Beach Reads Box Set

by Madden-Mills, Ilsa

  I give her a wave before heading back to my desk.

  My heart pounds in my chest as I sit back at my seat and overtly ignore my phone. I rifle through my drawer as if I’m searching for the meaning to life when, in reality, I’m just searching for my fucking sense.

  This situation shouldn’t screw with my head like this.

  But my whole family shouldn’t know about Blaire, either.

  It’s not a big deal, and even if I wanted to bring her to the concert, what would it matter? Would it really be that different than if I’d bring Daphne Monroe or some other debutante?

  I pull out a peppermint, then slip the wrapper off and pop it into my mouth. My mind tries to rationalize the last few minutes when I lift my head and my eyes meet Oliver’s.

  He’s staring at me with a smug smile on his face.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Nothing.” He shrugs and looks back down at his papers. “You’re just so full of shit.”

  Before I can respond—before I can get my head wrapped around what he’s insinuating I’m full of shit about, exactly—Rosie knocks on the door. Her head pokes around the corner.

  “Boys, Graham Landry is in the conference room,” she says.

  “We’ll be right there,” I tell her.

  She nods and disappears, pulling the door softly behind her.

  Oliver shuffles his papers into a neat stack. “I need to get one more file from my office before we go in.”

  “You go ahead,” I tell him. “I’ll meet you there in five.”

  He nods and disappears out the door too.

  I tuck my tie in my jacket once again before pulling at the knot around my neck. I’m not sure if it’s too tight today or if my office is unusually warm. Either way, it’s uncomfortable.

  My lungs fill with air as I step around my desk. But before I can get all the way to the other side, my gaze falls on my phone.

  I stop.

  No worries. I get it.

  “No worries, huh?” I mutter.

  Shaking my head, I pick up the phone and glance at the clock. After a quick mental calculation, my fingers fly across the keypad.

  Me: I apologize for bailing on you today. I should’ve called. Meet me at The Carriage House tonight at six. It’s on Harrison Street. I’ll make it up to you.

  Before she can respond, I turn my phone off and toss it on my desk.

  “Now, let’s go make some money,” I say as I march out of my office.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Blaire

  The evening air is crisp and smells faintly of rain.

  When rain is on the horizon in Chicago, the city takes on the odor of a rich stew saturated with gasoline. But here, in a cozy section of Savannah, it’s different. The air hints of the earth and sea. It’s evocative.

  Closing my eyes, I take a deep lungful of air and am whisked back to summers on Lake Michigan with my family. I can almost hear my family’s laughter and smell the barbecue pit that Dad tended with the care of a surgeon.

  “I’m glad you’re still here.”

  I whirl around at the sound of Holt’s voice.

  He tugs at his tie, his forehead wrinkled as he approaches me on the sidewalk in front of The Carriage House. He looks divinely handsome in his tailored suit and freshly shaven face. The air of sophistication mixed with the razor-cut jaw and wide, strong shoulders make me forget about everything but him.

  “A horse-drawn carriage?” I lift a brow. “I wasn’t about to miss my chance at being a princess.”

  He grins. “You being a princess is an interesting concept.”

  “And why is that?”

  Holt stops in front of me. His tie is slightly askew, and it’s all I can do not to reach out and straighten it. I grip my sweater harder to keep myself from running my fingers through his rumpled hair.

  “Which princess would you be?” he asks. “The one who waits for a knight in shining armor to rescue her from a tower? Or the one who needs a kiss from a prince to awaken?”

  I half-laugh. “How about the one who rescues herself?”

  “My point.”

  He narrows his eyes, and I can see the stress he’s trying to hide with his slow smile. It’s the aftermath of a day of battling at work. I’d imagine his body aches and his brain feels like a pan of scrambled eggs too. And suddenly, I wish he wouldn’t have offered to bring me here and would’ve gone home instead.

  “I didn’t think you were coming,” I say. “I was about to leave.”

  “Of course, I was coming,” he says, his eyes searching mine. “I’m sorry about earlier and for making you wait now. Things got a bit hectic at the office.”

  “You don’t have to entertain me, you know. You didn’t have to do this.”

  His grin is beautiful if tired. “I never do anything I don’t want to do.”

  He allows his smile to speak for him. It lingers my way for a few long seconds. The hesitation I felt before melts away, and I realize how happy and relieved I am that he showed up.

  And how even happier I am that I believe he wants to be here too.

  “Hello, Cassius,” Holt says, dragging his eyes away from me. “Thank you for helping me out tonight.”

  “Absolutely, Mr. Mason. It’s my pleasure.”

  Cassius, the man who introduced himself to me when I arrived, shakes Holt’s hand. He leads us to a shiny black carriage with oversized, white-walled wheels. The grandest horse I’ve ever laid eyes on stands in command in the front.

  Holt’s hand presses lightly against the small of my back as he guides me toward the carriage. I ignore the zip of his touch and climb inside.

  The interior is lined with a pristine red velvet. The seats are covered with a matte black material, and when I sit, I feel like royalty.

  Holt exchanges a few quiet words with Cassius before climbing in next to me.

