Beach Reads Box Set

by Madden-Mills, Ilsa

  “I feel like I’m seeing something I shouldn’t,” Ma says wryly.

  Breaking my distraction, I refocus on her. “Sorry. I snapped at him, and I wanted him to know I was sorry. And…” I sigh. “I feel like I owe you a sorry, too. I’ve been distant. Gabby nags me every time we talk to just have it all out with you, but I never know where to begin, Ma.”

  She nods. “I know, honey. I feel the same way. But maybe we can just talk for now, then work our way toward the hard stuff, eventually, huh?”

  “Okay,” I say tentatively. “Well, what do you want to talk about?”

  Ma settles into her chair and sweeps up her coffee. “That hunk of redhead love you were all cozy with when I called.”

  I scowl at her.

  “Now don’t deny you’ve got yourself a big hot cup of ginger tea.” She wiggles her eyebrows. “And while you’re at it, spill.”

  28

  Ren

  Playlist: “Let’s See What The Night Can Do,” Jason Mraz

  “I’m sorry again about this morning,” Frankie says quietly.

  I switch lanes and smile over at her when it’s safe to. “It’s okay, Frankie. I get why you were upset. I channeled my inner dad on you a bit.”

  Her hand plays idly with my hair at the nape of my neck. She has these little ways that she touches me—twirling my hair around her fingers, sliding my palm against hers in a steady rhythm—that make me feel like she’s wrapped me into her sensory habits, her need to move and touch, and I can’t find a word to explain how much that means to me. Emotion hitches in my throat as she leans and presses a kiss to my neck.

  “Zenzero,” she says against my skin. “Why won’t you tell me where we’re going?”

  Because it’s expensive, and after googling the restaurant, you’ll veto it.

  My grip tightens on the steering wheel as her hand drifts up my thigh. Dangerously high. “Hey. No seductive interrogation tactics while I’m driving.”

  She laughs and nips my neck.

  “It’s nothing revolutionary,” I manage, willing myself to stay focused on the road. “Only somewhere to eat that’s completely private, so nobody will bug us and there’ll be no bad press before you quit the team.”

  Frankie sits back suddenly and lets loose a harsh, wet cough. Tugging her sweater tighter around her, she stares out the window and idly rubs her throat. Seasonal allergies, my ass. She’s coming down with something, probably that crud Maddox spread around the team, and she’s hell-bent on denying it.

  “Someplace private to eat is not very specific,” she says. “Am I dressed up enough for it?”

  I glance over at her, then back to the road. Beneath her gray sweater she wears a black maxi-dress that pops against her skin. The neckline of her dress scoops over her breasts, revealing mouthwatering cleavage that her fidget necklace barely hides. Evening sunlight dances off of her collarbones, the tip of her nose, and brings out the flecks of bronze in her hazel irises.

  “You’re perfect,” I tell her.

  Snorting, she laughs. “I’m far from perfect, but if you mean I’m appropriately dressed, then I’ll take it.”

  As I turn into the private valet parking entrance, Frankie sets a hand on my thigh again, her voice softer. “But while we’re on the subject, you look pretty perfect yourself, Zenzero.”

  I glance down. I’m only wearing charcoal gray slacks and a white dress shirt, sleeves cuffed, no tie. “You dressed me.”

  “I did. I have excellent taste. And my muse is very handsome. Inspiration wasn’t hard to come by.”

  I smile as I turn off the engine. “Thank you, honey cakes.”

  “They get worse and worse,” Frankie mutters. She cranes forward, glancing up at the building’s brick façade. “What is this place?”

  “A well-kept secret.”

  She turns and gives me a narrow-eyed frown. “This better not be some practical joke of a surprise party. I hate surprises.”

  “I know you do, Frankie. It’s just you and me.”

  Finally.

  After a quick elevator ride, we’re led to our table overlooking the water. Frankie settles into her seat, peering about analytically as I scooch in her chair. “This place feels expensive, Søren.”

  “Francesca. Please don’t do this.”

  She raises her eyebrows. “Don’t do what?”

  “Give me hell for taking you somewhere half decent and private to eat.” I drop into my chair and open my menu. “We cook virtually every night. Chinese is the rare splurge. I can spring for a meal out.”

