Beach Reads Box Set

by Madden-Mills, Ilsa

  Skye is out having fun, and I’m glad for her. She left the off-campus house we share earlier for a date with her boyfriend, Tyler, and here I sit…languishing in yoga pants and crying into my popcorn.

  I send a longing glance at my phone, waiting for it to buzz with a call or text from someone who cares about me…but it remains silent, mocking me as I press myself into the worn brown leather of the sofa. I hate feeling sorry for myself, but sometimes it gets to me that I don’t have any family since my Nana—the person who raised me—passed right before I left for college.

  God. I’m lonely.

  My nose takes a whiff of the blanket that’s pulled up to my face, and I swear I still smell leftover hints of my ex’s spicy cologne. Alex is a special teams kicker for the football team at Waylon, and we’d been together since we met in a literature class freshman year. He was my first, the person I thought I’d spend the rest of my life with, and for the past year, part of me half-expected him to propose. Instead, he cheated.

  I take a sip of Grey Goose straight from the bottle, eyeing it balefully. At least he had great taste in vodka.

  I lift the bottle in the air, toasting. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Alex, wherever you are. I hope Martha-Muffin can give you what I couldn’t—ideally, the clap.”

  Yep, my arch nemesis from freshman year slept with my boyfriend, and the worst part was I’d walked in on them in his dorm room.

  Feeling that familiar melancholy of being alone creep in, I turn my attention back to the movie. Eerie, spooky music escalates from the surround sound speakers as a girl runs through a forest, her head twisting as she looks to see if she’s being followed. Terror is stamped on her face.

  It was on Skye’s dare that I chose this particular flick, and part of me knows she really just wants me to be preoccupied on a night when I’m alone.

  The popcorn is still warm from the microwave as I pop some in my mouth and chew rather furiously, watching as the heroine on the screen is suddenly accosted by a burly figure with a mask. I scream—even though I knew it was coming—sending fluffy white kernels flying. Han Solo, my cat, stands and hisses at me, his black and white fur sticking straight out. I’ve upended him from his comfy position on the couch.

  “Sorry, little man.”

  Screw the dare. I’ll take her punishment, which would no doubt be inventive. The last time I lost, she made me stand on a table in the cafeteria and call out, “My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard.”

  I scramble for the remote and mute it, wondering if it counts if I watch without the sound on. I am watching it, just minus all the bloodcurdling screams and spine-tingling music.

  “Give me Sixteen Candles or The Goonies any freaking day—those are the best of the eighties,” I mutter under my breath as I stare down at Han. “You agree?”

  His head cocks ever so slightly. He gets me. I know he does.

  I exhale and sit back down, tucking my legs underneath me as I lean my head back against the couch.

  Ping!

  My phone goes off with a text and I straighten up to retrieve it from the table.

  My brow furrows at the unknown number. Usually those are telemarketers or scammers…but it’s a local prefix.

  I read the text. Hey, sexy. I’m glad I have a library card because I was checking you out today. Do you have a Band-Aid? Because I scraped my knee falling for you.

  Two things happen at once: I half-giggle and half-snort, causing a coughing fit I quickly recover from. I was in the library this morning before my upper level psychology class to work on a paper, but I didn’t notice anyone staring at me. Must be my bestie pulling a prank on me with someone else’s phone.

  I quickly type a response. Skye? What happened to your date with Tyler?

  It’s entirely possible she’s feeling sorry for me, has skipped out for a minute to check on me, and is using Tyler’s phone. Any minute now she’s going to ask if I’m still watching Michael Myers.

  Another text comes in. I’m not on a date and I don’t know a Skye. Is she as hot as you?

  Stop messing around, I send. I’ve had a tiny bit of vodka…okay, a lot.

  I’m a dude. Swear to baby Jesus.

  My brow wrinkles. Is it possible this isn’t Skye? But then who is it?

  How did you get this number? I type out.

  You put up a listing on the Help Wanted board in the student center a while back. I saw you and got the number. I saw you again today at the library so it must be a sign for us to get together. Wanna hook up, babe?

