Beach Reads Box Set

by Madden-Mills, Ilsa

  “Wow.” Blaire’s eyes go wide. “You meant it when you called her a powerhouse.”

  I nod. “She was generous and kind, but make no mistake about it, she wasn’t weak. And when anyone misjudged her, she made them regret it.”

  I walk around the sofa to burn some energy that showed up out of nowhere. Blaire watches me but doesn’t move except to pull her legs up under her again.

  “What was her name?” she asks.

  “Annabelle Hickman. She was my mother’s mother.”

  “This room is your ode to Annabelle.”

  My heart tugs at the sound of her name. “It is, I guess.”

  “May I ask what happened to her?”

  “She went in for a routine surgery and died on the table. There was a heart problem that went undetected.” I grip the back of the sofa. “Her husband, my grandfather, died before I was born.”

  Blaire grips the armrest. Her lips turn down. “I’m sure she’s very proud of you. You know that, right?”

  I give her a shrug in lieu of words because the truth is, I hope she would be proud of me. She always said her grandchildren were her most important contributions to the world. I’d hate to think she’d be disappointed in the life I’ve chosen.

  But I don’t say that.

  Blaire seems to understand my need not to elaborate beyond the physical gesture.

  She takes a long breath. “You still have your dad’s parents, right?”

  “We have Gramps. Gramma passed away a few years ago.”

  I walk around the sofa and sit down again.

  The breeze kicks up and rocks the French doors back and forth. They somehow swing in time with the crackling of the fire.

  “What about you?” I ask.

  “I just have my nana.”

  She shrugs as if it’s no big deal. I’d believe it, too, if there wasn’t a brief shot of pain in her beautiful blue eyes.

  “You’ve told me a little about her,” I say. “She sounds like a powerhouse too.”

  “Oh, most definitely. She had to be to put up with us like she has—especially Peck and Machlan. She’s practically raised them.”

  “Who is Peck?”

  “My cousin. His mother is a real gem,” she says in disgust. “But Nana raised Mach too because …” She takes a deep breath and holds it for a long couple of seconds before blowing it out. “Our parents died in a boating accident many years ago. Machlan was still a teenager.”

  My heart breaks at the look on her face. Not because it’s sad, but because it’s trying really hard not to be.

  I wonder if she’s always this buttoned up about it, or if she allows herself to display the pain she has to be feeling. Losing your parents? Shit. I don’t know how I’d survive. But I do know I’d be unable to hold it together like that.

  “I’m sorry, Blaire.”

  “Yeah. Me too.”

  “Tell me about them.”

  A shadow falls across her face. The vaguest grin touches her lips as she stares out the French doors. “They were amazing,” she says softly. “The backbone of our family. They took care of us—all of us. My brothers and me. Nana. Peck. Any kid we’d drag over to the house who needed a meal or shoes.”

  I sit quietly and watch her wrestle with her memories. A softness settles over her face, her posture relaxing too, before she seems to catch herself.

  She stands and stretches before bending over to pick up our food containers.

  I jump to my feet. “What are you doing?” I take the two white boxes away from her.

  “I’m trying to pick up our mess.”

  Her eyes plead with me to go along with her redirection. Even though I want to press for more—to see more of her in an unguarded, or less guarded, state—I don’t. But I don’t give her the boxes back either.

  “I’ll do that,” I tell her.

  “Come on, Holt. Let me help.”

  “You’re my guest.”

  “It’s not going to hurt to let me pick up my trash, for crying out loud.”

  “For crying out loud,” I say, mocking her. “You really have a problem not getting your way, don’t you?”

  She starts to object and then stops. A laugh topples past her lips. “Yes. I do.”

  “Well, good. That will make this all the more fun.”

  I walk a wide berth around her and head to the kitchen. Her feet slap against the hardwood as she chases me through the living room and down the hallway into the kitchen.

  “This isn’t how this works,” she says, a laugh in her voice.

  I toss the containers into the trash can. “Is it not?”

  “No.” She brushes a strand of hair out of her face. “You’re supposed to let me have my way. I’m the guest. That’s how it works.”

  “Not here, pretty girl.”

  Her cheeks flush the faintest shade of pink as she gazes up at me. “You’re a pain in the ass.”

  “That I am.” I dip my head toward her as I walk around her again. I’m too close to kissing her already and need to put a bit of distance between us. “What are your plans for tomorrow?”

  “I don’t know.” Her frustration at not getting kissed is evident. “What are you doing?”

  “Working,” I say as I place our tea glasses from earlier into the dishwasher. “You can hang out by the pool. You can’t see it very well now, but the pool is pretty damn nice.”

  “It won’t be weird for you to have me here when you aren’t?”

  I grin to myself. “I don’t know. Are you going to rob me?”

  “No,” she exclaims.

  “Are you going to go through my underwear drawer?”

  “Wasn’t on the agenda.”

  “Then I guess it won’t be weird.”

  She smacks me on the shoulder as she rounds the island. “I might go down and see the cathedral you were telling me about tomorrow afternoon. I looked it up while I was killing time not coming here this evening.”

  “You were, were you?”

