Beach Reads Box Set

by Madden-Mills, Ilsa

  I tip my head to the side and stay silent, hoping he’ll take the hint and leave.

  He doesn’t.

  “Have you ever cleaned a toilet before?”

  I sigh and yank the mask down. “Well, I’ve used toilets before—how hard could it be to do the opposite?”

  He points out my first failure of the day. “Pretty sure the sponges are for the kitchen sink.”

  Right.

  “Well now they’re for the toilet.”

  “There’s a toilet scrubber in the corner there.”

  Truthfully, I thought that was for the shower. I’m glad I don’t say so.

  “I was under the impression that you were a real busy guy. Do you plan on micromanaging me the whole day?”

  He opens his mouth, thinks better of whatever he was about to say, and then turns to leave. Ha. Victory. I listen to him walk toward his office and once I’m sure he’s really gone, I reach for the toilet scrubber. It’s a lot easier to use than the sponge. I’d thank him for the tip, but alas, I would rather stick this entire toilet sponge in my mouth.

  Jack and I have definitely started out on the wrong foot. Though rare, I have given and received bad first impressions before. This takes the cake, and it’s unsettling. I’m not used to having problems with people. I pride myself on being easygoing and gregarious. In fact, back in California, I’m sure all my acquaintances would corroborate my genuine social proficiency. My whole life wasn’t just an act to please Andrew. I’m nice, dammit!

  But for some reason, around Jack, I play defense. I get angry and snappy. He rubs me the wrong way, gets under my skin. It’s his arrogance, his utter lack of sympathy for somebody clearly down on their luck. I can’t stand him, which is a problem considering he’s my new boss.

  If he hadn’t assumed the worst of me right off the bat, we might’ve even become friends, but the word didn’t take long to form on his lips: princess. If he ever calls me that again I’ll grab that thick head of hair and give him a swirly in this toilet. That stupid baseball cap would clog the pipes and he’d have to clean it up himself.

  I finish up in his bathroom and move on to the next one, all the while thinking about the conundrum I’ve found myself in. It’s interesting to think I might’ve just swapped cards, a Drew for a Jack. One is arguably just as arrogant as the other. Not only that, they’re both good-looking and confident too, but the similarities end there. Andrew is smooth edges and refinement. He’s sly and cunning. In two days, I’ve already seen that Jack is rough around the edges, crass, and opinionated. Yesterday, he dragged me away from that meeting in front of all his ranch hands. Andrew would have never done that; he would have bottled his anger until we were behind closed doors.

  Most curiously, I almost never had the courage to fight back or speak up with Andrew. He sapped my confidence down to the point that by the end, I was little more than a Stepford wife, subservient in every respect. Yet, with Jack, I can’t help but speak my mind. My voice is back and ten times louder than I remember.

  8

  Jack

  Edith didn’t save me any coffee this morning. Not only that, she poured the excess down the sink while I watched. Oh, were you not finished? She’s upset with me, thinks I’m being too hard on Meredith, but she doesn’t know the whole truth. Meredith isn’t here as some destitute damsel seeking sanctuary; she’s here to stall until her husband begs her to come home, a sheep in sheep’s clothing. Helen confirmed as much when we spoke last night. I called her, surprised Meredith had lasted her whole first day.

  “You know she hasn’t even bothered to call home?” Helen said. “I bet Andrew is worried sick.”

  “Maybe she really is planning on leaving him.”

  “No way. Meredith is anything but independent—spoiled by parents, doted on by boyfriends, and then completely provided for by Andrew. Remember when you were a kid and you’d get mad, run away, then be back home in time for supper? My guess is whatever this little tiff is about will be forgotten by Friday, and she’ll be in your rearview mirror.”

  The phone call left a bad taste in my mouth. What kind of petulant woman just up and leaves her husband like that? He’s probably really worried about her while she’s off playing hide-and-seek a few states over. It doesn’t make sense. Then again, Helen hasn’t exactly painted Meredith in the best light, and I trust Helen’s judgment. She’s been a good employee for years while I’ve only known Meredith for 48 hours.

