Beach Reads Box Set

by Madden-Mills, Ilsa

  She lowers her eyes from mine.

  “And I thought about just ending it all.” She hiccups through her tears. “I figured I could drink enough and then just do it and never wake up or feel anything again. I was so tired of feeling like I was drowning and that no one fucking cared.”

  I pull her to me. She resists at first, but then melts in my arms.

  My hands clasp at the small of her back as I rest my chin on top of her head. I squeeze my eyes shut and feel the sting of her words in my chest.

  Her body goes limp in my arms as she succumbs to the emotions she’s been holding in for God knows how long. Her cries are quiet—her fists balling my shirt up and holding it tight.

  I try to imagine her pain. I attempt to piece together a life without my parents, without my work, without my brothers who are my best friends.

  The thought alone is enough to make me want to lose my mind.

  We stand in the middle of my office for a long time, swaying back and forth. I hold her tight until her cries soften and then stop. My body doesn’t separate from hers until her fists let go of my shirt and her body stops shaking. Only then do I look down.

  She peers up at me with a timid look on her face.

  “I’m sorry I spewed all of that out like that,” she whispers.

  “I’m sorry you held it in for so long.”

  She grins. “Thanks for listening.”

  “Thanks for trusting me.”

  She steps back.

  I let her go because I have to, but I hate that I do. I miss her in my arms almost immediately.

  We watch each other with a heavy dose of hesitation.

  I want to tell her how strong she is and that I’m honored she shared all of that with me. I also want to tell her that I want to take her to bed and kiss her and show her how amazing she is until the sun comes up.

  But none of that feels right.

  I look over my shoulder at the work I still need to do. It only takes a second to realize it can wait—or it will wait, even if it can’t.

  I’ll figure it out tomorrow.

  “Come on,” I say, taking her hand and tugging her behind me.

  “Where are we going?”

  “You said you like pizza, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. I have some pizza in the freezer with our name on it.”

  She laughs. “This one time in college, we ordered this pizza …”

  As we round the corner into the hallway, I mentally check out. I don’t hear her words, just her voice and the way it’s less bogged down. It’s airier and freer … and music to my ears.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Blaire

  “I feel like food is your love language,” I say, stretching my toes out in front of me.

  Holt sits on a wicker chair across the little round table between us and smiles over the rim of his glass.

  “There have been worse things said about me,” he says.

  I close my eyes and listen to the crickets chirp all around us.

  The screened-in porch off the kitchen feels like a cocoon. A fire burns in the large stone fireplace along the far wall. From our perch, you can see the pool and spa to the left and to the right, a vast field of green that I gazed at while eating my breakfast this morning.

  Man, how that feels like more than almost a day ago.

  I’m not sure if it was the bourbon or if opening up to Holt relaxed me so much, but something did. I could close my eyes and drift to a peaceful sleep. Instead, I let my eyelids fall, and I remember the safety of his arms as I cried.

  It’s been a long time since I felt that—the support. And just that someone gives a damn.

  “If you don’t want any more of this, I’m going to take it inside,” Holt says with a yawn.

  I open my eyes. “I had two pieces. It’s two in the morning. If I eat any more, I’m going to be sick.”

  He chuckles as he gets to his feet. “Then I’ll take it inside.”

  “Here, I’ll help you.”

  We gather our plates and napkins and the rest of the pizza and head inside.

  “So, honest opinion—was that better than Chicago pizza?” he asks.

  “Close but no. It’s the crust.” I shrug. “It’s just not the same.”

  He holds a paper plate over the recycling container. “You just ate two pieces.”

  “What is your point?”

  “That you must’ve liked it a little bit.”

  “I didn’t say I didn’t. I just said Chicago pizza is better.”

  “You’re wrong,” he teases as he deposits the plate in the bin.

  I walk behind him and ignore the way my body is pulled in his direction. It’s like a magnet—tugging me toward him no matter where I am.

  I’ve noticed it all night. We might start on opposite sides of the kitchen, but we end up side by side. Even when we moved to the porch to eat, our chairs drifted closer and closer.

  It’s a weird occurrence, but one I don’t mind.

  I don’t think he minds, either.

  “At least I don’t have thirty frozen pizzas in my freezer,” I point out as I wipe the counter off. “That’s overkill, don’t you think?”

  “Rosie’s granddaughter was selling them for her softball team.”

  I shake my head.

  “What?” He laughs. “They were ten bucks for a large one-topping. It was a good deal, and it supported a good cause. What’s not to love about that?”

  I can’t help but laugh too. It doesn’t take long before it turns into a long, sleepy yawn.

  “Tired?” Holt asks.

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s been a long day. Let’s head to bed.”

  “I hope I can sleep,” I say as he flips off the overhead lights.

  He nudges my elbow toward the doorway. “I thought you said you were tired.”

  “I am. Terribly. But sometimes being this tired makes me toss and turn. It’s counter-intuitive, I know.”

  We enter the hallway. It’s lit only by a small light hanging above the artwork I noticed on my first day here. The house is entirely quiet; the floorboards don’t even creak as we transverse the area.