  She mumbles under her breath, lifts her menu, and opens it.

  Peering around, I take in the space, then Frankie, who glances away from her menu and stares out at the water, a private smile tilting her lips. It’s exactly what I wanted, what I thought Frankie would want. The ocean behind us. Seclusion. Heat lamps so she doesn’t get cold. And her favorite kind of food.

  She returns to the menu, promptly drops it, and stares at me, slack jawed. “It’s all burgers.”

  “That’s the idea.”

  “It’s like you’re trying to get laid or something, Zenzero.”

  I smile as she bites her lip and tries not to smile back at me.

  Suddenly, her face turns to a frown. “We need to talk about something,” she says seriously.

  My heart leaps off a cliff and free-falls into panic “Oh? What’s that?” Worst-case-scenario thoughts blitz my mind with stunning clarity.

  She’s not satisfied.

  This isn’t working for her.

  She just wants to be friends.

  “I don’t know your middle name.” Her frown deepens. “And I realized it’s one of those details you’re supposed to know when you’re serious about someone. I feel like I failed because I didn’t ask you that. That and a few other things.”

  No longer plummeting to its doom, my heart flips and lands in a pool of sweet relief. I drop my head on a rough exhale.

  Frankie doesn’t notice. “I realized in the shower earlier,” she continues, “I’ve shared more life with you, had more sex with you than anyone else, talked about worldviews and politics, but I don’t know your middle name. I know you want to stay with the team for as long as you can, that you want to miss the woods as much as you love the ocean, that you want a piano in your house, but I don’t know your middle name. And I should. Am I making any sense?”

  Finally, my body’s calmed from the free fall my heart just took, and I glance up, meeting her eyes.

  “What is it?” she asks, looking at me in confusion.

  “Oh, I just catastrophized. I thought you were breaking up with me for a minute.”

  Her mouth drops. She blinks rapidly, and then she bursts into laughter. Hysterical, loud laughter. “How?” she says between fits of laughter. “How could you think that?”

  “I don’t actually find the internal panic I just went through that funny, Frankie.”

  She sobers. “I’m sorry. It isn’t funny, you’re right. It’s just that, Ren… I’m happy with you. So happy.” Her features grow guarded. “Are you happy?” she asks quietly.

  I slide my hand into hers and tangle our fingers. “Far beyond happy, Frankie. I’m over the moon. Every day.”

  A small, pleased smile warms her face. “Good.” After a beat of silence, she pulls away and takes a sip of her water. “All right, fill in the gaps for me, then. Middle name. Cough it up.”

  “Isak. Yours is Chiara.”

  “How did you…?” She gives me a look. “You totally scoped out my ID, didn’t you?”

  I smooth my napkin, straighten my knife. A man needs a little dignity in life.

  Taking my non-answer for the answer that it is, she moves on. “Do you really want five kids?”

  Glancing up, I meet her eyes, trying to trace the route of our conversation, which isn’t always clear when Frankie and I talk. She doesn’t do all the pit stops and detours that “typical” dialogue takes. Sometimes I need a minute to catch up, but I fin
d it wildly refreshing to speak so directly with her.

  “It’s a ballpark,” I tell her. “I’m open to discussion. You?”

  “A couple at least.”

  I stare at her, finding it easy to picture her as a mom, and a good one, at that. Playful, empathic, affectionate. I can see her sitting near the water in a comfy beach chair, reading a book with a baby sleeping on her chest. That picture, that moment in my mind’s eye, it’s something I want with a physical hunger.

  Frankie smiles and slips her legs between mine under the table. “I think you like me, Zenzero, conversational speed bumps and all.”

  God, if she only knew how much. “I more than like you, pumpkin patch. I love you, exactly as you are.”

  She smiles and peers down at her menu again. “That’s the disturbing thing.”

  After we order, we watch the sun set, and I smile as she moans and sighs over a gourmet burger. When the server clears our plates and leaves a dessert menu, she picks the chocolatiest confection, then sits back with a sigh in her chair. The sea breeze sweeps her hair up and drags dark strands across her face. Frankie deftly tugs them back and glances at me, catching me staring at her.

