Beach Reads Box Set

by Madden-Mills, Ilsa

  “Well, how nice to know that everyone else had it figured out except for me.” I throw my napkin on the table and flop back against the booth. Sometimes the areas in life to which I seem so utterly blind and clueless are honestly humiliating.

  “Hey. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it to upset you.” Annie sighs. “Frankie, we both know that even if you did know, you didn’t want to know. You didn’t want to see it. Because you’re hell-bent on spinsterhood.”

  “Annabelle. If you weren’t heavy with child, this spinster would be giving your breeches an epic wedgie.”

  “Women didn’t wear breeches back then, Francesca.”

  The bell dings as the diner’s door opens, making me casually glance over my shoulder.

  The floor drops out from underneath me. Ren walks in. With a woman.

  “Kill me now.” I sink into the booth, feeling a cold sweat break out across my skin.

  “What?” Annie perks up, like a little baby bird peering out from the nest. “What?”

  “Jesus, Annie,” I hiss. “I’m trying to hide, not draw attention to us.”

  Her eyes widen. “Oh, well, hello, handsome. Oof, there is something about him. Gingers don’t even normally do it for me, but your man is—”

  “He’s not my man.” I groan. I can’t believe Ren is here. With a tall, willowy woman who has gorgeous dark red hair and wide green eyes.

  Why would he be here with a woman when we just talked eight hours ago about trying to be together? There has to be a rational explanation, but hell if I can think of one. It’s too much for my brain.

  Pulling his ball cap lower, Ren sets his hand on the young woman’s back and gently guides her in front of him while they’re led by the hostess to be seated. His eyes dance across the space as he notices people looking at him, talking to themselves. I turn around and dive deeper into the booth.

  “Who’s that with him?” Annie asks.

  “I don’t know.” I have no idea what to make of what I’m seeing, except that Ren’s standing side by a side with a woman who’s as striking as he is and who most likely doesn’t have a mountain of personal issues.

  Unlike me. The fries and milkshake curdle in my stomach. This is what jealousy feels like. I hate it.

  Annie sighs. “You’re being ridiculous, hiding like that. It’s pointless. He’s going to see you. It’s not like this is a big diner.”

  “Whyyy,” I whine. “Why didn’t we go to In-N-Out?”

  “Because Betty’s Diner makes the best fries. There was never a question of going anywhere else.”

  I groan as I rub my forehead. “My shit luck.”

  “Stop being such a Moaning Myrtle. Oh, I think he just saw me.” Annie glances down at me and smiles, her cheeks pink. “Okay. I’m playing it cool. It’s just hottie-pants Ren—”

  “Hottie-pants Ren?”

  She shushes me. “I’d sit up if I were you. You’re going to look like a weirdo, slumped over in the booth when he comes over and says hi.”

  I’m just straightening when I see Ren walking my way, icy eyes sparkling from beneath the shadow of his baseball cap.

  Ren. Ball cap. Beard.

  Guh.

  Someone in a nearby booth lifts their phone, and he deftly switches sides so the woman he’s with is shielded from the shameless oglers.

  Who is she?

  “I’m okay,” I mutter under my breath. “I’m okay.”

  “Just breathe, Frankie,” Annie says quietly.

  “Frankie.” Ren smiles down at me, then glances over to Annie. “Hey, Annie. How are you?”

  Annie smiles up at him, turns bright pink, and bats her eyelashes. “Um, yes.”

  I roll my eyes. “Hey, Ren.”

  Ren turns slightly, wrapping his arm around the woman’s back, setting his hand on her shoulder.

  Bile crawls up my throat. Painful, sharp, stabs of jealousy. What is going on?

  “Zigs, this is Frankie and her friend, Annie.”

  The woman extends her hand first to Annie, who’s closer, next, to me, bringing her features close enough to inspect. Of course. Startlingly young. Tall. Milky skin, vivid green eyes, rich red hair that’s so long, it’s almost to her hips. Her clothes don’t fit her well—baggy sweatpants and an oversized, stained sweatshirt. Still, there’s something familiar and appealing to me about her appearance.

  “Wow,” she says, eyes wide. “I’m finally meeting Frankie. Ren talks about you constantly.”

