Beach Reads Box Set

by Madden-Mills, Ilsa

  “You and your delicate stomach.”

  “It’s not fucking delicate,” I argued grumpily. But he really couldn’t blame me. I was hungry after all. “It’s manly and it needs food on the regular. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

  “Right. Now you’re justifying your PMS symptoms—”

  “Yes, Leslie?” I interrupted Thatch as she pushed open the door to my office.

  “I just finished moving all of your meetings from this morning to this afternoon,” she purred, smiling at me like I should praise her. She was the one who’d told Dean to schedule the investor calls for that morning rather than this afternoon, necessitating a schedule flip in the first place.

  “Thanks,” I said through gritted teeth. Catching sight of Thatch’s “Duran Duran” face on the screen in front of me stopped me from rolling my eyes. Operation Cockblock Hungry Wolf superseded my needs.

  “You can just leave the new schedule by the door and head to lunch,” I offered, hoping she’d telepathically understand what I was trying so hard to communicate—get out.

  She giggled.

  Nope. Life wasn’t that easy.

  The tile of my office floor turned into a runway, her dramatic, foot-crossing steps designed to amplify the swing of her hips and elicit a man’s attention.

  And for any other man, it probably reached into his pants and hardened the attention right out of him.

  I, however, was too busy cleaning up her mistakes and trying to finish a phone call so I could go to goddamn lunch.

  Tits suddenly filled the frame of my vision, and I practically had to slam my head back into my chair to keep from eating them by accident.

  No, I wasn’t that hungry. That was how close she had placed them.

  “Here you go.”

  “Yeah, thanks,” I said, dismissing her and averting my eyes as much as possible. It wasn’t a battle of wills, but rather, strictly a game of proximity.

  The day I was willing to subject myself to that kind of pussy was the day my cock would rot off and my office would burn straight to the ground. I was sure of it.

  Come hell or high water, I was done being this amenable to my mom’s suggestions. Leslie needed to be gone by the beginning of next week. Soon, but not soon enough that I couldn’t talk my way out of it at family dinner.

  I watched as she walked, counting the seconds and praying he’d wait until she left the room.

  “Ho-ly hell—”

  “Thatch—” I attempted to interrupt, recognizing his tone from experience and knowing it would only lead to bad things.

  “Where the hell have you been hiding that one?”

  “Don’t say another word,” I warned, just as the door shut blessedly behind Leslie.

  “Fuck me hard, fast, and dirty, Kline-hole. Did you see the tits on her? Seriously, let her know she can swaddle me up and ride me like a cockpuppet any fucking time she wants.”

  I picked up a pen and pretended to scribble on a piece of paper.

  “Ride…you…like…a…cockpuppet. Got it.”

  The muscled chords of his throat flexed with a bark of laughter, and recognition of his absurdity flashed in his eyes.

  “All right, point taken.” He raised his hands and winked, his fingers in air quotes, mocking, “Business.”

  I didn’t waste any time getting back to it. “I’ve got two investor meetings in L.A.—”

  “And you want me to be there.”

  “Yeah.”

  He sat back in his leather chair and crossed his thick arms. “Done.”

  “You don’t even know when they are,” I pointed out. I reached forward and took hold of my mouse to double-check the timing, but he didn’t wait.

  “For you, my love, no time is a bad time.” He blew me a kiss.

  “Why do I put up with you?” I asked, sitting back again and raking a hand through my hair.

  His response was immediate. “I personally think it’s because you like a reminder of the fine male specimen you’ll never live up to.”

  I shook my head and smirked, knowing I’d never be the six-foot-five monster he was and not struggling to swallow it even one little bit. My leaner but no less toned six-foot package hadn’t failed me yet.

  “I’ll see you in L.A. tomorrow night, Adonis.”

  “No way. I’ll see you here, at the airport, so you can hold my hand during—”

  Raising my middle finger in salute, I clicked the button to end the call.

  Thatch’s ability to bounce back from a night out was almost unfathomable. I needed more than four hours of sleep, and I needed to do it for some other reason than being blackout drunk.