  Our shoulders brush together as he gets situated. His knee bumps mine in the slightest way. Even so, it feels like a fire is lit in the bottom of my core.

  Rolling up the sleeves of his shirt, he exposes his thick, muscled forearms.

  I look away.

  “If you have any questions as we continue, please don’t hesitate to ask,” Cassius says over his shoulder. “Otherwise, I will leave the two of you to enjoy your own company.”

  “Thank you,” Holt says.

  The carriage pulls forward and the clip-clop of the horse’s shoes against the street soothes the nugget of nerves building in my stomach. It’s an odd anxiety—one not from uncertainty or an unwelcome advance. It’s from anticipation.

  As I look at Holt sitting next to me, watching me with dark, inquisitive eyes, I wonder if he knows this and is doing it on purpose.

  I clear my throat and look at the sky. “It’s so beautiful here. Everything from the painted sunset to the foliage. I wish it were more peaceful like this in Chicago.”

  “I’ve never been there.”

  “It’s nothing like this,” I say, taking in a small building with stained glass windows. “It’s all skyscrapers and people and hustle.”

  “Do you like it there?”

  The question catches me off guard for some reason. I look at him.

  “I like that I’m close to my family. I like that I can walk to most places, but I can have a car too. And our pizza is the best,” I say, adding the last bit on but internally cringing as soon as it’s out of my mouth.

  He fights a smile. “Pizza, huh?”

  “What? I like pizza.”

  He stretches his arm out behind me and rests it along the back of the seat. Every cell in my body is hyper-aware of his proximity, and it takes all my strength to ignore it.

  “I miss Savannah when I’m not here,” he says.

  “I can see why.”

  The horse neighs as our procession slows. Holt and I are bumped toward each other. Our eyes snap together but neither one of us mentions it with anything more than a grin.

  He twists his lips together and readjusts in
his seat.

  “Do you see that building over there?” He motions to his right with his index finger toward a brick building. A blue-and-white striped awning hangs overhead and advertises a discount store. “That is where my great-grandfather started the first Mason company.”

  “Really?”

  He nods triumphantly. “It was a landscape company, to be exact.” He looks at me as we slip past the storefront. “He met my great-grandmother at a potluck dinner. She made the best oatmeal pie he’d ever eaten, and he asked her to marry him on the spot.”

  “He did not,” I say with a laugh.

  “That’s how the story goes.” His eyes sparkle. “He said he actually knew he was going to propose as soon as she walked in, but he needed an excuse to seem sane.”

  “Well, if he thought that marrying someone because they baked a great pie is sane, then okay.”

  Holt’s chuckle is low and deep. “I know. It’s crazy to me too.”

  The horse marches along the street in a leisurely yet steady pace. The rhythm steadies my heartbeat, and I relax for the first time since Holt left for work this morning.

  I turn my head to see him. “Have you ever been married?”

  “Me? No. What kind of question is that?”

  “A completely logical one. Most people our age have been married once or twice by now.”

  “Well, okay. No, I haven’t been married. I’ve never been engaged either.”

  “That surprises me.”

  He chuckles. “It surprises my mother too.”

  I return his smile. “Do you think you’ll get married someday? I can see you sitting in your living room by the fireplace with a horde of children at your feet.”

  “Oh …” He winces. “I don’t know. Does it make me a terrible person to admit I’m not sure I want kids?”

  “No, not at all.”

  “With my office hours and travel schedule, it would be impossible to have a life like that. And I think, to do either well, you have to choose. I’m already pretty good at one, and it’s important to me. So why take a chance by adding the other?”

  I nod. “Makes perfect sense.”

  He angles his body so that he can face me more head-on. “Have you been married?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “What kind of question is that?” I force a swallow as I repeat his question. “I got ice cream from there today,” I say, pointing at the parlor across from Xavier Park. “It was really good.”

  When I look back at him, he’s still looking at me. The intensity and curiosity make me squirm.

  “Why not?” he repeats.

  Because I thought I was going to get married once, and I’ll never go through that again.

  The clip-clop of the horse’s hooves doesn’t even begin to drown out the sound of blood pouring across my ears. I mentally smack myself for bringing this up in the first place.

  I feel pressured to tell him the truth—mostly because I know he would be open with me. But if I do that, if I spill my guts all over this beautiful velvet carriage, the picture that I paint won’t match the Blaire he thinks he knows. And I’ll have a hell of a time getting out of that mental space.

  Jack is intrinsically tied to that time in my life. I cannot uncouple the two. I’ve tried for years.

  I clear my throat and avoid his piercing gaze.

  What would Holt say if I told him that Jack left me because I almost got kicked out of law school? Would he think less of me, of my family, that I was going to Linton to bail Machlan out of jail at least once a month after our parents died? Would he think I’m an irresponsible disaster if he knew all of the financial holes I found myself in back then? Some of which I’m still digging myself out of now?

  “Blaire …”

  “I’ve not found the right person, I suppose.”

  “Are you looking for him?”

  My laugh is silent, but my body moves with the force of holding it back.

  Holt’s brows furrow. “What does that mean?”

  “It means I’m not looking for him.”

  My response is clipped and to the point, and I hope Holt takes it at face value. But when I glance at him across my shoulder, I see that he doesn’t.

