Beach Reads Box Set

by Madden-Mills, Ilsa

  He’s wearing a baseball cap backward, and the ends of his dark brown hair wing out from beneath it. These are all things I don’t want to notice, I just do. The fact that his black t-shirt stretches across his chest when he props his hands on his hips is a fact, not an opinion, and his steely gaze leveled on me? Yeah, that’s also kind of hard to ignore, especially now that everything has gone silent.

  What a strange turn of events to find out that my future boss is a very attractive man. Good for him. I don’t care. I’m too focused on the fact that his chiseled features are locked in an annoyed scowl. Everyone else seemed amused by my interruption of the all-hands meeting, but not him. It’s probably hard enough keeping control of these guys in normal circumstances, and I’ve just waltzed in and stolen their attention.

  “Can I help you?” he asks with a hard tone. What he really means to say is, Go away, just like my taxi therapist and the old woman from the house.

  I straighten my shoulders and dredge up every ounce of confidence I have left in me. It’s not much, and my voice barely carries over the group.

  “What was that?” he asks, impatient.

  “Speak up!” someone shouts.

  I clear my throat and try again. “I’m here for a job.”

  There’s another round of laughter. These people seriously need a comedy club, or at least a few Adam Sandler movies on DVD. They find the most mundane things hilarious.

  “Hey Jack, she could be your first manicured ranch hand.”

  The guys really crack up at that.

  Jack, to his credit, doesn’t laugh.

  He shakes his head and steps forward. “You must be the princess.”

  “What?”

  “I heard your story. I was hoping you wouldn’t show.”

  My mouth drops open, but before I can come up with a fiery reply, he wraps his hand around my bicep and drags me away from the group. There are catcalls and profane comments behind us. I scowl at the guys over my shoulder, but it only fuels the fire.

  “What about the all-hands, Jack? Watch where you put yours!”

  “She can help me out in the fields! I’ll train her quick!”

  “This must be that fine southern hospitality you always hear about,” I hiss, trying to yank my arm out of his hold.

  His sharp eyes cut to me as he continues leading me toward the house. “You’ll have to forgive our poor country folk manners,” he replies in an affected drawl filled with sarcasm. “We aren’t used to entertaining royalty.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  He whips open the screen door and pushes me inside the house.

  Without a doubt, it’s the worst introduction I’ve ever had.

  4

  Jack

  “You’re a little rough around the edges, aren’t you?” she says, no hint of amusement laced in her words.

  I look up from my desk to see her studying me with an angry scowl. I’ve really pissed her off. Good. The sooner she starts to hate it here, the sooner she’ll leave.

  I gesture to the chair in front of my desk.

  “Have a seat.”

  “I’d rather stand.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  She locks her arms across her chest, and we participate in what feels like the world’s longest staring contest. Smoke plumes from her ears. If she had a six-shooter, it’d be aimed at my heart.

  I tip my head, studying her. “You’re really Helen’s sister?”

  “We have the same eyes.”

  No kidding—they’re light blue, rarest color I’ve ever seen—but the similarities start and stop there. I’ve never thought of Helen as attractive. She’s squared away safely in my mind as my matronly executive assistant; she doesn’t exist to attract or un-attract me. She’s my employee, and a damn good one at that. Meredith, though…she’s different.

  “Helen said you need a job.”

  Meredith nods. “Correct. I can start today.”

  I chuckle at that. “Seems like you and I haven’t gotten off to a great start, and sometimes your gut knows something before the brain catches up. Maybe you oughta look for employment elsewhere.”

  With that, something in her expression breaks. She’s still fuming, but her shoulders sag. Her attention darts past my shoulders, out the window. Her lip quivers. I’m not very good at reading women, but I’m damn near sure she’s about to cry. I thought I’d be happier getting to this point.

  “You ever work on a ranch before?”

  “I think you can probably guess the answer to that,” she snaps, blue eyes slicing back to me.

  I resist the urge to smile at her fire. “You can put the claws away. We’re just talking.”

  She sighs and steps forward, finally sagging down into the seat I offered her. Her purse drops to the floor at her feet as she relaxes back against the cushion, and I take advantage of the opportunity to study her. Her hair is the color of dark coffee, almost black, probably fake. Her nails are trimmed and manicured. Her features—though currently smudged with dirt and what looks to be a few drops of blood—are feminine and beautiful. I have no doubt she was a heartbreaker back in California. Her husband is probably missing her right about now.

  Once she’s situated, she looks back up at me, waiting.

  “So, no ranch experience. Have you ever had a job?”

  She swallows and tips her chin up. It’s clear that what she lacks in experience, she makes up for in confidence. I doubt she’s ever let anyone walk over her.

  “I’ve volunteered at a hospital for the last few years.”

  “I’m talking about a real job, with a paycheck and a boss—accountability.”

  Her lips purse and shakes her head. “My parents always wanted me to focus on school.”

  Parents?

  “How old are you?”

  “28.” She guesses where my questions are leading. “After college…well, certain circumstances meant I didn’t work, but I assure you I will be a very good employee. I’m timely and dedicated.”