  Babe?

  Hook up?

  What an assuming ass, I think as mortification shoots through me. No one has answered the listing I put up looking for a male partner to take a salsa class with me. Thankfully, the posting didn’t have my name on it (so embarrassing), just my phone number, and I’ve been meaning to take it down, but between working at the library and class, I haven’t found the time. I was in a weak place when the idea struck, and now, looking back, it reeks of desperation from a girl who’d recently been cheated on and was lonely.

  I glare at the phone as if the jerkwad on the other side can actually see me.

  I’m not your personal Tinder, I reply, my fingers flying across the screen. Go find someone else to harass.

  Nothing comes through for the next fifteen minutes as I stare blindly at the television, not really seeing anything, just fuming, my mind racing through possibilities of who saw me posting the ad. Hundreds of students pass through every day, and it could have been anyone. I think back to my morning study session today at the library, trying to recall if anyone was watching me, but I was hyper-focused (as usual) and kept my head down.

  I should probably block this number.

  A new text pings.

  Hey, look, I’m sorry. This isn’t the person with the horrible pick-up lines and offer of sex who first texted you. Those messages were from my asshole friend who took my phone and texted you without my knowledge. I have it back now so we’re cool, right? Sorry for the inconvenience and I hope you find a salsa partner. Later.

  Finally, a polite text—except for the goodbye part, because I wasn’t done talking. I still want to know who these two people are. Part of me wonders if it’s Alex, feeling me out, maybe seeing if I’ve moved on. He has been texting me, trying to engage me in a dialogue, but I’ve ignored him. This doesn’t seem like his style though.

  Hold your horses, stalker. Who are you?

  Seconds tick by and I can see the dots on the screen indicating he’s replying. I’m picturing a loser at a frat house, the first one to fall asleep, and instead of drawing a giant dick on his forehead, they stole his phone and texted random girls.

  My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die.

  I laugh under my breath at the iconic movie reference and part of me relaxes. Good one, I text.

  You’re a fan of The Princess Bride?

  One of my favorites. I even have a t-shirt with Buttercup and Westley on it, I type, referring to the two main characters.

  I’ll remember that.

  Is that why you’re texting me on Valentine’s Day? To talk about The Princess Bride? Are you lonely? My fingers move quickly, feeling comforted that I’m not the only one who’s a romance dud on the holiday of love.

  I’m texting you because my friend was a jerk. He doesn’t mean to be; he just thinks we should hook up.

  Not going to touch that comment.

  So where are you right now? Dorm? Frat party? Off-campus strip club? My detective cap is on and I’m determined to figure out who this guy is. My mind goes back to a rather geeky, thin guy who hangs out in the romance section at the library. He’s given me a few lingering glances when I happen to walk past him.

  I’m in bed, he says.

  Alone? I’m being bolder than usual.

  Yes. You?

  I’m hesitant about responding. After all, he could be a serial killer, but I don’t get that vibe, and I trust my instincts.

  Just me a
nd my cat, a scary movie, and a bottle of vodka—hell of a way to spend V-Day.

  At least two minutes go by—a damn long time in the world of texting—and I wonder if he’s left or grown bored of me. Chewing on my bottom lip, I’m in the middle of chastising myself for revealing as much as I have when a new message comes in.

  Is it crazy and weird that we’re talking and you don’t know who I am?

  Do you know who I am? I ask, adjusting my cat-eye glasses on my nose. If he saw me put up the ad, he probably does. Waylon is small, with an enrollment of around six thousand, so it’s likely we’ve seen each other or even had a class together.

  You’re Delaney, a junior from North Carolina.

  My pulse kicks up as I feel my heart beating in my chest, but those are basic facts he could have gotten off my social media.

  He sends another text. Truth: I think you’re gorgeous. We also know each other…sorta.

  He thinks I’m gorgeous? My bruised ego is flattered, and I shoot a look at Han. “Did it just get a little hot in here or is that the vodka talking?” He rolls his eyes and flounces off to the kitchen. “Are you saying I’ve had too much?” I call after him, but he pointedly ignores me by not turning around.