  My belly flip-flops, and I can’t help but grin. Ren turns bright red and grimaces. She notices and stares at him.

  “What?” Genuine confusion laces her voice as she glances from him to me. “You do.”

  “Yes,” he says on a sigh. “You’re right.”

  Pink stains her cheeks as she glances at the floor. “Sorry.”

  “You’re good, Zigs. It’s okay,” he tells her quietly.

  Something about her embarrassment, that moment of realizing her slip, reverberates with familiarity. I’ve done it so many times—said what everyone else is thinking but which is apparently catastrophic for adults to admit. I’ll never get it and try as I might to learn the pattern of what’s said and what’s not, I can’t. Meaning, sometimes I fuck up. I’ve been in her shoes.

  There’s something familiar, too, about the wide-open curiosity in her eyes when we shook hands, her concerted effort to observe the niceties of an introduction but the eagerness to return to the sanctity of her own body and thoughts.

  It all clicks into place. This is—

  “You’re his sister,” I say in shock. “You’re—

  “Yes, this is Ziggy,” Ren says quickly, locking eyes with me. “My little sister.”

  Something passes between us. He’s trying to tell me something with his eyes but I’m the world’s worst candidate for that. So, to play it safe, I keep my mouth shut and gather my thoughts for a moment.

  I smile up at her, feeling an odd kinship with this young woman who, even after just a few moments of knowing her, I recognize so much of myself in. This has to be the sister he told me about. The one who’s on the spectrum, too.

  “Well, then,” I say to her. “My turn to say Ren talks about you lots, too. And it’s nice to finally put a face to the name.”

  She blinks up at me, then away, on a reluctant smile.

  Suddenly someone from a nearby booth wanders our way, hovering right near Ren. I see Ren’s open expression shutter, his polite smile take over as he turns, shielding Ziggy behind his body.

  “Sorry to bug you…” the guy says.

  Why do people say sorry when they’re doing something and they’re going to keep doing it? Either demonstrate genuine remorse and stop doing it, or just own that you’re being an invasive prick, bugging a professional hockey player for a signature at nine thirty on a weeknight, when he’s just out for a quiet bite to eat.

  “What’s up, man?” Ren says.

  “Just wondering if—”

  I lift my cane, arced over my head like a wand, and say, “Sectumsempra!”

  “Jesus!” The guy stumbles back, knocking into a chair and running back to his booth. I give him a death glare, until he sinks out of sight.

  Ziggy slaps a hand over her mouth, making her voice come out muffled. “That was awesome.”

  Ren peers down at me. “Little aggressive of a curse, right out of the gate, don’t you think, Francesca?”

  Annie shakes her head. “You don’t know the half of it. When she and Tim get drunk, she calls Imperio and he follows her orders. It’s like sick, twisted, Pottermore charades.”

  If she weren’t 300 weeks pregnant, I’d kick her under the table. “That’s private, Annabelle.”

  She waves me off. “Well, now that we lost the fan, why don’t you join us?” Annie says to Ren.

  Ziggy opens her mouth, but before she can answer, Ren squeezes her shoulder gently. “That’s okay. We wouldn’t want to encroach on your catch-up,” he says. “And I haven’t seen this one in a while. She’s o
verdue for a big brother inquisition.”

  Ziggy rolls her eyes. It makes me smile. And it also makes my heart flip-flop that Ren’s protecting time with his sister.

  “Hang in there,” I tell her. “As the baby of the family with a bossy older sibling, you have my sympathy.”

  “Hey.” Ren shoves me gently, and I milk it, flopping over to the bench. “Shit, Frankie.” He wraps his arms around my shoulder, hoists me upright. “I’m so sorry, I’m—”

  His features change when he sees I’m trying not to laugh and realizes I’m fine. He narrows his eyes. “That’s a dirty move.”

  “I thought it was pretty funny,” Ziggy says drily.

  “Yes, well.” Ren straightens and gives me a half-hearted glare. “We’ll leave you to it.” Turning to my friend, he smiles much wider. “Annie, good to see you.” Back to me with a skunk face. “See you at work tomorrow, Francesca.”

  I stick my tongue out at him. “Søren.”