  All day yesterday I kept waiting for her to fold, to feed into the impression Helen gave me, but she didn’t. She cleaned the whole day and only took a quick break for lunch—I know this because Edith said she felt bad seeing her eat out on the porch by herself. A few times throughout the day, I heard things crash to the ground followed by a loud curse, but the house was clean, nothing was broken (that I could see), and better yet, she didn’t bother me once.

  I think over my conversation with Helen while I make a new pot of coffee. I wonder how well Helen really knows Meredith. If she never once mentioned that she had a sister, they can’t be all that close.

  The back door opens and I turn to find the subject of my thoughts scurrying into the adjacent laundry room and yanking the door closed behind her. She presses her back to the door and her hand to her chest. Her eyes are closed. Her breathing is erratic. It looks like she was just running for her life.

  “Was Alfred out there?”

  Her eyes pop open and her light blue gaze locks with mine as her cheeks turn a rosy shade of red. She clearly thought she was alone.

  “I found that if I throw a rock at the barn, I can distract him long enough to sprint from the shack to the house.”

  “Whatever works.” I chuckle, turning back to the coffee maker so she can compose herself without me watching. “But the more you try to avoid him, the harder he’s going to try to win you over. He’s smart, and he likes a challenge.”

  “Can’t you just train him to avoid me?”

  It sounds like she really thinks that’s an option.

  I glance back at her out of the corner of my eyes. “I don’t really keep an org chart with all my employees’ ranks, but it’s safe to say that Alfred is your superior. Besides, I doubt you’ll be here long enough to bother.”

  Her brows furrow and her gaze drops to the floor. If Edith were watching, she’d jab me in the ribs with her elbow.

  I sigh. “Are you actually scared of him? He’s a giant teddy bear.”

  “No. Of course not,” she says haughtily, pushing off the door and lifting her chin as she steps into the kitchen. “I just…don’t reciprocate his enthusiasm.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “Positive.”

  Her pride will be her downfall. If she’d just admit she was scared, I’d make an effort to keep Alfred away from her. Since she swears she’s not, I won’t bother.

  I flip the switch on the coffee machine and it starts percolating right away. The smell is better than sex.

  “When the coffee’s done, bring a mug up to my office, will you?”

  She quirks a brow. “Is that part of my job description? Waiting on you hand and foot?”

  “It’s a cup of coffee, not a seven-course meal.”

  “Okay…” She hesitates, her gaze turning toward the coffee pot like it’s her salvation. “Am I allowed to get some for myself?”

  The question, delivered in a gentle tone, catches me so off guard that I turn to look at her, really look at her. Obviously, I’m aware she’s beautiful—that’s the minimum working requirement for trophy wives—but even with her dark hair twisted up in a bun and a fresh face, she’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen. I ignore the thought and focus on the fact that today she’s wearing another one of my Blue Stone t-shirts. It’s tied just like the one yesterday so it doesn’t completely drown her. She’s wearing her same pair of jeans, but they’re stained now, and there’s a hole just above the left knee. I don’t think she’d be wearing them again if she had any other clothes. The thought is u
nsettling.

  “Stop sizing me up like that,” she accuses suddenly.

  My gaze jerks up to her face. “Are you kidding me? I wasn’t sizing you up.”

  She props her hands on her hips. “Oh yeah? What were you doing then?”

  Her ice blue eyes dare me to tell the truth.

  “I was feeling sorry for you.”

  I should’ve known my reply wouldn’t go over well. Her hands ball into tiny little fists. Her lips tug into a thin, angry line.

  “Why? I don’t want the coffee that badly.”

  I wave my hand, gesturing to her appearance. “No, because you’re obviously a very unstable person.”

  “What?”

  “You pack up and leave your life behind, and you don’t even bring a change of clothes. You’re either crazy, or you didn’t think you’d be gone this long,” I point out with a flat, disinterested tone.

  “Oh, braaaavo, Dr. Phil,” she shoots back, temper flaring. “Excellent psychoanalysis. Don’t you have your own business to mind? Like, literally?”

