Beach Reads Box Set

by Madden-Mills, Ilsa

  “You forgot about one more LA friend, and he has more room than he knows what to do with, Frankie.” That bright Ren Bergman smile twinkles in the moonlight. “Me.”

  9

  Ren

  Playlist: “Sisyphus,” Andrew Bird

  This is fine. It’s fine. I’m fine.

  If I tell myself this enough, it’s going to be fine.

  Frankie sits in the backseat, baby talking to her dog, Pazza, a Siberian Husky and Alaskan Malamute mix. She’s not crying anymore, which has significantly improved my ability to breathe properly and drive us safely to my place. Frankie crying made me feel like my heart was being cut out of my chest.

  After talking with the cops, they confirmed a break-in and took inventory of what was stolen—her TV, her computer monitor that she connects to her laptop, emergency meds, most of her clothes, and a lot of pantry items. One small comfort was she kept all sensitive information in a secure safe, so the police were confident her identity wouldn’t be stolen.

  With nothing left to do at the bungalow, I navigated us, per her request, to the In-N-Out drive-through, prepared to buy the franchise if necessary, whatever it took to put a smile on her face.

  Two chocolate shakes, three large fries, and a Double-Double later, Frankie seemed tentatively comforted. But our trip to Lorena’s place in Echo Park, was the real fix. She hasn’t stopped smiling, cuddling Pazza, a massive black and white dog with keen gold eyes who stares at me in the rearview mirror, baring her teeth.

  “Frankie?”

  “Yes?” she singsongs right into the dog’s furry neck. “Who’s my good girl?”

  Pazza finally breaks her glare long enough to turn and lick Frankie’s face.

  “Your Musky looks like she wants to eat me for dinner.”

  Frankie laughs softly. “This mix is called an Alusky, Søren.”

  I try to ignore how much I like hearing Frankie say my full name. I’ve healed from most wounds sustained in the tough teen years, but the brutal teasing I got for my name is like the last aching scar that just won’t fade. Nobody calls me Søren, except Axel when he’s looking for a fight.

  When Frankie says my name, it sounds warm, and when I let my imagination get carried away, I’d even say affectionate.

  I pull into my driveway. “An Alusky.”

  “Yes. And she doesn’t eat big, tough, hockey players. She eats grain-free.”

  Throwing the car in park, I peer over my shoulder. “Well, I’m grain-free, too. This isn’t comforting, to hear your wolf is paleo.”

  “She’s not a wolf!” Pazza nuzzles Frankie, gently knocking her back on her seat. Immediately the dog whines and drops her head to her lap. “I’m okay, Pazza.”

  “Do we have everything she needs for now?”

  Frankie smiles at me over the dog’s head. “Yeah. Lo made her enough food to last a few days.”

  “You make her food?”

  Frankie’s eyes narrow. “Yes, Søren.”

  “Don’t ‘Søren’ me, Francesca. It was a question.”

  “You repeated what I said.”

  “I was just surprised, Frankie. I’m not judging.”

  “Good,” she says. “Because feeding your dog fresh food is proven to increase their health and longevity.” Frankie kisses Pazza’s head. “I want her around for as long as I can have her.”

  There’s tenderness in Frankie’s voice that I’ve never heard before. At work she’s brisk and no nonsense. But just like when I surprised her the other night bringing her that shirt and ended up sharing her takeout, it’s another side of Francesca Zeferino that makes me feel even more off-the-table feelings for her.

  Which is disastrous. Super disastrous. I might not read romance novels as voraciously as Viggo, but I’ve picked up enough in my day to know that forbidden love is a messy trope, about as fraught a story line—besides love triangles and eff those—as it gets.

  Exhibit A: Romeo and Juliet. Their love is forbidden, the timing is terrible, but they’re so infatuated with each other, they throw caution to the wind. Impatient courtship, shotgun wedding, miscommunication, hotheaded tempers, violence, missed connections, it all ends in the star-crossed pair offing themselves.

  Yep. Forbidden love is the one to avoid. Which means, of course, that I find myself in the thick of it. Typical life of Søren Bergman.

  I step out of my car on a sigh, circle the van, then slide open the back-passenger door.

  Frankie eases out of it, followed by her dog. “Pazza, sit,” Frankie says.