  Ziggy sucks in a breath, glancing between us. “She calls you Søren? Holy—”

  “Come on.” Ren takes her by the elbow. “We’re leaving. Bye!”

  Annie grins, watching them walk to their booth. Ren drops into the bench facing me and lands me with a piercing stare. Slowly a grin warms his face like he can’t help it.

  “Oh, Frankie,” Annie says wistfully. “You are in trouble.”

  I sigh as I feel myself smiling back. “Don’t I know it.”

  20

  Frankie

  Playlist: “Work,” Charlotte Day Wilson

  I lift my hand to knock on Ren’s door, but it swings open before I can.

  My fist drops lamely to my side. Jesus Tossing Tables in the Temple, Ren’s wearing joggers. Fitted, dark gray joggers. And a white long-sleeved shirt, pushed up his forearms.

  “Francesca.” He steps back, holding the door open wider. Pazza bounds in and jumps up, setting her paws on his stomach.

  “Pazza, down!” I poke her butt with my cane and push the door shut behind me.

  When I look back, Ren’s eyes are on me, a small smile warming his face. “I don’t mind when she jumps. It’s nice that someone looks happy to see me.”

  I tip my head.

  Ren sighs. “That was a hint. About you.”

  “I don’t speak hints.” I walk by him, dropping my bag and leaning my cane on the wall so I can reach to take off my shoes. “Say it or don’t—ack!”

  Warm, solid arms sweep me off my feet. Three long Ren-strides, then I’m set gently on the kitchen island, Ren’s hands splayed on either side of me. His mouth whispers over my cheek, his lips teasing their way to the shell of my ear. “There’s no pressure. You just have to be a little happy you’re here.”

  “I’m very happy,” I say breathlessly. My hands slide up his arms and rest on his rounded shoulders, sending air rushing out of him. Ren’s warmth presses closer between my legs. Gently, his hands span my waist, and draw me nearer. Soft, nuzzling kisses down my neck light a solar flare deep inside.

  “Good,” he whispers. One last, firm kiss to the base of my throat, before he pulls away. “I’m happy you’re here, too.”

  Carefully, he lifts me off the island and begins to step back, but I launch myself at him, wrapping my arms tight around his broad chest. “I’m sorry that I was frowning when you opened the door. It surprised me. When I’m startled, I frown. Always have. But I am happy to see you, okay?”

  “Oh. I understand what you mean. I’m sorry I gave you a hard time about it.”

  “That’s okay,” I say quietly.

  His arms engulf my body and hold me close. Lips to my hair, my temple, he takes a long slow breath, then presses his mouth to my forehead. “You smell so good.”

  A smile against his chest. “So do you.”

  That makes him laugh. “Glad to hear it.”

  “Spicy.” I stick my nose straight into his shirt and inhale, “Man soap.”

  Another kiss warms my face. “Orchids. Night air.”

  Tugging my arms tighter around him, I press my stomach into his hips and bite my lip. Ren is hard and thick inside his sweatpants, and all I can think about is the exquisite weight of him over me, inside me.

  “Frankie,” he says, a pained hitch to his voice. “I, uh… The oven’s about to go off.”

  Groaning, I drop my forehead to his chest. “Why are we eating again?”

  “Because I want a happy Frankie, and Frankie’s happiest when she’s well-fed.”

  “I’ll be very happy if you and I end up in that big Ren-sized bed.” I blink up at him, trying to smile.

  He frowns down at me. “You feeling okay?”

  “Yes.” I drop my arms and walk past him, grabbing my cane. “I just can’t make myself smile any more than you can start a hockey brawl.”

  “Hey, now.” He walks deeper into the kitchen. “Don’t bust me for my nonviolence.”

  “I would never.”

  Ren stands with his back to me, stirring something that smells fan-fucking-tastic—aromatic and gamey, some kind of stew.

  As my eyes drag up his body, my opinion on the injustice of life is cemented. Why do men look like such sexy beasts in loungewear? Ren’s wearing sweatpants that hug his big hockey butt and cling to the long, powerful muscles of his legs. His shirt tapers to his waist and shows off his cut biceps and shoulders. He might as well be naked—no, it’s actually more sensual because he isn’t naked. It’s the most frustratingly sexual thing I’ve seen.

  Ever.

