 802,700, but I could change that to my name.”

  “You are a god,” Ellie tells him. “I could even kiss that flea-infested beard. Sit. Lunch is on Wyatt.”

  “So generous,” Davis replies. “Where’s your kid?”

  I point to the treasure dig. “With the human parrot.”

  “Ah. Anyway, bill’s in the mail. I’m heading home.”

  “But you just got here,” Ellie says while I add, “Kick up your feet and stay a while.”

  “No can do. I’ve got a reactor to hack.” He turns his gaze to Ellie. “We’re even now. Don’t break it again.”

  “Swear on the penalty of having to watch Beck do a photo shoot, I will not touch Frogger again for the rest of my life.”

  “Kiss her for me,” he adds to me. He gives us both a salute and disappears down the stairs again.

  “You are not kissing me,” Ellie whispers.

  “Now it’s a challenge,” I tell her.

  “I’m so freaking serious, Wyatt. We can be friends, but we cannot touch, kiss, get naked, take baths, or do any other thing that people who date do. We will literally die. The universe does not want us together.”

  And on top of that, she has a life in Copper Valley, and my situation is complicated.

  “We have to touch at the very least,” I point out, because I’m apparently a masochistic idiot. “I’m your boyfriend this week. Your wedding date. Remember?”

  “Fine. Touching. But only in public, and only when absolutely necessary. And we should probably both wear protective gear to bed—which we’re going to separately—and take shifts sleeping in case the house burns down around us.”

  I don’t bother trying to hide my grin. “Sure. We’ll set up a schedule.”

  “Don’t mock me. I’m serious.”

  “As a heart attack?” I prompt.

  She swats at my hand. “Do not tempt fate,” she hisses.

  “All right, all right. No touching, no kissing, no nothing unless absolutely necessary to sell your story.”

  “Thank you.”

  She smiles.

  I smile.

  Boundaries should be a good thing. I don’t have room in my life for falling for Ellie Ryder. Not with the added complications it would bring.

  But agreeing to her new terms feels more fake than pretending to be her boyfriend for the wedding.

  And I don’t want to think about what that means.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Ellie

  Because a wedding at the Pirate Festival is a big deal—especially since Shipwreck is competing with the Unicorn Festival in the small town of Sarcasm not ten miles away—Monica and Jason are guest judges for the pirate costume, ship model, and food contests, and the entire wedding party is invited along to help offer opinions. So Wednesday night, Wyatt, Tucker, and I join Monica, Jason, and their families at the Deep Blue Retreat Center, where dozens of pirate ship models are on display in the semi-circular conference room, which has windows overlooking the soft, hazy mountain ridges on either side of Shipwreck.

  “These are amazing,” Monica says as we walk along the curved row of tables holding the ships submitted by the school-age kids in Shipwreck. Some are made of Legos, some out of popsicle sticks, some out of clay, but they’re all adorable and really cool in which details the kids picked to highlight.

  Almost all of them have a fake bird, and at least half have signs added about no cussing on deck.

  My personal favorite is the one made out of recycled food containers, and I know Monica’s totally going to vote for that one too, since her day job is making art out of recycled materials.

  “Dad, can I make a pirate ship?” Tucker asks.

  “Sure. I’ve got some Legos for you at home.”

  “No, Dad, to enter in the contest!”

  “Next year, bud. They’re closed this year.”

  “I’ll judge your ship, Tucker,” Monica tells him. “And I’d bet it’ll be awesome.”

  They’re best friends since hanging out digging for treasure this morning.

  “How’s your leg today?” Monica’s mom asks me as we make our way to the next room, which has tables and tables loaded down with pirate-themed food.

  “Better than a peg leg,” I tell her.

  “Dad! Dad, can I have an octopus?” Tucker asks.

  Wyatt catches him by the shoulders. “Slow down, there, Captain Hollow Leg. See Miss Monica’s scoring chart? She needs to decide what’s pretty before we taste it, and then she has to rate how good it is.”

  “No need to worry, we have extras for the wee ones.” Pop Rock ambles over, dressed today like his ancestor, Thorny Rock. “Right this way, right this way.”

  My stomach gives a timely growl, and Monica laughs. “Go on, Ellie. All of you. We’ll be done soon.”

  “I’ve never eaten a hot dog in my life,” Mrs. Dixon murmurs to her husband. “This is the most undignified festival I’ve ever seen.”

  “I think it’s fun,” Sloane declares. “They say fun cures constipation.”

  Patrick shoots her a look. She smiles back tightly.

  And Wyatt and I share a look.

  So there’s trouble in Patrick-Sloane land.

  Pop opens the door to the center’s industrial kitchen, and oh my word, the food.

  So much food.

  Plates and platters of entrées, appetizers, sides, and— “Cookies!” Tucker exclaims.

  It’s the same food out on display—deviled egg ships with pirate flags, island pizza, quicksand dip, pirate eyeballs, hot dogs cut into wedges with the bottom half sliced to give it octopus legs, meat cannonballs—except there are paper pirate plates and napkins and a huge bowl of pirate punch that’s obviously been dipped into.