  Pazza drops to her haunches, tail wagging.

  “Good girl. Ben fatto. Brava,” Frankie croons and scratches her ear. Her voice is low and cadent, like when she says Zenzero. It’s ridiculously hot.

  Glancing up at me, she frowns, her eyes tightening with concern as she searches my face. “Everything okay?” she asks.

  “Yep. Everything’s okay.” It’s so not okay. “You, uh, speak some Italian?”

  “Oh. Pretty much fluent. My dad came over with my grandmother when he was five. So, I grew up speaking it with them. And I’m a bit of a polyglot. I love learning new languages.”

  Great. Just great. The woman who’s about to be a guest in my house and for whom I harbor unrequited, inappropriately love-like feelings, also speaks a sexy Romance language.

  The unbidden image of Frankie whispering Italian in my ear while her touch wanders my body practically blinds me as it soars across my mind, a fantasy with as little chance of a future as the dying star that bolts through the sky overhead.

  I blink, shaking myself out of those thoughts. “That’s…impressive.”

  “‘Pazza’ is Italian too,” Frankie says cheerily, bending to kiss the dog’s snout. “Well, her name is. Means crazy. Because she was absolutely nuts as a puppy—I’m talking psychotic. She was like the Energizer Bunny…” Frankie’s eyes dance my way, and she frowns. “You sure you’re okay, Ren? I guess this is a bit more than you bargained for when you offered me a ride home, huh?”

  “Frankie, I’m glad to be able to have you here. Well, I mean I’m not glad your house was burgled.” I sigh and scrub my face.

  A smile tips her mouth. “I know what you mean,” she says quietly.

  “Right. Let’s get inside.” I take a step toward her, reaching for the heavy messenger bag weighing down her shoulder, but Frankie throws up her hands. “Wait, Ren! Pazza’s territorial…” Her voice dies off as the dog approaches me, sniffs my hand, and drags her tongue right along my knuckles.

  I stand still, watching Pazza nuzzle me, before she makes a soft whining noise. She glances up and holds my eyes, cocking her head to the side.

  “She likes you,” Frankie says quietly.

  I break my gaze from Pazza and look over at Frankie. “Seems like a friendly dog. Doesn’t she like everybody? Besides the delivery guy.”

  “Nope. She’s cautious around everyone except Lo and Annie. She’s okay with Tim, warming up to Mia.”

  “Well, then I’m honored.” I scratch Pazza’s other ear and smile at her. “That’s a nice club to be a part of.”

  When I glance up, Frankie’s watching me curiously, a small smile tugging at her mouth until it morphs into a reluctant yawn.

  “Come on, Francesca. Let’s get you and Pazza tucked in.”

  * * *

  I wake up to faint sunlight, early, like always. The house is quiet. No clatter of dog paws, no soft noises I might expect if Frankie was awake. Throwing on a pair of gym shorts and a T-shirt, I walk by the guest bedroom I set up for her. The door’s closed.

  In the kitchen, I notice my Nespresso machine was used, and a solitary spoon sits by the sink in a small caramel puddle. Milk with coffee. Exactly how Frankie likes it. Cream, if it’s available, one sugar.

  I sound like a creeper knowing that. But having unrequited feelings for a woman for over three years, with no appropriate opportunity to socialize outside of work without raising suspicion, you soak up every little detail you can when you’re together.<
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  The faint noise of a dog barking comes from the shore. I follow the sound, opening the sliding doors onto the deck, and I’m greeted by a sight I wish I’d had the wherewithal to prepare for.

  Frankie in yoga pants and another oversized sweatshirt. She stands barefoot down on the shore, tossing a ball for Pazza who bolts along the packed sand, then scoops it nimbly away from foamy waves curling toward her. Wind sweeps Frankie’s dark hair into inky ribbons that glow against the sunrise. The sun creeps over the water’s edge, bouncing off her cheekbones, the soft upturn of her nose.

  Her smile is small, her thoughts seemingly far away.

  There’s rarely a smile warming Frankie’s face. Most times her mouth is set in a hard line. The guys joke about it—Frank the Crank, they call her. But I’ve never seen her that way. She’s serious. No bullshit. But often women feel they have to be like that to be respected in their work, to ensure men don’t get ideas and cross boundaries.