  She nods, leaning her forearms against the countertop. “It looks like one of those places that people will ask you about after they learn you were here. It’ll make me look like a good little tourist.”

  I lean my forearms against the countertop too. “You might be the worst tourist in the history of tourism.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Maybe. I better meet you down there and make sure you do all the right things. Just to be safe.”

  Her eyes light up. “I’ll probably be there around one.”

  “I can probably be there around one too.”

  “Cool.”

  “Cool,” I say back, making her laugh.

  We watch each other in an easy comfortability. It’s an odd sensation to feel this relaxed around someone I just met. Especially here.

  “What?” she asks.

  “What, what?”

  “What are you thinking?”

  I contemplate not telling her or fabricating some bullshit answer to satisfy her curiosity. But I’m fairly certain she’ll call me out on it, and we’ll end up at the truth anyway.

  “I was thinking,” I begin, “how unusual it is to be enjoying someone’s company here.”

  She looks confused. “Why? I mean, why would you have invited me here if you didn’t expect to somewhat enjoy my company?”

  “I’ll be honest … I didn’t really think you being here all the way through before inviting you.”

  The confusion turns to annoyance. “Gee, thanks. I have the warm and fuzzies about this now.”

  “That’s not what I mean,” I say adamantly. “What I mean is that I just kind of asked you because it just came out of my mouth. That’s not something I usually do.”

  She jams a thumb over her shoulder. “I can leave.”

  “And I can chase you down and throw you over my shoulder and bring you back.”

  The air between us shifts. And I don’t think it has anything to do with the open French doors on the other side of the house.

>   She faces me and gives me her very best undeterred look. But hiding just beneath that badassery is a thin layer of excitement that she doesn’t want to show.

  I take a step toward her. “You like that, don’t you?”

  “I like what?”

  “The idea of being thrown over my shoulder.”

  She scoffs. “I think we established the fact that I don’t love cavemen at our first dinner together.”

  “I think what we established is that you don’t want to like the whole caveman thing because you think it makes you weak.”

  “No. I think it makes men weak.”

  I stand in front of her and peer down. She lifts her chin to see into my eyes. To offset the imbalance of power, she throws her shoulders back.

  It doesn’t work.

  “I bet,” I say, biting my bottom lip, “if I touched you right now, you’d be wet.”

  Her lips twist as she scrambles for a response.

  “And even though you don’t want to admit it,” I say slowly, “it’s because the idea of being dominated turns you the fuck on.”

  I lay a finger against the side of her cheek. She fights her natural instinct to lean into my touch.

  The pad of my finger draws a faint line down her jaw. Her chest rises and falls at a quickened pace, her pupils dilating.

  “Would you be wet for me, Blaire?”

  Her gaze smolders. “Depends on where you touch me.”

  “I—” I begin but am interrupted by the sound of two ringing phones.

  Blaire’s shoulders fall as a giggle escapes her mouth. “There have to be cameras around here. This is so unfair.”

  I jerk my phone out of my back pocket. I’m not nearly as entertained by the disruption as she is.

  Oliver’s name is printed across my screen. I’m ready to send him to voicemail when Blaire speaks.

  “This is my nana,” she says. “I should answer it.”

  I want to take her phone and throw it into the pool and make her forget it ever rang. But it’s her grandmother, so I’m sure I’d go to hell for that.

  “Go ahead,” I say with as much neutrality as I can muster. “I’ll be in the den.”

  She flashes me a grateful smile as I press the green button and turn on my heel.

  “You are such a fucking cock block,” I tell him without saying hello.

  He greets me with a full-bellied laugh. “I guess I can forgo asking how you are.”

  “Fucker.”

  “Nah, I don’t think you are fucking her, actually.”

  I run a hand through my hair as I pass through by the foyer. “Did you call for a reason? Or just to piss me off?”

  “I called for a reason. Pissing you off is just a bonus.”

  “Well, shut up and get to the point. I’m about to shut this phone off for the night.”

  I enter the den and stand next to the fireplace. The blanket I keep on the back of the chair that Blaire was sitting in is draped over the armrest. My immediate inclination is to pick it up and put it back where it goes. But before I touch the fabric, I pull back. I kind of like it there.

  “I’m taking it Blaire is there,” Oliver says.

  “If you wanna gossip, call Wade.”

  He tsks me.

  “Tell me why you called so I can get back to what I was doing,” I say, my gaze drifting toward the doorway.

  “You mean who you were doing? Or about to do?”

  “Ollie …” I warn.

  “All right, all right.” He sucks in a breath. “We’re having lunch with Landry tomorrow at eleven thirty. Wade’s new drawings are spectacular. He outdid himself. Have you seen them?”

  “Yes. Well, I saw them this afternoon. I don’t know what he changed.”

  “They’re awesome. Anyway, we’re meeting Graham and Lincoln Landry at Picante. Keep your schedule open.”

  “Will do.” I sigh. “Can I go now?”

  “Yes, you can go now. Just get this out of your system so you can concentrate tomorrow. I’m getting tired of being the only one who can think around here today.”

  I snort. “Phone is going off. Talk to you in the morning.”

  “Goodbye.”