  “Eat up, me hearties,” Pop says. “That there be kiddie punch, because me blasted crew drank up all the rum last night.”

  “Are these meatballs made with chicken?” Mrs. Dixon demands, pointing to the pirate eyeballs.

  Monica’s mom smiles. She’s dressed like a hippie pirate, with a scabbard tied over her flowery muumuu and a pirate hat on her short graying hair. “Yes, Caroline, they’re chicken. I called ahead and checked because I knew you’d prefer it.”

  Wyatt and I both turn around before Mrs. Dixon looks at either of us. He dives for a plate to help Tucker make a few healthy choices before getting to dessert, and I take a minute to wipe the smile off my face as I pretend to decide between the quicksand dip and shovels—aka hummus and vegetables—and the grilled parrot—aka chicken wings.

  Ultimately, both win.

  We all load up our plates and carry them into the center’s dining room, where other judges are eating and discussing the festival. Monica’s mom takes the seat beside me at the rectangular table, and Wyatt and Tucker pile in across from us.

  Jason’s family sits at the table behind me, and I breathe a sigh of relief that I can make any face I want without fear of getting an earful of loudly murmured
insults.

  “Ellie, honey, how’s work?” Monica’s mom asks.

  I tell her about a few of the projects I’ve been overseeing. My parents’ environmental firm has contracts to retrofit several aging buildings around Copper Valley to improve energy efficiency. We’re also working on initiatives with the local government to promote more recycling options around the city, and we’ve been branching farther and farther into other parts of Virginia, West Virginia, North Carolina, Kentucky, and Tennessee.

  She asks Wyatt about his job, and he downplays the whole flies jets with untested systems thing, because god forbid the man toot his own horn. Tucker’s too busy chowing down on everything on his plate to talk. He has a smear of ketchup across his face, which makes me smile, both because Tucker gets cuter every day, and also because it makes me remember holding Wyatt at ketchup-point this morning.

  But then I’m frowning, because I’m not supposed to let myself find Wyatt attractive, since it’s bad for our health.

  And I probably shouldn’t get attached to his son either.

  Monica’s mom asks how we met and started dating, and we trip over each other telling contradictory stories that all make Tucker giggle, but we’re saved by Monica dropping into the seat on the other side of her mother.

  “Don’t listen to them,” Monica says. “Their relationship thrives on one-upping each other. The real story is that they’ve been in love since they were teenagers but were both too stubborn and scared to do anything about it until recently.”

  I open my mouth to argue, but I realize she’s boxed us into a corner.

  She grins at me.

  And Wyatt leaps up, uses his chair as a vault to fly across the cafeteria table.

  “Wha—” I start, turning to watch him leap across the table behind us too. “Oh, shit.”

  “Oh my god,” Monica gasps.

  Jason drops his plate upside down and rushes to the table too, where Wyatt’s lifting Caroline Dixon off her chair and giving her the Heimlich.

  Her eyes are huge, her face mottling, lips parted and bluing at the edges as she struggles to breathe.

  Wyatt thrusts his fist under her breastbone once, twice, and on the third thrust, a piece of meatball flies out of her mouth and lands square on Patrick’s plate. I don’t know where Sloane or Mr. Dixon are, but they’re not at the table.

  It’s just Mrs. Dixon and Patrick, who’s now rushing toward his mother too.

  She gasps and sags and makes a very unladylike expression that’s too garbled to fully be called an expletive, but I’m pretty sure she just said fuck.

  Wyatt helps her to sitting. “Okay now?” he asks.

  She gulps hard, panting, and nods without looking at him.

  “Back up, give her space,” Patrick snaps. He shoves Wyatt out of the way and squats. “Are you okay? Is anything broken? Did he crack a rib?”

  “He saved her life, you jackass,” Jason snaps, approaching quickly from the other side of the long table.

  “Quit fighting,” she rasps out. “And hand me a drink.”

  Adrenaline belatedly makes my veins fizz. My legs wobble while Wyatt quietly steps away from the Dixons and returns the long way to our table.

  “My dad’s a hero,” Tucker whispers.

  “You’re damn right,” Monica says softly, her voice thick too.

  Her mother’s fanning her face, eyes bright like she’s fighting back tears. “Lordy goodness,” she murmurs. “That was scary as all dickens.”

  Tucker’s eyes are huge, borderline scared, and I reach across the table to squeeze his little hand. “Hey. It’s okay.”

  “Did she die?”

  “No, sweetie. She’s okay.”

  He glances at his plate, full of hot dog octopi and big chunks of fruit and cookies. Then back at all the grown-ups fussing and panicking belatedly at the next table.

  “Just chew it good,” I tell him.

  He nods and gives me a brave smile, and I suddenly don’t know how I could do it.

  How do you protect someone you love so much from ever getting hurt? Or let them hurt when they have to?

  How do you survive it?

  My respect for Wyatt is growing by the second.

  Parenthood isn’t for the weak.