  There’s a peace about this house that I feel in my bones. It might be the darkness, and it might be the solitude, but something about being here lets my mind reset. I can think. I work more efficiently. The bubble inside my stomach that always feels like it’s ready to pop and spur a thousand things to come racing my way is less powerful here.

  “I’ll tell you what,” Holt says as we ascend the stairs. “I have a sauna that will relax every muscle in your body. Ten minutes will knock you out. Guaranteed.”

  “Ooh, sign me up.”

  I follow him up the stairs, past my bedroom door, and down the hallway. We take a left at the end and into a cozy master bedroom.

  “Oh, wow,” I say, turning in a full circle to take it all in.

  The walls are painted the softest of grays, and the trim is bright white. Gold curtains frame floor-to-ceiling windows that face the back of the property.

  A large, king-sized bed with a gold and black bedspread sits against one wall. The furniture is grand but not overdone and complements the large yet quaint space perfectly.

  “This is exactly what I would’ve pictured for you,” I tell him as I come to a stop in front of him.

  He grins. “You’ve been thinking about my bedroom?”

  “No. I said would’ve. Listen when I speak.”

  I turn away so he doesn’t see my smile.

  “Lies,” he whispers from a position close to my back.

  I shiver at the proximity and the heat of his breath on the back of my neck. But before I can anticipate anything else, he speaks again from a more distant range.

  “What’s your bedroom like?” he asks.

  “What do you think it’s like?”

  I turn to face him. He presses his lips together in thought.

  The soft glow of the bedroom lights blur the sha
rpness of his features. His eyes are mossier and less jade, his jaw blunt and less defined. Still, he’s beautiful in every way.

  “I’d say your bedroom is black and white with pink details here and there. But not too much,” he adds. “Can’t let anyone think you have girlish whims or anything.”

  I shove his shoulder as I laugh, knocking him off balance.

  “But am I right?” he asks.

  “Yes,” I mock, rolling my eyes.

  He rewards me with a bright smile. “There’s a difference between you and me, though.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’ll admit that I’ve been thinking about your bedroom.”

  My stomach clenches. Fire rockets from my core down my thighs. Holt watches me as if he can see my inner workings and just what he does to me.

  His eyes darken, his lids hood, as he takes in my reaction to him. My breathing becomes uneven as our proximity and location come together in one fluid, perfect moment.

  I wait for any sign that he’s finally going to touch me. The longer I watch him, the more I want him. I need him. I’m dying for him to break the barrier between us.

  He shifts his weight, and my breath catches in my throat. My body tingles with expectancy at his next move.

  He runs a hand down his jaw and over his chin as he watches me from just a few feet away.

  “The sauna is in here,” he says and turns away.

  My insides scream as the pent-up desire I’ve had building for days now threatens to spill out. I force myself not to shout at him, not to reach for him, not to make any mention of how irritating he is when he does this.

  It takes a full two seconds to get my feet to move to follow him.

  I consider that maybe he didn’t feel the same way after the night at Picante. But then I remind myself that he pursued me. He wanted to see me. He wanted to meet for brunch.

  But that was before I snotted all over his shirt tonight.

  We step inside a brightly lit bathroom that’s as beautiful as the rest of his house. The cabinets and built-ins are white, as is the claw foot bathtub. The only pops of color come from the wooden sauna door tucked into a corner and the turquoise-colored tile in the shower.

  He ignores me and heads straight for the sauna. Dials are adjusted, and buttons are pressed.

  I bite my lip as I watch him focus on everything except me. Each second that passes and he’s still ignoring me makes me more anxious.

  The thought of his naked, sweaty body being in a small enclosure next to mine makes every muscle in my body twitch. My nerves are heightened as he turns to face me.

  “Have you used one of these before?” he asks.

  I shake my head.

  “You can get inside …” He looks me up and down. “In any state you want. Dressed, undressed—it’s all fine. The timer will go off in ten minutes.”

  I try not to look shocked.

  “A bucket of water and a ladle are inside as well as a few essential oils. Just add some water to the rocks in the basket beside it to increase the moisture. And add the oils if you want.”

  “Oh, okay,” I say, taking my eyes from him and to the sauna. “I got it.”

  “You can stick the ladle through the door handle inside to lock it if you want. Just … saying,” he adds.

  My hackles are raised.

  Even if he doesn’t want me now that I’ve cried like a baby in front of him, he could be a gentleman and not lead me on.

  Dressed, undressed—it’s all fine.

  Damn you.

  “Will do.” I press my lips together. “Anything else I need to know?”

  He presses his lips together too. I think his is to hide a smile and not from annoyance. It only irritates me further.

  “Nope. I think that’s it,” he says. “Enjoy.”

  And with that, he slides out of the room.

  I wait until I see him leave the bedroom before I turn back toward the sauna.

  The tension in my body proves my need for the tool in front of me. But it’s the same tension that almost has me walking out and into the guest bedroom and locking the door behind me.

  “How can one man be so frustrating?” I whisper as I slip out of my T-shirt.