  I stare down at my phone, wondering what else to say. I should probably end this, but I feel an odd connection with my new texting partner.

  I could talk to a random guy.

  I want to.

  Do it, Delaney. I mentally dare myself.

  Are you still there? he says. Did I go too far? I tend to do that. I should just apologize in advance for anything I’m about to say or do.

  He hasn’t gone too far. My interest is piqued. So who are you?

  I’m a badass athlete.

  I roll my eyes. So you play a sport here at Waylon?

  Yes.

  Crap. My heart does a little sputter and takes a nosedive—it’s likely he knows Alex. The athletic dorm is situated on the west side of campus, and most of the players reside there. Football, baseball, and wrestling take up one side of Byrd Hall, while soccer, volleyball, tennis, and the minor sports occupy the other.

  I purse my lips. Which sport? I’ve sworn off football for the moment.

  Let’s keep that a secret, but if you need a name, you can call me He-Man.

  And I’ll be She-Ra?

  His reply is swift. Hell no—they were siblings. Pick another name, something that suits you.

  Does He-Man suit you? I type. Do you live at Castle Grayskull? Are you fighting Skeletor?

  Damn straight. I kick his ass every day.

  I grin. You’re very serious about this. I’m starting to wonder if you might be crazy.

  Just pick.

  Princess Leia.

  Perfect, he replies. I’m picturing you with cinnamon buns on your head.

  I giggle. I’m picturing you as a muscled blond dude with a brain the size of a walnut.

  Don’t be fooled by the dumb jock stereotypes.

  And you shouldn’t be fooled by my nerdy, quiet girl status. I’m a red-blooded woman with needs. God. I can’t believe I just typed that. I take another sip of vodka. What I MEANT to say is I don’t do athletes anymore, specifically football players. Okay, that sounded stupid. Clearly, I need to stop texting.

  Nothing comes back from him, and my mind wanders.

  Is he a football player? That might explain why he’s not telling me his name. The guys on the team have a serious bro code when it comes to not messing with the exes of the other players.

  I decide to change the subject. My roommate dared me to watch a scary movie tonight—alone. I was terrified.

  Do you like dares? he texts.

  Yes. It forces me to put myself out there. It feels silly to say, but it’s easy to tell him because I don’t know him. I’m beginning to see why anonymity is attractive.

  I hear Han meowing at the back door. He has a litter box in the laundry room, but he’s rather manly and likes to go out for an occasional romp around the yard to mark his territory. I like to go with him since my last cat disappeared on me a year ago, leaving me devastated.

  Hey, I need to go, I tell my mystery man. My cat needs me.

  Wait, you said you take dares, right?

  Yes.

  I dare you to dream about me tonight.

  What? Why? I ask, my heart rate picking up a beat.

  Because I’ll dream about you.

  Oh. I bite my lip and chew on it. Like a sexy dream?

  Is that what you want?

  Yes.

  My body comes alive, every sense on alert. It feels like forever since someone kissed me or made my stomach feel fluttery inside.

  I type out, I need more details if I want to picture you in my head, especially since I don’t know who you are.

  You know I’m an athlete, I’m blond, and I like to swing my sword around.

  I giggle. Where are we in the dream? Give me a setting. I need more.

  A few moments go by before he finally responds. At a frat party. Everyone else is downstairs and you and I are upstairs in an empty bathroom.

  Seriously?

  This is my fantasy, Princess Leia. Just listen.

  Fine. What are we doing? The room feels warmer, and my fingers are sweaty as I type the words. I picture myself with a dark shadowy male in a tiny cramped bathroom. His hands cup my face as he stares down at me, his thumb tracing over my lips. He kisses me on the neck, sending lightning bolts of sensation across my skin.

  My body heats to the point that I squirm around on the couch, fingers hovering over my phone.

  What do you think we’re doing? he texts.

  Kissing?

  More.

  Shit. Second base?

  More.