  My best friend and money man could go several nights in a row without, it seemed, and holding his liquor had practically been his first childhood milestone.

  Nights out were dwindling for both of us, though. My tendency to be “an old man,” according to Thatch, and his secret rendezvous with every available pussy in Manhattan pretty much soured the deal.

  It’s not that I didn’t enjoy nights out or the company of a beautiful woman. I loved women. I loved every fucking thing about them. I just didn’t love the idea of having drunken sex with some chick I picked up at a bar. I wasn’t a fan of Pussy Roulette, and when I ate one, I wanted to be able to remember the taste.

  My phone rang on my desk as though the call had been put straight through without a heads-up from a lunch-eating Leslie. Normally, Pam rolled my calls to voicemail when she was away from her desk, sorting through them and passing along worthy callers upon her return.

  Every ring made it that much more painfully obvious she was out, a duck-lipped, inexperienced seductress in her place.

  “Brooks,” I answered, putting the phone to my ear.

  “Yo,” Thatch greeted. “I forgot to ask. Do we have BAD practice tonight?”

  I covered my groan. I’d forgotten about rugby practice.

  That didn’t stop me from busting his balls. “Yes, Princess Peach. We have practice every Monday night.”

  “Yeah, but with it being football season and all, I thought maybe Wes was busy cheerleading or whatever.”

  Wes was the third member of our bachelor trio and the owner of the New York Mavericks. We teased him relentlessly, but in reality, it was cool as fuck to know somebody who owned a team in the National Football League. A little sweet-talking got us tickets anytime we wanted and field time with the players.

  “I take no offense, by the way. Princess Peach is a badass bitch.”

  “Most of their games are on Sunday. You know, like the one you talked me into going out to watch last night. I’ll see you at practice tonight,” I said, shaking my head at another ridiculous conversation.

  “Geez, Diva. Eat a Snickers.”

  I pinched the bridge of my nose. “You know, you force me to say fuck, as in fuck you, way more than I ever dreamed in a business environment.”

  His answering chuckle was dry. “Just one of my many talents, K. Most of the others involve a lighter, a forty of beer, and my cock—”

  I ended the call before he could finish.

  Jesus. Is this guy really my best friend?

  The short of it was, yes, he was my best friend. And I wouldn’t change it despite his ability to produce migraines. I was never short on entertainment, that was for sure. But my well of patience had run dry for the day. Simple as that.

  Standing quickly, before I could be interrupted again, I yanked the skinny end of my tie from its knot, unwound it from my neck, and hung it on the hook next to my jacket.

  I dropped my keys with a clang into my pocket and slid my wallet snug into its spot in the one in the rear.

  Retracing my steps from several hours earlier, I passed Meryl with a nod and escaped the building without having to do more than smile politely at passing employees.

  The sun nearly blinded me as I pushed the front door open, and the sounds of an active fall lunch hour overwhelmed my office-trained ears. Horns honked and cabbies yelled and pi
geons took off in a rush as a toddler ran screaming through the middle of them.

  I popped the buttons on my sleeves as I walked, rolling them up to expose my forearms and bask in the dramatically warm weather, and faded into the crowd of pump-wearing women and suit-clad men.

  Indian summer, I think they called it, the desertlike arid heat settling deep into my bones and radiating from the inside out.

  I could see the sun and city from the wall-to-wall windows of my office, but my lunch hour was pretty much the only opportunity I got to feel it.

  That was the real root of my grumpiness, I guess. I worked hard from sunup to sundown, and one simple hour in between was what helped keep a happy head on top of tense shoulders.

  “Kline!” the owner of my favorite little mom-and-pop deli called as I pushed my way inside the door.

  “Hey, Tony!” I answered, gently making my way through the standing-room-only crowd to shake his hand over the counter.

  “Here, here,” he urged, moving some old memorabilia to unearth the one empty seat in the place.

  “No way,” I denied with a smile and a shake of my head. “I’ll wait for a table like everybody else. I could use the extra time to clear my head today.”