  Also, she has arthritis. She doesn’t always seem to be uncomfortable, but I can tell when she’s in pain, and it’s not infrequent. I wouldn’t exactly walk around smiling constantly if my body hurt like that.

  Not that you’d believe inflammation riddles Frankie’s joints as she whips the ball through the air in a fastball pitch. An involuntary whistle of appreciation leaves me, and her head whips my way, the portrait of surprised.

  Then the weirdest thing happens. Her eyes crinkle. Her mouth tips into a wide smile. The dimple pops. And my heart nearly tumbles out of my chest. She looks…happy to see me.

  I soak it up, greedy, starved. A look like that is once in a lifetime. Because Frankie does a lot of grunting hello. Cursory, no-eye-contact waves. Of course, I know she respects me, that she trusts me to be a decent person as it pertains to our work, but this?

  This is new. Rare. A knot of nerves tightens my stomach as I lift a hand tentatively.

  She raises her thermos of coffee in response and yells, “Come on! I can’t throw this ball forever!”

  Jogging down across the sand, I take the ball from Pazza when she next bounds back with it. Then I throw it in a high arc through the air.

  Frankie watches with narrowing eyes. “Show-off,” she mutters into her thermos before she takes a sip.

  “Says the woman with a mean softball pitch.”

  She glances up at me. “You saw that, did you?”

  “I did. You been holding out on me, Zeferino?”

  “Hardly.” She sips her coffee again. “I haven’t thrown a softball since junior year of high school, before…” Anther sip of coffee. “It’s been a long time. And it hurts like hell. How I didn’t dislocate my elbow pitching like that, I’ll never know.”

  When she returns, I give Pazza an affectionate pat to her side, then throw the ball for her again. “Well, it looks like you still have it.”

  Frankie gives me a sidelong glance. Her cheeks pink a little, before her eyes dart away. “Thanks.”

  Silence falls between us, but I don’t mind it. I grew up with chaos—a family of six siblings and two busy parents—and I know my way around it, how to yell loud enough to be heard, how to shove and tease and vie for attention. But two years into living in my house on the beach, this big house that I hope one day grows as full of lovable chaos as the one I grew up in, I’ve learned to enjoy quiet. So, I listen to the waves break on the shore. I watch the wind curl Frankie’s hair up into the air as sunrise breaks over the water. And it feels inexplicably right.

  “Zenzero.”

  I snap out of it. “I was staring. Sorry. You look good backlit by the sunrise—that is, I mean, that was a strictly platonic statement…” My voice fades as a blush burns my cheeks.

  Frankie grins up at me. “Don’t worry. You’re still cute, even tripping over your words, Mr. Calm-Cool-and-Happy.”

  I frown at her. “That’s how you see me?” Try Crazed-Hot-and-Bothered.

  She shrugs and returns her focus to Pazza. “I’m starting to figure out there’s more to you than that sunshine smile.”

  “And what’s that?”

  Pazza comes barreling our way, and skids to a sandy halt at our feet as she drops the ball. Tipping her head, she glances between the two of us, her tongue lolling happily out of her mouth.

  Frankie sweeps up the ball from the sand and tosses it softly into the air, catching it as she walks by me. “A bashful, dorky, sweetheart. I pity the women of Los Angeles when this gets out, Ren.”

  “Wait.” I scramble to catch up to Frankie, which isn’t hard. She moves slower in the morning. She’s also not using her cane, so she favors her left leg and walks carefully. “Frankie, just to be clear, I want my personal life to be just between me and friends.”

  Frankie stops at the bottom of the steps up to my deck. “So, we’re friends, are we?”

  “You said so the other night.”

  She lifts an eyebrow. “True. But if my hazy weed memory serves me correctly, I made you impersonate a tomato when I said it.”

  I scrub my neck. “You caught me off guard. I didn’t know you liked me enough to call me a friend.”

  Frankie’s smile disappears. “What?”

  “No, wait.” I swallow nervously. “That came out wrong. I-I need coffee. Let’s go inside, and I’ll try that again.”

  Frankie leads the way, but Pazza stops, blocking my progress as she looks up and gives me an incredulous look.