  Monica heads to help Jason, and her mom sinks back to her seat, but I watch Wyatt casually walk past two families at the end of the rows of tables, all gaping at him like he’s the hero Tucker knows him to be, while he keeps his head down, hands in his pockets.

  He doesn’t look up until he’s back in his seat next to Tucker, and then, his focus is all on his son. “Ah-ah, I saw that. Fruit swords before treasure cookies.”

  Tucker grins, his fear fading with Wyatt beside him again. “Good job, Dad.”

  I could probably explain what I do next, but I don’t want to.

  Let’s just say it ends with me bending across the table, grabbing Wyatt by the cheeks, and planting a kiss worthy of a hero on his lips.

  And there might’ve been some belated applause.

  For him being a hero, I mean.

  Not for me kissing him.

  Because that would be ridiculous.

  And dangerous.

  But two hours later, I’m grateful to be safe and sound back in Beck’s house. No deer or foxes or wolves darted in front of my car, and clearly they didn’t get Wyatt either, since he pulls up right behind me.

  Neither of us has said another word about Mrs. Dixon choking.

  Or about me kissing the stuffing out of him.

  And I’m not planning on mentioning it.

  Especially the kissing part.

  Until I walk through the basement door from the garage and realize there’s a huge water stain over the bar. “What—” I start, and then I know.

  “The dishwasher,” Wyatt and I say in unison.

  “I started it before we left.” He scrubs a hand over his face. “Davis probably didn’t notice.”

  I just gape at him and continue to point at the ceiling.

  “I know, I know,” he sighs. “I’ll go get towels.”

  I should argue that I’ll clean it up. That this is my fault for kissing him. But I know he’ll insist on helping, and then we’ll be within looking distance of each other, and I’m really, really starting to be convinced that we probably shouldn’t ever even live in the same town. “I’m going to bed. And I’m locking the door,” I inform him.

  He smirks. “You’re ridiculous.”

  “Dad, can I watch baseball?” Tucker asks through a yawn.

  I don’t wait to hear his answer, because I’m already starting to get attached to both of them.

  The universe is being a real dick.

  Or maybe I need to quit looking for what’s easy—like Wyatt just landing in my lap this week—and actually figure out what I want to do about getting my life back on track.

  He was right this morning.

  The doctors didn’t know if they’d be able to repair my hip and leg enough for me to ever walk again.

  But here I am. Limping my stiff self up the stairs.

  I am going to be physically fine again.

  It’s time to figure out what the rest of me needs.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Wyatt

  The things I do for my friends.

  When Beck asked me to irritate Ellie, I had a vague idea what I was in for. A prickly porcupine sniping at me? Yep, because I knew just how to poke it. Glares hot enough to melt iron? Wouldn’t have her any other way.

  That uncomfortable feeling in my dick every time I thought of her naked?

  Can’t say I haven’t been dealing with that anyway these past six months, when I wasn’t letting the guilt seep in.

  Getting my toes done with Tucker, Ellie, Monica, Jason, the Blond Caveman, Sloane, and the mothers of the happy couple? At the Yo Ho Ho Spa?

  Didn’t even cross my mind.

  But here I am, in a fancy-ass massage chair with one foot soaking in a tub of flowery-scented water whil
e a woman I’ve never met buffs, slathers, rubs, and does all kinds of weird shit to the other.

  Tucker erupts in giggles every time his pedicurist tries to touch his feet, so she’s given up and is letting him suck on a pirate lollipop and just soak his toes in the bubbly spa water.

  “Smile, honey,” Ellie says from her seat on the other side, holding up her phone to get a selfie of the three of us.

  I glare at her.

  She smiles bigger.

  Tucker laughs.

  “Beck gets this done all the time,” she tells me.

  “He also parades around in his skivvies. Are you texting this to him? I will…” I wiggle my brows at her, a clear threat to kiss her, or touch her, or cause some other disaster to befall us “…if you text that picture to anyone. Or post it on social media. Or do anything other than delete it.”

  Her brows twitch like her face is battling between scowling at me and giving me the I dare you look.

  “It takes a man very secure in his masculinity to get his toes done,” Monica calls to me from her seat in a massage chair on the opposite wall.

  The Blond Caveman has his nose tucked inside a financial magazine and ignores her.

  Jason grins at me. “She’s right, you know.”

  “Oh, hush. Wyatt has no issues with his masculinity,” Ellie says. “You should’ve seen him mopping the floor of the kitchen last night.”

  “You should’ve seen us mopping the floor,” I tell her.

  “I was a big helper,” Tucker says proudly. “I mopped buckets full.”

  Monica sends a quizzical glance at Ellie.

  “Dishwasher flooded,” Ellie explains.

  “Well, thank god it was Beck’s house,” Monica says.

  I choke on a laugh, because that, at least, is the truth. I texted him a picture and told him Ellie and I got carried away doing the dishes.

  He replied with a picture of his middle finger, and his assistant pinged me two minutes later to say that she’d scheduled a drywaller to come in and repair the water damage next week, and to enjoy washing dishes by hand in the meantime since the earliest she could get a new dishwasher was five to seven days.