  “Sit, sit, sit,” he said over me, his refusal to let me stand in the crowd and wait a regular occurrence. But he didn’t do it because I had money. Tony didn’t even know I had money. All he knew was I’d been coming in every workday I was in town for the last ten years, and I looked him in the eye and shook his hand every single time I did.

  “Thanks, Tone.” Giving in was the only option.

  “We got a sandwich for you today, buddy,” he said as I slid my butt onto the seat.

  “I hope it’s a pastrami and corned beef on rye. I’ve been fantasizing about it all morning.”

  “Ah,” he said with a shout and a wink. “For you, I’ve got just the thing!”

  And the truth was, he did—a warm smile, familiarity, and a genuine exuberance. Stuff I needed way more than a sandwich.

  Chapter Five

  Georgia

  “Finally!” Dean remarked as he slammed through my door half an hour later.

  I’d just finished finalizing and faxing the original Sure Romance contract. The one where a little quick talking had prevented Leslie’s ill-timed interruption from ruining my life and dragging the company over a swath of hot coals. The one I was shoving down Martin’s throat whether he liked it or not.

  Meanwhile, my stomach was working on chewing a sandwich-sized hole through itself.

  “I swear that evil trampvestite is the bane of my existence.”

  I raised a single, perfectly plucked eyebrow in amusement. If Cassie was the expert of parodies, Dean was the single-most talented nickname giver I’d ever encountered. No two people were alike and no name was deemed off-limits in the name of political correctness. Basically, Dean did the dirty work and I reaped the benefits.

  “Trampvestite, huh?”

  “Oh, yeah,” he confirmed, pointing to his fluttering eyes. “Fake lashes to here.” He held both hands out generously in front of his chest. “And fake tits out to there.”

  I didn’t bother to conceal my laugh.

  “She’s had me running all over this goddamn place this morning, putting out fires and sweating through a five-hundred-dollar shirt.”

  “You know what will make you feel better?” I cooed.

  His green eyes twinkled under the fluorescent lights. “Twenty million dollars and a private island with Brad Pitt?”

  “A hot turkey sandwich.”

  “Hmm,” he mumbled as he pretended to consider it. “I guess that’ll work.”

  I slid the bottom drawer of my desk open with ease, yanked my purse out, and slammed it shut with a bang.

  “Let’s go. Feed me. Regale me with all of your tales of woe.”

  “She’s been annoying you too,” he argued as I slid my arm through his at the elbow.

  “She has,” I agreed. “You just play a much more convincing victim than I do.”

  A small blush stole through his cheeks, and he leaned down to smack a kiss on mine. Compliments always cheered him up.

  “I’ve had more practice,” he comforted me. Not that I needed to be comforted. This was still all about Dean and giving him what he needed. I didn’t have a dick, but I could do drama.

  “Ah, yes, the struggles of an attractive gay man.”

  “They’re like wolves, Georgia! One innocent cherub like me in the club and they swarm like bees.”

  “Wait. I’m confused. Are they wolves or bees?” I teased as he pushed the button for the elevator.

  “Shut your crimson lip-stain-covered trap!”

  Perfect.

  A distraction of cosmetic proportions.

  “You like the color?” I asked as I backed into the rear wall of the elevator, propping my chin up on a posed hand and pursing my lips.

  “Hmm.” He pretended to inspect me, fluffing the hair on both sides of my head. Consideration turned into a quick smile, and a wink popped his left eye closed. “Love!”

  “Thanks,” I offered with a return grin.

  While Dean proceeded to gab about his recent rendezvous with a cute bartender, I couldn’t shake a question that’d been nagging me. I needed an answer.

  TAPRoseNEXT (12:52PM): So, if that wasn’t your dick, whose dick was it? I think I want to know the answer to this, but there’s another part of me that’s a little afraid…

  BAD_Ruck (12:53PM): Afraid I’ll reveal that I’ve got a stockpile of other dudes’ dicks on my phone?

  Hells bells, that answer was not reassuring.