  Home run? I send after a slight pause, feeling lightheaded. This has escalated and I’ll probably regret it tomorrow, but for right now, I don’t care.

  We’re going at it against the wall, Princess Leia—hard. I like it hard.

  I picture it, the small bathroom hot with our proximity. My body arches toward his and he barely has his jeans shoved down yet he’s inside me, sliding in and out as I moan…

  Shit. This has gotten totally out of control. The feisty girl-power woman in me is rebelling at the suggestion of him taking me hard, but…holy smokes, I like it. My heart thunders.

  Are you still there?

  I type, I have to go.

  As you wish.

  With a flurry of motion, I turn my phone off and toss it down on the couch. He-Man or Badass Athlete or whatever he calls himself is trouble. I stare at my phone for a few more beats before dashing to the kitchen to drink down a glass of ice-cold water.

  Chapter Two

  Delaney

  I am crazy late for class as I jog out of the student center coffee shop. Wearing my black fitted North Face jacket and carrying my huge backpack, I’m a bit unsteady on my feet. I clutch a large coffee in one hand and a donut in the other; both are essential, sweet sustenance and the best part of my morning, especially since I have to head to the farthest corner of campus for my class.

  My head is bent down as I head out the glass doors, my gaze catching on a silver Porsche as it screeches to a halt in a primo parking spot near the entrance.

  Ugh. It’s Alex, and I do not want to see him.

  My fists clench as I take a step back under the shadow of the portico, hoping I can skirt over to the right to miss him before he sees me. Even though he’s constantly sending texts asking to meet up, I’m not ready. He’s even shown up at my door a few times, but I either don’t answer or I have Skye tell him I’m not there.

  I’m the unluckiest person alive because before I can turn away, his brown eyes find my face. He pauses, his cheeks reddening. Maybe it’s from the cold that’s still hovering this Monday morning, or perhaps he’s embarrassed. He freaking should be. I recall how he gave me a promise ring on our one-year anniversary, saying he couldn’t wait to make it a real engagement ring. Obviously, his “promise” meant
nothing.

  He throws a tentative hand up as if he wants to wave, but then it falls flat and rests against his leg.

  Dammit. I can’t deal with this confrontation right now. Catching him in the act nearly broke me.

  I flip around and barge down the path to get away from him.

  His voice follows me, echoes of a timbre that used to send shivers down my spine. “Hey, Delaney! Wait up.”

  No. No matter how much I want to go off on him, I’m not stopping. My Converse eat up the sidewalk as I keep my head down and stare at my shoelaces. Just keep going, just keep going—

  Smack.

  I run straight into another body, one that smells faintly of something I can’t put my finger on, something…exotic and dark.

  All I catch in that brief moment is that he’s tall, maybe six-four, with a chest of steel. My coffee sails through the air and lands upside down in the landscaping that lines the walk. I curse. I hadn’t even taken a good long sip yet because it was too hot.

  Then, just when I think I’ve managed to keep my donut safe, my feet get tangled and I stumble again into the blond Viking, pressing my donut into his broad chest.

  “Dammit,” is the gruff word that comes out of him as his hands reach out to my shoulders. His touch is firm and steadying without overpowering me, as if he’s completely aware of his strength and I’m merely a wisp in his grasp—well, maybe not a wisp. I’m five-ten, and I can hold my own around a big guy.

  “Could you watch where you’re going, please?” he says, a flare of annoyance in his tone.

  “You’re the one who plowed into me,” I snap back. This is not true, but I’m angry.

  I lift my head and meet piercing blue eyes that make me go hot all over. Clear and warm, they have a hint of gray around the iris, giving them a steely look. He blinks as he takes me in, raking his eyes over my messy bun, bulky coat, and leggings. I am not dressed to impress, my face bare of makeup save for quick swipes of lip gloss and mascara, my eyebrows in serious need of waxing. I tuck a strand of pale blonde hair that has fallen out of my bun behind my ear, groaning inwardly. Leave it to me to not only see my ex but run into the unattainable and enigmatic Maverick Monroe immediately after.