  Jesus Christ. This woman is going to be the death of me.

  I tug a hand through my hair and make a move to step around her. “Just bring the coffee when it’s done.”

  “Fine,” she snaps.

  “And go to the grocery store. We’re out of damn food.”

  I stomp up the stairs.

  “Sure thing, boss!” she shouts after me.

  “And cook something for lunch!”

  “With pleasure!”

  “I’ll know if you spit in it!”

  At that, I slam my office door closed.

  I’m fuming and pissed, more so with myself than with her. I had every intention of keeping my cool, but she pushed me, just like she has since she first arrived. I’ve never in my life talked to a woman the way I talk to her. I should march right back downstairs and fire her on the spot.

  I stay seated, seething.

  A few minutes later, there’s a soft knock and then Meredith opens my office door. My blood spikes with adrenaline as if we’re about to pick up right where we left off. My hands grip the edges of my desk. Her gaze hits mine, and I’m surprised to see that it’s softer than it was down in the kitchen. Her lips are trained into a small, absent smile.

  In her hand is a steaming cup of coffee—the coffee I’d completely forgotten about.

  I watch her as she carries it carefully toward my desk, where I’m currently on the phone with the general manager over at Blue Stone Farm. He’s talking my ear off about a few improvements he wants to make at the restaurant. I motion for Meredith to set the coffee down by the phone, and she listens. Then she reaches over and gently sticks a note onto my computer monitor.

  In girly, scrolling script she wrote: I didn’t mean to snap at you. You’re right, I am a little crazy.

  That’s it. No apology, just a joke.

  Still, it’s something. Without waiting for a reply, she turns, and I watch her saunter out of the room, dragging my gaze from the strands of dark hair that have fallen from her bun to the curve of her ass in the only pair of jeans she owns. My stomach tightens and my heart pounds. A heat creeps up my neck.

  When she’s gone, I stare at her note, trying to refocus my attention on the phone call. In reality, I’m only half listening, too damn focused on the princess.

  9

  Meredith

  Jack has shown his face once all morning, and it was so he could come down to make another pot of coffee. When I heard him walking down the stairs, I made sure to look extra busy. I was already vacuuming, but I vacuumed harder, heaving the thing back and forth as fast as I could. I looked like I was racing against an imaginary clock. He completely ignored me.

  When he walked back by with his new cup of coffee, I’d moved on to the hallway. He had to walk right by me to get to the stairs and I held my breath, quietly praying he would trip on the vacuum cord. His spilled coffee would be my mess to clean, but I’d do it with a half-hidden grin.

  Sadly, he stepped purposefully over the cord without acknowledging me then trotted right back up the stairs.

  His quiet indifference is a silent weapon I can’t fend off. I’m jumpy and on edge, listening for every little sound and jerking my attention to the stairs each time I think I hear him walking down them.

  He hasn’t made another appearance, but that hasn’t stopped him from hanging around in my thoughts. I can’t get the image of him from this morning out of my head. When I walked into his office, he was sitting behind his desk, phone pressed to his ear, gaze straight on me. His hatred plumed off him like smoke. He had a sharp stare and cool confidence, and I took one good look at him then nearly spilled his coffee all over the floor.

  It’s bad enough that I don’t like his personality, but his appearance isn’t exactly helping matters. I really want to find him unattractive, but I don’t. He might be rougher around the edges than the men back in California, but with his chiseled jaw and piercing gaze, it’s impossible to call him anything less than handsome. I try to tell myself his hair needs a trim and he’s too sun-kissed. He could use a shave—his face would feel all scratchy. Wait, what? Pull it together Meredith. There will be no feeling his face.

  I’m not a fool. If his personality weren’t so unyielding, I have no doubt there’d be a different woman warming his sheets every night. Even so, I bet he isn’t lacking for female attention. I shiver at the thought of having to wash sweaty sheets or empty condoms from his trashcan.

  Ugh! Okay, enough, brain. You’ve had your fun.