  His gaze challenges me. The look he wields my way tries to worm its way inside me and extract all the ugly things I don’t want him to know.

  I do my best mirror of his expression—a trick I learned in law school, but he doesn’t bite.

  “Why do you do this?” he asks.

  “What am I doing?”

  He fights a grin. “You’re trying to redirect this conversation.”

  “I answered your question.”

  A breeze shoots through the carriage and ruffles the end of my sweater. I pull it tighter to my body as we take a slow, wide turn next to a stately fountain. Kids stand around it and toss coins into the water.

  When I look back at Holt, he’s still watching me.

  “I heard from Yancy today—my assistant,” I clarify. “She said that we should be back in the building this week.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’ll be out of your hair soon.”

  He reaches forward and brushes a strand of hair out of my face. The tenderness of his gesture makes my heart swell.

  “I’m more concerned about something else,” he says.

  “What’s that?”

  He pulls his hand back and relaxes back against the velvet. His tongue swipes across his bottom lip as he eyes me carefully.

  “Why do you have such a hard time opening up?” he asks.

  “I didn’t know I do.”

  He cocks his head to the side. “Yes, you do.”

  “No, I don’t,” I insist. “I just choose not to spill all the details about my life to anyone who will listen.”

  “I’m not just anyone who will listen, Blaire. I want to get to know you.”

  “You do know me.”

  He’s not impressed.

  “I’m not as interesting as most people,” I say. “I spent my time in the office, in a courtroom, or at home. I don’t have a lot of hobbies. I don’t have a lot of friends. There’s no time for it in my life. I told you this already.”

  “You did. You told me all of that—all of that superficial, first-date bullshit that doesn’t say anything about you. You know this. You aren’t stupid.”

  His tone cuts through me.

  My chin lifts, my heart beating in a well-practiced rhythm. It’s my go-to, my auto-response when I’m at work and being haggled by a judge or attorney. I don’t let them see me sweat.

  I won’t let him either.

  “You’re right,” I say. “I’m not stupid. What I am, however, is intentional.”

  “So you’re intentionally choosing not to share anything about yourself with me?”

  “In a way, yes.”

  He sighs and shakes his head.

  “What does it matter?” I ask. “I will be gone in five days, tops. Does it matter how I feel about marriage? Or what flavor ice cream I like best? Or … anything? No, Holt. It doesn’t.”

  “Someone really burned you, didn’t they?”

  I roll my eyes and look at the back of Cassius’s gray-haired head.

  “Look, I don’t want to press you,” Holt says. “I don’t want you sharing anything with me that you’re uncomfortable sharing. But is it totally absurd to want to be friendly? If I’m in Chicago, we could meet for drinks. If you’re back down here, we could have dinner. Is it so wrong?”

  A sigh leaves my lips well before I intend. “Why does everyone keep saying this to me?”

  “Who is everyone?”

  “Okay, two people,” I say with a slight smile. “You and Sienna Landry.”

  “She’s a nice girl.”

  “She’s nosy like you,” I say, elbowing him in the side. “Must be the Savannah in you.”

  He laughs. “I won’t point out that you’re changing the topic again.”

  The carriage comes to
a stop beneath the sign that reads The Carriage House. I glance up and smile.

  “Saved by the bell,” he says.

  He stands and straightens his tie before stepping down the steps. Cassius greets him, and they chatter about the ride. Holt keeps a side-eye on me as he extends a hand my way.

  I place my palm in his.

  The warmth and familiarity of his grip trickles across my skin. His fingertips press against the small of my back as my feet hit the pavement.

  “I hope you enjoyed your ride,” Cassius says to me.

  “I did. It was lovely. Thank you.”

  “Anything for Mr. Mason.” He looks at Holt and nods. “Give me a call if you need anything else.”

  “Will do, sir. Have a good evening,” Holt says.

  “Good night.” Cassius turns and tends to his horse.

  The air is much cooler than it was when we began. The overhead clouds are a dark, menacing navy blue as we head to our cars.

  We walk silently down the tree-lined sidewalk, and I wonder what he’s thinking.

  Raindrops begin to fall from the sky as we make it to my car. He tugs the door open and holds it as I climb in.

  “That was really nice,” I say. “Thank you for taking me.”

  He studies me. Water droplets fall on his hair, making the locks appear darker and silkier. They drip onto his face and shoulders as he stands with one hand on the car door and the other on the roof.

  My heartbeat thunders in my chest. The uncertainty of what he’s about to say eats at me. With each second that passes, my anxiety grows.

  Is he going to tell me I’m too much trouble and that I should go? Is he going to say that my refusal to answer his questions is rude? Is he going to go back to the office and send me to his home alone?

  I open my mouth to say something, anything when he speaks.

  “I’m sorry if I made you uneasy by asking questions,” he says. “I find it too easy to open up to you, and it never occurred to me that maybe that doesn’t work both ways.”

  I sigh. “No, Holt—”

  He cuts me off with the crook of his brow. “You are absolutely right. Never compromise yourself because someone pushes.” He begins to close the door. “I’ll see you at home. Drive carefully.”