  “Hi,” she says quietly.

  I grin and stretch my legs further beneath the table, tangling with hers. “Hi.”

  “This has been really nice, Ren. Thank you.”

  “Good.” I lift my water in a toast to her. I’m not touching alcohol, not when I’ll be driving her home. “Congratulations on law school, sugar plum.”

  Her lips twitch as she lifts her root beer. “Thanks, pudding pop.”

  The waiter clears his throat, looking like he might have gotten more than he bargained for when he took this exclusive two-top. Frankie glances away, hiding her smile by sipping her drink.

  Accepting the check, I pull out my wallet and hand him my card. “Thanks.”

  The best kind of server, our waiter simply sets the dessert right in front of Frankie, slips one candle in it, which he lights, then silently disappears.

  “Huh.” Frankie reaches for something on the middle of the table. “What’s this?”

  I watch her pick up the fortune cookie paper as if it’s in slow motion. It must have fallen out of my wallet. I didn’t mean for her to see that. Not yet.

  Faster than you’d think, she snatches it up, and spins the worn paper between her fingers. But I’m fast, too, and my hand clamps over it.

  Her eyes narrow at me. “What?”

  “It’s…private.”

  “A private fortune?” She tries to pull her hand away, but my grip is solid. “What’s the big deal?”

  “Please, Frankie. It’s a souvenir of sorts. It’s special to me.”

  She frowns. “Why won’t you let me read it?”

  The lightbulb goes off over her head. Her eyes widen. “Souvenir? Is this from that night? When you came over and ate all my Chinese?”

  “Excuse me. We split that food fair and square, Miss Revisionist History. In fact, I think you stole one of my wontons, maybe even two.”

  Wrangling the paper out of her grip, which I feel a little bad for—late in the day, Frankie’s hands get stiff and, in her words, “sloppy”—I flip open my wallet and slide it back inside.

  I’m saving that fortune paper for a day in the future. One involving a sparkly ring and me hiving with anxiety.

  Giving me a scowl, Frankie lifts a fork to dig into her cake, then pauses as she sees the solitary candle. Her face blanks. “Why the candle? It’s not my birthday,” she says.

  “I told him we were celebrating you. I think he misunderstood.”

  Frankie peers at the flame, as if it holds a secret. “What do I do?”

  I rub my knee against hers, knowing touch is sometimes all she needs for a little reassurance. “It might not be your birthday, Frankie. But you can always make a wish.”

  She glances up at me and holds my gaze. The sunset blazes in her eyes, sets her skin on fire. I soak in every detail I can when she closes her eyes and blows out the tiny flame with one powerful breath.

  As smoke curls in the air, my heart says its own wish, too.

  * * *

  Once we park in my garage and get inside, Pazza’s thrilled to see us. Frankie doesn’t even scold her when she jumps up and tries to lick me. She’s far away, her brow furrowed. Gears turning.

  Following Pazza out onto the deck, Frankie watches her run down to the sand and wander the shore, sniffing and digging. I’m right behind her, plugging my phone into the speakers.

  Frankie turns and glances up at me, then at the speakers. “What’s with the music?”

  I bow, straighten, and offer my hand. “Madam. May I have this dance?”

  The line between her brows vanishes as she belly laughs. “You were totally born in the wrong century.” Stepping closer, she fists my shirt, yanking me close. I cup her face, leaning to kiss her. “Wait.” Frankie sets her hand on my chest.

  I pull back. “What?”

  “You shouldn’t kiss me—” She pauses, biting her lip.

  “Last I checked, allergies aren’t contagious, Francesca.”

  “Don’t ‘Francesca’ me, Søren,” she grumbles. After a beat of silence, she meets my eyes. “Okay, I might have a small cold, all right? Now please, please don’t go nursemaid on me. This is what I meant that day when we got lunch. When this all started, Ren.”

  I hold her eyes, then press a kiss to her cheek. Closer to the corner of her mouth.