  I snip that line of thinking and decide it’s time for me to get out of this house. I think Jack’s proximity is tainting my thoughts. Some fresh air will do me some good.

  It’s time for a grocery store run.

  I jot down a list of everything I want to make for meals then survey the pantry and fridge. Edith and Jack have enough barbecue sauce and baked beans to last them well into an apocalypse. Veggies and fruits are nowhere to be found, unless you count the dusty jars of pickled okra labeled Edith - July 2002. Yum. That will change once I make it back with the groceries. I grab the envelope with the grocery money from the counter then find Edith out on the porch throwing the ball for Alfred. Fortunately, the activity seems to be holding his attention so well that he doesn’t care to acknowledge me. Still, I aim to make my time near him as brief as possible.

  “Hey Edith, is there a car I can borrow to drive to the grocery store?”

  She turns and holds up her hand to shield the sun from her eyes. “Yeah, go ask one of the hands, they’ll set you up with a truck.”

  I turn toward the barn and spot a half-dozen ranch hands at work. There are varying shades of cowboy hats and an ample amount of denim. I can smell the testosterone from way over here.

  “Umm…is there one in particular I should aim for?” Perhaps the weakest one in the herd?

  “Don’t think it’ll matter really. I’m sure they’ll all be dying to help you as soon as you make your way over there.”

  She’s right, of course. After I skirt around the house as stealthily as possible to avoid Alfred’s interest, I don’t even make it halfway to the barn before the first cowboy catches up with me. He falls in line right beside me and holds out his hand. “Hey there, name’s Chris.”

  He doesn’t look a day over eighteen, especially with the sunshine glinting off his blond hair. With a goofy lopsided grin and sunburned cheeks, he seems relatively harmless.

  “Nice to meet you, Chris. I’m Meredith.”

  “I saw you at the meeting the other day. I’ve gotta say, I’m surprised to see you around after that. You workin’ up in the house now?”

  “Started on Monday.”

  We continue heading toward the row of vehicles beside the barn.

  “What do you think so far?”

  I squint one eye to study him. I don’t know how loyal Chris is to Jack, but something about his gentle manner makes me want to give him an honest answer.

  “Let’s just
say I’ve had an interesting start.”

  “That bad, huh?” He chuckles and shakes his head. “He gets better, I promise. When I first started working here, I couldn’t even look him in the eye.”

  “Really?”

  “He sure can be a mean son of a gun.”

  I’m still deciding if I actually heard him correctly—what exactly is a son of a gun?—when another ranch hand joins us.

  “Chris! Why are you bothering this nice lady?”

  “David, Meredith,” Chris says. “Meredith, David.”

  We shake hands and David flanks me on the other side as we keep walking. Suddenly I’m surrounded by boots and twangs on all sides. David looks a little older than Chris, tall and lanky with a beard so long and thick my chin gets itchy just looking at it. I notice then that they’re both wearing matching work shirts with BLUE STONE RANCH monogrammed just beneath the left lapel. I wonder if Jack would have offered me the same uniform if I hadn’t already stolen his t-shirts.

  “Meredith was just saying how Jack’s been a real asshole to her,” Chris informs David matter-of-factly.

  Jesus! Keep your voice down. The guy probably has the place mic’d up or something. Just to be sure, I loudly and clearly enunciate, “I have not!”

  David bumps his shoulder with mine. “It’s okay. You’ll get used to it—everyone does. He’s a good boss, just can be a real mean sonuvab—”

  “Gun?” I finish for him.

  He winks. “Sure.”

  “Where you stayin’?” David asks. “Downtown? Not much to rent around here unless you can afford the motel down off 173.”

  “No, I’m staying on the ranch.”

  They exchange a confused glance, and then Chris asks, “Here? You mean he has you up in the house with him and Edith?”

  “No no no. He’s letting me stay there.” I turn and point toward my shack-sweet-shack nestled in the tree line behind the farmhouse. The distance has not softened its appearance. The last of the ancient window shutters—barely hanging on by one rusty hinge—finally breaks and falls to the ground as if on cue.