  “Frankie.”

  “Hm?” I blink away guiltily from staring at his ass.

  “I like your butt, too.”

  Lifting my cane, I poke the butt in question. “Men have been objectifying women for millennia. Simply doing my part to settle the score.”

  Ren laughs and reaches an arm toward me. I slip inside it and lean against his chest, getting an up-close look at the goodness on the stove.

  “Well, yum. What is it?”

  He grins down at me and runs his hand along my arm, as if to make sure I’m warm. Like he doesn’t understand that he’s a human furnace, radiating comforting heat. “Kalops,” he says.

  “Kalops.”

  “Yep.” With a kiss to the top of my head, he taps the spoon free of liquid and sets it aside. “Swedish beef stew. My mom’s recipe.”

  “Why haven’t I ever met your mom? Or your dad for that matter?”

  Ren’s eyes shutter, and he glances away, turning toward a pot of boiling potatoes. “Dad’s an oncologist with too many balls in the air. Mom’s been pretty busy with Ziggy since I signed. She’s had a tough time the past few years, and Mom doesn’t like to leave her alone. Ziggy was…in a dangerous place for a while. I don’t think my mom’s gotten over that.”

  “Why couldn’t she just bring Ziggy to a game?”

  Ren sighs. “You met her, Frankie. Going to an obscure diner is about as much of the outside world as she can manage right now. A cacophonous space like the arena would literally make her melt down.”

  I know he’s not throwing around the term “meltdown,” either. One of the things I admire about Ren is that he chooses his words wisely, that he believes in the power and responsibility of language.

  People use the term “meltdown” cavalierly, but in reference to autism, it’s a very specific thing. When faced with sensory overload, meltdowns sometimes looks like an adult having a tantrum or catatonically shutting down. It’s the body and mind doing whatever they can to put the overwhelming input to a stop—an emotional surge protector, the mental switch when an overflow of information trips the mind’s circuit breaker. Meltdown is a survival instinct.

  “Well, I get it,” I tell him. “You know I wear earplugs during games.” My hip twinges with discomfort and wobbles a little. Before I take a spill and make Ren crap his pants with worry, I grab one of the stools from his kitchen island and ease myself onto it. “Still, it has to bum you out that your parents don’t come.”

  I do a tally of the fam
ily that I have observed at Ren’s games. Freya, the eldest, who came with some hunk with Caribbean blue eyes and black hair—Aiden, I think was his name. Ryder and Willa of course—they’ve come the most. Then, the older brother, Axel, who came alone and looked like he’d swallowed something sour. We didn’t meet. I just saw him from a distance when he awkwardly hugged Ren, then took off. What about the other ones? “You have a bajillion siblings. One of them couldn’t hang with Ziggy so your parents can attend a game?”

  No answer.

  “Do your brothers and sisters know why your jersey number is seven?”

  His whole body stiffens. I watch his throat work as he swallows. “I just like the number seven.”

  “Bullshit, Zenzero. It’s for your family. Seven siblings, isn’t it?”

  Who barely come to his games. In what world does being a professional hockey player make you the black sheep of the family?

  As if he’s followed my train of thought, he shrugs, opening the oven and peering in. A burst of cinnamon and sugar wafts from behind the oven door, but before I can glimpse what’s in there, he snaps it shut. “The Bergmans aren’t a hockey family.”

  “You’re Swedish for Christ’s sake. Northern Europeans invented hockey.”

  “Nova Scotians, sweet pea.”

  I choke on nothing particular except the absurdity of what just came out of his mouth. “I’m sorry, what did you just call me?”

  Ren grins as he turns off the heat underneath the stew and covers it with a lid. “I need an endearment for you. I’m trying them out.”

  “Um. How about Frankie? That’ll do fine.”

  “Pff.” Ren closes the distance between us, standing inside my legs. Those warm, calloused hands slip around my neck and delve into my hair, massaging aching muscles. “You call me sweet things.”

  I groan as he hits a tender spot. It makes my eyes fall shut. “The Italian word for a root vegetable. And a thinly veiled reference to a brutal, pillaging Viking. Not exactly amorous.”

  “They don’t have to be amorous,” he says quietly. “They just have to be mine, for you…turtledove.”