  “Can you use QuickBooks?”

  “I’m a quick learner!” she jokes. “Heh.”

  “What about Outlook?”

  “I always maintain a positive outlook.”

  Jesus Christ.

  “Your sister tells me you’re married to some millionaire. Why do you even need a job?”

  My eyes narrow as I study her, looking for motive in that pretty face. I catch the subtle shift in the air at the mention of her husband.

  “I was married,” she bites out with a locked jaw. “We’re separated.”

  “As of?”

  “Last night,” she announces confidently.

  I finally lose the battle with myself and laugh. It’s all so ridiculous. I whip the hat off my head, smooth my hand over my hair, and then drop it back into place. She tracks my movements with careful attention.

  “Don’t they make you wait 24 hours to report a missing person? Seems like you should give it 48 for ending a marriage. You might change your mind.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Excuse my French, but I don’t have time for this shit.”

  Even now, problems are piling up outside the door of this office.

  Anyone else would stand up and leave. I’ve been known to bring grown ass men to their knees, but she doesn’t seem to care. In fact, she leans forward, props her hands on my desk, and locks her gaze with mine.

  “I need this job.”

  “I disagree.” My niceness is gone. My patience is all used up. “Look, you’ve made your dramatic gesture, now I think you should run back home to California. No doubt you’ve taught your husband a lesson. I’m sure he’ll buy you whatever pretty thing he’s been holding out on.” I stand and start dialing my ranch manager’s number so I can return the call he left earlier.

  She reaches forward, picks up the phone from its holder, and slams it back down.

  Damn. She’s spoiled and crazy.

  “I know Helen’s gone, and you need somebody. Give
me the job.”

  “You’ve never worked a day in your life. By the time I train you, Helen will be back.”

  “We’re not talking rocket science—how hard could it be? I’ll stay out of your way.”

  I level a steady gaze down her small frame. “Somehow, I doubt that.”

  “I’m not leaving this office until you give me a job—any job.”

  Just then, a light bulb flips on that illuminates the way out of this mess. It takes all my energy to keep my face neutral. She can’t know it’s a trap or she’ll see right through my intentions. Meredith wants a job, I want her to get the hell off my property, and it seems we can kill two birds with one stone.

  “Any job? That works for me. I need a housekeeper. Mine quit last week.”

  She arches a delicate brow. “Couldn’t stand her boss?”

  I grind my teeth. Isn’t she supposed to be groveling? Ingratiating herself as best she can? Instead, it feels like she’s calling the shots in my damn office. “She moved to be closer to her daughter. That’s the only job I have for you. Take it or leave it.”

  She stands up, dragging her hands from my desk. “So I’d be your maid?”

  “You’d also cook meals, do laundry, wash the dog—that sort of thing. Toilets need cleaning at least once a day—you saw the guys that’ll be using ’em, and tonight is chili night.”

  I’m laying it on thick at this point. No way she’s staying.

  She glances away for a moment. “I don’t—that is, I’ve never…”

  I return my attention to my desk, writing her off. I’ve never had to fight a grin so hard in my life. I figured it wouldn’t be hard to scare her away, but this was a little too easy. One mention of scrubbing toilets and her knees are quaking. She’s a second from bolting. Once she’s gone, I’ll finally have a minute to catch up on work. I’ll give my manager a call and shoot off an email to Helen, demanding she return early in exchange for putting me through the trouble of dealing with this brat.

  It occurs to me that Meredith hasn’t moved. Oh, right. She’s stranded out here.

  “Or”—I glance up at her from beneath my brows, speaking offhandedly—“I’ll get one of the hands to give you a ride back into town.”

  She’s looking at me like I’ve grown a second head. “What are you talking about? I’m not leaving. I’m taking the job—on one condition.”

  Oh good grief.

  * * *

  Apparently, her rich husband really has cut her off because Meredith requests room and board. No doubt she was planning on staying with her sister, but Helen’s house is currently under construction. Her only option is to stay here, but I’ll be damned if I have her in the house with me. She’s been here fifteen minutes and I already have a raging tension headache.

  Adjacent to my house, there’s a small shack tucked in the tree line of the property. Yes, I used the right word—it’s a shack. I’ve lent it out to ranch hands in the past, resourceful guys who don’t mind spending a month or two on a crappy twin bed so they can save up for rent. The slats in the floorboards have some gaps and there are a few cobwebs dangling in the corners, but it has a makeshift shower and a sink, more than Meredith probably deserves.

  Just like with everything else, I expect her to take one look at the place and run screaming right back to California, but she steps into the small space and turns in a slow circle. I watch her carefully, waiting for a lone tear to roll down her porcelain cheek. I don’t like watching women cry, but something tells she’s very much in need of a dose of humility.

  “Does that shower work?” she asks, pointing to the corner.

  I smirk. “Only the finest 68-degree Texas well water.”

  “And I’m assuming there’s no A/C?”

  Even though it’s shaded by trees, it feels like a hundred degrees in here.

  “There’s a breeze at night if you open the windows.”