  I take off my panties and leave them lying on top of my shirt on the floor. If he comes back inside and sees them—oh, well. It’s not like it’s a new threshold for us.

  It’s more like one I’d like to revisit.

  The sauna is already hot when I enter. It smells faintly of a distinct type of wood. I locate the rocks in the corner and the little bucket Holt mentioned. I ladle a bit of water over them before sticking the oversized spoon through the door handle.

  I take a towel off a rack by the door and place it on the lower of the two benches. I’m thankful I didn’t drink anything but water at our little pizza party because the heat of the room is enough to make me lightheaded on its own.

  I sit on the towel and breathe in the thick air. My skin is damp. Beads of sweat dot my body.

  Next to the rack of towels is a thin, rectangular window. Through it, I can see the vanity in the bathroom and the mirrors hanging above it.

  I imagine Holt lying on the bed in the other room. He’s probably grinning smugly, knowing I’m in here hot and naked and wishing he was with me.

  He wants me too. I’m certain. I can see it when he looks at me. I can feel it in the zing of his touch and how his gaze flips to mine as if to ask if I felt it too.

  I can hear it in his voice when he speaks and see it, too, in his actions.

  Except that he hasn’t tried to sleep with me since the night at Picante.

  I sigh.

  I appreciate the conversations we’ve had and the simplicity of being with him. And how he was so kind and gentle with me tonight as I told him about the night with the glass—something I’ve never told anyone except my therapist. I love all of that. I do.

  But I’d also like to be touched.

  “I guess I’ll have to do that myself,” I say out loud.

  My body already hums from the events of the night—from being in Holt’s midst and getting slight touches here and there. It’s maddening that he works me up with only the vaguest brush of his hand, but here I am.

  I stretch my legs out in front of me. Droplets of sweat roll down my torso. Some course off my back and land on the towel; others travel all the way down my legs.

  My core burns and not just from the heat.

  The timer reads that I have seven more minutes to go. I could wait and take care of myself when I get back to my bedroom … or I could do it now.

  My heart thunders in my chest at the prospect of getting myself off inside Holt’s sauna.

  I bite my lip and bring my hands to my stomach. I part my legs. My hands slide down my abdomen, my brain conjuring up memories of what Holt’s hands felt like on my skin on the balcony.

  I pant as my fingers hit the apex of my thighs, and my head falls back.

  My back arches as my fingers hit the swollen bud that’s begged for relief all evening. I gasp as I rub it with my fingertip and feel my body respond.

  “Dammit,” I whisper.

  I take a deep breath and raise my head to check the timer again.

  I freeze.

  Despite the raging inferno both inside the sauna and my body, a flood of shock hits my veins in a quick, unanticipated dump.

  Holt is standing in front of the window. He’s watching me with hooded eyes and a grin that I’m not sure how to read.

  He jiggles the door handle.

  I don’t move my body … nor do I move my hand.

  The temperature increases swiftly, but I think it’s more from his heated gaze than the thermostat.

  I’m not sure what to do.

  He jiggles the handle again. This time, though, it’s quicker. More frantic. And I realize I have him in the position he’s had me in for days.

  A knowing look flickers across his face. I smile at him.

  Busted.


  I touch myself again. My jaw falls open as I gasp a quick breath that’s not as dramatic as it is necessary. Every fiber of my being is screaming a different warning, a different plea as Holt’s eyes are glued to my hand.

  He jiggles the handle again.

  I press harder into myself, urged on by the pure desire in his eyes. The contact makes my body pulse, and his gaze is snapped up to meet mine.

  “Open the door,” he says. His tone is my favorite of his. It’s confident and strong. But I’ve heard it enough to be able to pick out the underlying thread of exasperation, and that’s what I choose to act on.

  I grin, biting my bottom lip. My fingertips slip across my clit. They’re aided by my sweat and how turned on I am by the intensity of Holt’s gaze.

  “Open up, Blaire.”

  My legs fall to the sides. “Open like that? Is that better, Holt?”

  “Be sure you know what you’re doing.”

  I refuse to break eye contact. If I do, he’ll know that I don’t, in fact, know exactly what I’m doing, and if I pause to think about it, I might stop.

  “Don’t you have something else to do?” I ask.

  He remains perfectly still. “This isn’t funny.”

  “Nope. It’s not,” I say, flicking the bud again. “Ah!”

  “I will take this door off the motherfucking hinges.”

  “Not before I come.”

  He disappears.

  I want to go to the window and see if he’s still here—not that I want to know if he is or isn’t. This is a twist in the scenario I didn’t think through. I’m not even sure who I am right now. I don’t act like this.

  Before I can convince myself to slide out of the sauna and run to the guest room, I hear the sound of a motor. The door vibrates. The ladle shakes against the metal handle.

  I realize what he’s doing.

  “Oh, shit.”

  I sit upright and wait with bated breath.

  It takes thirty seconds. The sauna fills with cool air. The doorway, though, fills with Holt Mason.

  He. Took. The. Door. Off. The. Hinges.

  Shit.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  “Coming after you.”