  TAPRoseNEXT (12:54PM): …

  TAPRoseNEXT (12:55PM): For real “…” is the only response I have to that.

  Okay, seriously, if he didn’t respond in the next two minutes, my trigger finger was going straight for the block button.

  TAPRoseNEXT (12:56PM): …! (If I could use shouty caps for ellipses, I’d be doing it RIGHT NOW)

  BAD_Ruck (12:57PM): I don’t make a habit of collecting other dudes’ dick pics or taking my own. But I do have a friend (who’s a bit of a prick) who loves “gargoyle dicking” people as a prank.

  TAPRoseNEXT (12:58PM): My friend (who’s pretty hilarious) referred to the dick in question as, “The Hunchcock of Notre Dame.”

  BAD_Ruck (12:59PM): If I were the kind of guy who used text acronyms, I’d definitely be responding with LOL.

  TAPRoseNEXT (1:00PM): Question: were you purposefully withholding important information to get me worked up?

  We crossed Fifth Avenue, heading straight for my favorite family-owned deli. The sidewalks were bustling with energy, but BAD_Ruck had become quite the distraction. I only willed my eyes to look away from our message box to avoid being run over by a taxi or knocking over my fellow pedestrians.

  Dean cleared his throat. “Excuse me? Are you even listening? Or am I rambling on about Sir Sucks-A-Lot for no reason?”

  “Sir Sucks-A-Lot?”

  “Jesus.” He sighed. “What in the hell are you doing? Are you texting someone?”

  I shrugged. “Just checking work emails.” No way in hell would I give Dean any kind of ammunition regarding TapNext. I’d never live that down.

  He stopped in the middle of the New York sidewalk traffic, nearly causing a woman with her dog to trip over the leash. “Work emails? You’re so full of it.”

  Uh-huh. I hid the screen of my phone. “What? I’ve got that big deal with Sure Romance I need nailed down by the end of the week…”

  “You’re the worst liar. Seriously. It’s like you’re so bad at lying that I honestly wonder if you’re doing it on purpose.”

  “I’m not lying,” I said, fighting a smile.

  Dean pointed to my mouth. “Says the girl who’s notorious for smiling or giggling nervously whenever she’s lying.”

  Shit. I covered my mouth.

  “Honey, you are too much,” he teased, placing his hand at the small of my back
. “Now, let’s get your lying ass inside that deli so I can fight the starvation that’s threatening to take place.”

  * * *

  “This place is insane,” Dean whispered in my ear as we stepped in the door.

  The restaurant was packed. Every table was filled, and the line to order reached the door. But I didn’t care. My nostrils had already been seduced by the delicious aromas of freshly baked breads and soups. I’d wait two hours if I had to.

  “I know,” I agreed. “But it’s like this all the time.” My eyes scanned the tables for any open seats. “It looks like that woman in the corner is about to get up.”

  “Perfect. You grab it. I’ll order,” Dean suggested. “The usual?”

  I cocked an eyebrow. “Like you even have to ask.”

  “Chicken salad. Lettuce. Light mayo. Hold the onion and tomato.”

  I nodded. “I swear if you didn’t have an aversion to vaginas, I’d beg you to be my husband.”

  He smirked. “Plenty of women are beards to their fabulously gay husbands.”

  “Yeah, but we’d fight too much over our clothing budget. You’d shop us out of food and rent money.”

  “I bet you wouldn’t be complaining too much when your curvy little ass was decked out in designer duds.”

  Laughing, I held up both hands. “Fine. You’ve convinced me. If I reach the age of thirty-five and neither of us is married, I’ll be your beard.”

  “Fabulous.” He winked. “Now go snatch a table while I grab the food.”

  Since Dean was a diva from way back, I did as I was told. I pretended to mosey around the joint, casually stopping to look at the memorabilia on the walls, but in reality, I was watching some woman with a red turtleneck and Crocs like a hawk. By the time she gathered her trash and was getting ready to hop to her feet, I had strategically placed myself a few feet away from her table, carefully planning my descent onto her chair.