  “Ren—”

  “If I don’t have whatever this sickness is by now, I’m not getting it, Frankie. Just let me kiss you.” I sweep my lips over hers, a faint teasing touch as my thumbs gentle her cheeks. She tastes sweet like chocolate, and her lips are decadently soft.

  As I deepen the kiss, the breeze wraps around us, a blanket of sea air and the faint wisp of flowers. Frankie drapes her arms around my neck and leans in.

  “You have my heart, Søren Bergman,” she whispers against my neck. “Please, please be careful with it.”

  I wrap my arms tight around her, swaying her with me.

  “Always.” Pressing a soft kiss to the corner of her mouth, I slide my grip down her waist, my other hand tangling with hers. “Same goes for you, Francesca. Or else I’ll be reduced to writing maudlin amateur poetry.”

  She sets her head on my shoulder and sighs happily as I lead us in a slow sway across the deck. “Such a good dancer,” she mutters. “You’re annoyingly good at everything you do.”

  “Well, not everything. I can’t do a backbend to save my life. I’m horrible at long division. And I’m still learning how to be good at something else.”

  Frankie peers up at me. “Like what?”

  I snort softly, feeling a blush creep up my cheeks. “You’re going to make me say it?”

  “Ohhhh.” She waves a hand. “No worries, there. You’re the best lover I’ve ever had, Zenzero. Hands down.”

  My heart twists. Not out of an ego boost, but because I tell myself it has much more to do with what Frankie feels when we’re together. In her heart, not just in her body. That for her, as it is for me, it’s not just sex. It’s making love.

  “I’m sorry if I haven’t told you,” she whispers. “It’s not for lack of me thinking it. A lot. Frequently.”

  I press a soft kiss to her lips.

  Her eyes meet mine, and she stares at me curiously. “You know how you told me to get into Shakespeare Club, you have to recite verses that mean something to you?”

  “Mhmm.”

  “If I were standing at the entrance for your meeting, determining whether or not you got in, what would you say to me?”

  The wind sends a swirl of dark hair across her face. I slip it safely behind her ear, tracing my fingers down the shell of her ear, the smooth line of her neck. “Francesca, are you trying to say you’d like to be wooed?”

  She smiles up at me. “I was attempting to be coy. How’d I do?”

  “Nailed it.” I pull her closer, fee
ling her heart beat hard against my chest. “Let’s see. Ah, just the thing.”

  Clearing my throat, I search her eyes. “‘Doubt thou the stars are fire, doubt that the sun doth move, doubt truth to be a liar, but never doubt I love.’” I peer down at her, giving her a soft kiss. “How’s that?”

  Frankie’s smile deepens as she kisses me back. I hold her close in my arms under the night sky’s canopy of fiery stars.

  29

  Frankie

  Playlist: “My Body Is a Cage,” Arcade Fire

  There’s a restless energy among the team. Ren’s features are uncharacteristically tight, like he’s only half present, distracted with worry. Worry that I hope isn’t directed at me. Even though I’m a fair candidate for it. I feel like shit stuck to the bottom of a beat-up sneaker.

  I went to bed last night feeling under the weather and woke up knowing I was heading straight for the eye of the storm. My chest is heavy. I keep stifling a wet cough in the crook of my arm. And when I used the restroom just ten minutes ago, my pee was dark, my skin sallow as I stared at my reflection over the sink. I know I need to drink water, but I can barely get it past my throat.

  Worst part is, I’m not even the saddest looking one in the room. Andy’s quiet—which he never is—Tyler’s cranky, Lin’s heart’s not in it. Rob’s got a scowl going, which my memory has filed away under the label “I had a fight with the wifey,” and if François were any more stressed, I’d slip him one of my emergency Ativan.

  Like always, the team’s gathered in a warehouse corner of the arena, where trucks back in with all kinds of stock you wouldn’t think is necessary but is apparently vital to running a sports rink. It’s where the guys do their usual soccer ritual that’s just supposed to keep them limber, connected, and distracted before they suit up for the game.

  Their version of soccer isn’t a game, per se. It’s just the guys in their warm-ups, circled around, volleying the ball. The sole aim of the exercise is not to let the soccer ball hit the ground. It makes you careful with your touches, aware of your teammates. It’s a smart pre-game activity.