  Blaire’s laughter filters through the house. I don’t know if it’s loud or if I’m just in tune with her.

  I rub my hands down my face.

  She laughs again.

  My stomach twists. I tell myself it’s a case of blue balls, and I’m sure on some level, it is. I definitely wanted to fuck. But as I listen to her faint voice filter my direction, I wonder if it’s not something else too. Something less physical.

  You just have a few days of this. Enjoy it for what it is, and then everything will go back to normal.

  I’m not sure if knowing I have a few days of this left is a good thing or a bad thing. And that’s fucking scary.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Blaire

  A breeze just strong enough to rustle the branches of the massive oak trees in Xavier Park billows around me. The chapel sits on the other side of a lazy street that gives off the impression of being in a cozy village rather than the city of Savannah.

  I stroll along a path and take in the space that’s more magical than mundane. People pass by, giving me a welcoming smile or a gentle wave. Others lie on blankets with dogs or lovers while some curl up with books beneath the trees.

  My rush to finish my work this morning paid off. While I was sorting through Yancy’s emails and the new evidence in the Lawson case, I chastised myself for agreeing to this. My butt should be in a chair, in Chicago, with my face in case files. But now, as I breathe in the fresh, clean air, my regret diminishes.

  It diminishes even more when I remember Holt is on his way.

  I grin.

  “He’ll be here soon,” I say aloud.

  The excitement in my stomach bubbles, and I don’t try to fight it. It’s futile at this point.

  Hearing him get ready for work this morning—the soft steps of his feet down the hall, the gravel of his voice answering a call, the clatter of his dishes in the kitchen—made me want to get up too. I fought with myself to stay in bed and not make a fool out of myself.

  I escaped the night before and maintained my dignity—mostly. It was not the easiest thing I’ve ever done. Especially when I ended Nana’s call and looked up to see him standing in the doorway with that look in his eye. It was a glimmer of concern, presumably about something to do with his phone call, but also a predatory sheen. And while I was totally on board for being his prey, I knew that he needed to address work. I couldn’t be a distraction, so I took myself to the guest room like an adult and locked the door.

  For his own good. And mine.

  He didn’t come for me—pun sadly intended.

  My phone rings in my hand, and I jump. “Hey, Sienna,” I say.

  “Hey! How are you?

  “I’m good. What about you?”

  “I’m great. Walker is great. Family is good. Now talk to me.”

  I can’t help but laugh at the mischief in her voice. A bench sits at the entry of the park, and I make my way to it.

  “What do you want me to say?” I ask, playing coy.

  “Oh, my gosh, Blaire. Holt. Talk to me about Holt Mason. I know you’re not this dense.”

  My cheeks split into a grin. I sit on the bench and feel a warmth spread throughout my body.

  As much as I don’t want to admit it—to Sienna or myself, for that matter—being able to talk about this with her is … nice. I’m not sure how much to say or what I should say or if I’ll regret it in a week when I’m back home and Holt is nothing but a memory, but it’s fun for now.

  “I’m still in Savannah,” I say.

  “Nana told me. I mean, I guessed as much, but she said she talked to you last night and confirmed it.”

  My jaw drops. “You didn’t tell Nana about Holt, did you?”

  The idea of my grandmother knowing I was sleeping with a man I just met is horrifying. My sweet little N
ana would probably burst into flames.

  I slink down on the bench and wince.

  Sienna sighs. “I know this girl thing is new to you, but the first rule in the Girl Code is no snitching.”

  “That’s also the first rule in prison.”

  She scoffs. “See? That’s your problem right there. You know more about prison dynamics than you do having a friend.”

  “You might be right,” I say, sitting back up. I shove that idea from my brain and focus on the task at hand. “You didn’t tell Nana, right? I need a straightforward confirmation.”

  “No, Blaire, I didn’t tell your grandma that you were seeing a well-to-do, wealthy, kind man while you’re on vacation. The horror.”

  “Well, thank you. That was nice of you.”

  Her laugh is embedded with disbelief. “Okay. Let me guide you through this process.”

  “What process?”

  “The process of gossip!” She laughs. “This is the point when you tell me all the sordid details from last night. And don’t leave anything out.”

  My face flushes at the idea of Holt doing sordid things to me. Lord, how I wanted him to. But my body settles down at the reminder that he didn’t do anything of the sort.

  I sigh.

  “Why are you so invested in this, anyway?” I return a nod to a woman and her son as they walk by. “Don’t you have better things to do?”

  “You’re being serious?”

  “I’m always being serious.”

  “Good point.” She blows out a breath. “I … I like this side of you. I like getting to know you like this. Sure, we’ve chatted about Walker’s broodiness and Nana’s fried chicken, but that’s on a familial level. I like getting to know you like girls get to know girls. We bond over boys.”

  “Huh.”

  I get to my feet and mull over her words. We bond over boys. That sounds tragic. That sounds like quicksand under the foundation of a friendship.

  “Surely, you’ve had one friend before,” Sienna says. “You can’t have been on this island your whole life, right?”

  “I had a sleepover or two growing up.”

  “Or two?”

  “The girls I went to school with were …”

  I struggle to find the words to describe them. I’m afraid she’ll take it personally.