  “Trust me,” I mutter to the dog. “Ryder’s told me all about it. I’m the king of sticking my foot in my mouth.” Pazza huffs, then trots off ahead of me.

  After Frankie hoses off Pazza’s paws and her feet, we settle into the kitchen. The sound of a dog lapping up her meal is the only noise in the room as Frankie stands at the island and grins at me over her coffee. I swallow a scalding gulp and try to formulate my thoughts. I’m so infuriatingly clumsy with my words around her.

  Setting down my coffee, I narrow my eyes at her amused grin. “Enjoy watching me squirm?”

  Frankie’s grin deepens and out comes the dimple. “I can’t lie, Zenzero, it’s entertaining. You’re usually so chill.”

  I turn my coffee mug slowly, clockwise. “I’ve learned things go better for me when that’s what other people see.”

  “But that’s not all there is, is it? What most people see is…incomplete.”

  My eyes lift and find hers. Her irises glitter, forest green dappled with gold, like sunlight peeking through a canopy of leaves. “Yes.”

  “Well,” Frankie says as she sets down her coffee and clears her throat. “I very much empathize with that, Zenzero. Your secret is safe with me.”

  I tip my head, hoping she’ll give me more. Instead she shifts on her feet and says, “While we’re on the subject of privacy, I want you to consider how my staying with you looks. I need it to be very clear with the team that extenuating circumstances, and nothing else, led to me staying with you.”

  “Understood. I’ll tell the guys so there are no rumors. Your place was broken into. I live close by. It was late. You crashed here. You’ll be staying here until it’s safe to move back. That okay?”

  “Yes, that works.” Slowly, she walks over to the sink and rinses out her mug, whistling to Pazza. “Except…do you mean that about staying here until the house is ready? Not that it will be long, just until the landlord fixes the little bit of damage, changes the locks, and insurance gets what they need.”

  “Of course, I mean it. And I imagine it might be a while before you feel comfortable going back home, even after they straighten everything out and it’s secure again. So, just know that this place is yours for however long you want.”

  She seems to hesitate, biting her lip. “Thank you. On my side of things, I’ll talk to Darlene, let her know our living situation. Just be open about it so it’s not weird.” Darlene’s her boss. The head honcho for all our media and PR. “I’m going to hop in the shower, then.”

  Heat rushes through me. It’s too easy to picture water sliding down her chest, fur
rowing between her thighs. I exhale roughly and tug my shirt, trying to cool myself off. “Shower. Sure. Great.”

  God, I’m hopeless.

  Frankie gives me an amused smile. “Okay. I’ll be ready at eight?”

  “Sounds good.” I throw back the remainder of my coffee, hoping its burning path down my throat distracts me. Don’t do it. Not anymore. Don’t think about Frankie naked in the shower. Don’t. Don’t. Don’t.

  The hot water kicks on, and I drop my head to the counter with a groan.

  Too late.

  10

  Frankie

  Playlist: “Go Wild,” Friedberg

  Annie stares at me in disbelief. “Why am I just hearing about this?”

  I shift in my seat at the outdoor café that’s our usual lunch spot. It’s a midway point between the practice facility, Annie’s research lab, and the campus where Lorena teaches. Ren and I have an afternoon PR gig at Children’s, and he offered to drive me after this lunch date with my friends.

  As I hesitate to explain myself to Annie, I glance over at Ren, seated on the other side of the café. He takes a sip of his tea, book in hand. He’s hidden at a two-top tucked into a shady corner.

  “I didn’t want to worry you,” I tell her. “You were possibly birthing a human last night. You’re in a delicate condition.”

  Annie snorts. “Listen, I know we read that scintillating historical romance the other month in book club, but that phrase does not hold up. I’m not delicate. I’m pregnant. And it was indigestion, apparently. I can handle bad news without having a fit of the vapors. Call me next time your house gets broken into and ransacked.”

  I meet Annie’s big moss-green eyes. She pushes her nerd glasses up her freckled button nose and frowns at me. “I’m serious,” she says.

  I grasp her hand and squeeze. “I’m sorry.”

  “I forgive you.” Annie stabs a chunk of chicken, lettuce, and tomato, then shoves it in her mouth. “Provided you come to water aerobics tonight.”