  She nods and takes her lower lip between her teeth. She’s thinking, probably contemplating how far she’s willing to go to stick it to that husband of hers. Surely if she let him know about these living conditions, he’d give her enough cash to rent a room at the nice hotel down on First Street.

  Her pale blue gaze shifts from the dingy bed to the bare floor and then finally, she faces me. The expression I see is one part resilience, one part defiance. It’s fuel and flame.

  She heaves a sigh and drops her purse at her feet, effectively setting up shop.

  “Thank you. I’ll take it.”

  5

  Meredith

  I don’t know which problem to address first—I’m drowning in them. Jack left me standing alone in the middle of my new apartment. I’m referring to it as an apartment and not a dilapidated lean-to because I believe in the power of delusion. If I look at this day and this quaint country cottage as an adventure, then it becomes fun and exciting (!) instead of bleak and depressing.

  The place is tiny, about the size of my freshman dorm room…except my dorm was outfitted with Pottery Barn decor and a spunky roommate named Janine. This apartment is outfitted with permanently airborne dust and the unmistakable smell of mildew. My only companion is a tiny spider staring down at me from his web. I now know the true meaning of the word inhospitable is a place that might put you in the hospital. There’s a rusty rake leaning against one wall, and a merry band of loose nails scattered about on the threadbare floor.

  I feel sense and reason trying to creep back into my brain’s control room, but I shut them out in favor of blind optimism. Sure, the structure should probably be condemned, but it’s nothing I can’t spruce up with a little imagination and a lot of elbow grease.

  I decide to start small and turn my attention to the twin bed resting against one of the walls. With a nice place to fall asleep tonight, my entire perspective on life might brighten. Look, I tell myself, it already has a blanket and a pillow. Jeez, is this a shack or the Ritz? I sure can’t tell!

  I pick up the blanket and the pillow twitches. I furrow my brow and cock my head to the side, because my entire life thus far has led me to believe that inanimate pillows should not be capable of independent movement. Feeling as if I’m on the brink of a major scientific breakthrough, I slowly reach out and tug on the corner of the pillowcase until I see what’s underneath it.

  FUR. BEADY EYES. LONG, HAIRLESS TAILS.

  I jump four feet into the air and shriek as a small field mouse followed by the largest rat I’ve ever seen both scurry out from underneath the pillow and through a jagged crack at the base of the wall.

  BE OPTIMISTIC, BE OPTIMISTIC, I chant as my heart rate slowly returns to a survivable level.

  I suppose it’s sorta beautiful, I think. A mouse and a rat, driven by illicit passion and forbidden romance, risked it all to build a life together in this shack—ahem, apartment. If they can do it, so can I.

  I’m smiling in a deranged reverie, thinking sweetly about rodent Romeo and Juliet, when I notice the impressive amount of droppings on the floor.

  Just like that, my sunny disposition is doused by despair and an overwhelming desire to give up. Except, there is no giving up. With Helen gone, I have nowhere to go. My mom lives in a retirement community in Boca Raton. No one under the age of 60 is allowed to reside there, ostensibly because limber hips and full-frequency hearing would ignite jealousy amongst the osteoporotic masses. Besides, if I called her, she’d just try to convince me to reconcile with Andrew. Same goes for my dad. They’re blinded by his wealth and reputation, and I haven’t tried hard to convince them of his darker side. Truthfully, we’re not very close, and they have a habit of hearing and believing whatever is most convenient for them.

  With my parents and Helen off the table, I’m all out of options. Even more sad, I didn’t really have friends back in California. When you slide right into a life of comfort and luxury when most of your college friends are still crushed under the debt of student loans, you quickly find yourself alienated. Sure, I had women I went to lunch with and met for yoga a
few times a week, but they were Andrew’s friends more than mine, wives of his colleagues, and they—like my parents—firmly believe the sun shines out of his ass.

  I’m truly on my own.

  Everything in my possession sits in my purse on the floor of this dwelling.

  I have nine wrinkled dollars.

  I have a new boss who already thinks the worst of me.

  I have a job that will put my face near men’s toilets every day.

  I have a sad little apartment—okay, NO, a sad little shanty shack with mice and spiders and a blanket with an odious yellow stain. At first I was going to overlook it, but it’s like trying to overlook the damn sun.

  Before I realize it, I’m marching back across the yard, toward the farmhouse. I’m sure Jack is already long gone, off taming wild mustangs or cutting cattle rustlers off at the pass, but I will sit outside his office and wait for him to return. I will demand that he see reason. Surely he’s playfully hazing me and doesn’t actually expect me to stay in that shack.

  I yank open the back door of the house and immediately go on guard, tiptoeing with my shoulders up near my ears. He could be around any corner, sitting in any of the rooms I pass on my way upstairs, but the house is quiet and empty. My stealth is wasted.

  On my second journey through, I discover that the farmhouse is extremely nice, new construction. There are hardwood floors, a pleasant pale gray color on the walls, and a lot of family photos and knickknacks. Somehow, it doesn’t feel cluttered. It’s warm and inviting—or at least it would be if there wasn’t a soulless monster lurking somewhere inside.