Beach Reads Box Set

by Madden-Mills, Ilsa

  The second Turtleneck’s butt cheeks left the seat, I slid into her place with the finesse of a gazelle. Well, in my head, I looked like a gazelle. The guy whose head I nearly took off with my purse probably would’ve called it more bull in china shop, but whatever. Tomato. Tomahto.

  My phone pinged inside the front pocket of my purse.

  BAD_Ruck (1:12PM) Question: Is now the time to confess you’re pretty adorable when you get worked up?

  TAPRoseNEXT (1:13PM) Egging me on for your own amusement? That’s not very gentlemanly of you.

  BAD_Ruck (1:14PM) I can assure you, I’m a gentleman in all the ways that count.

  TAPRoseNEXT (1:15PM) Are you flirting with me?

  BAD_Ruck (1:16PM) If I am, is it working?

  TAPRoseNEXT (1:17PM) A lady never kisses (or flirts) and tells.

  BAD_Ruck (1:18PM) Neither does a gentleman.

  TAPRoseNEXT (1:19PM): I think you might be BAD news.

  BAD_Ruck (1:20PM): BAD in the best kind of way, sweetheart.

  TAPRoseNEXT (1:21PM): You’re definitely flirting with me, Ruck.

  BAD_Ruck (1:22PM): You’ve got a keen eye, Rose.

  “I’m convinced. You’re sexting someone.”

  I glanced up from my phone, meeting Dean’s knowing look. “Don’t be ridiculous. Why would you think I’m sexting someone?”

  “The fact that you’re smiling like a loon and haven’t noticed I’ve been sitting here for a good five minutes with our food.”

  He had a point. I was too wrapped up in BAD_Ruck’s responses to notice anything else. I couldn’t deny, the man intrigued me. But I also couldn’t deny that if I didn’t set my phone down and give Dean my undivided attention, it might be grounds for a full-on catfight.

  TAPRoseNEXT (1:23PM): I’ve got a growling stomach and an impatient friend who’s staring at me from across the table. Rain check (on the flirting)?

  I set my phone on the table, eyeing the goodness set before me. The aroma of chicken salad and greasy French fries called my name. “This looks like heaven ready to explode in my mouth.”

  “That’s what Neil said last night when he was taking off my navy Gucci dress slacks.”

  My hands stopped at the halfway point of sandwich-thrusting into my mouth.

  “Simply stating ‘my pants’ would have been sufficient. And who the hell is Neil?”

  “Sir Sucks-A-Lot,” Dean said, taking a bite of his Greek salad. “And honey, those weren’t just any pants. They were Gucci’s twill blended wool. And they make my ass look fabulous.”

  “I guess that explains why Neil was taking off your pants in the first place.”

  Dean grinned. “Truer words have never been spoken.”

  A jolting bump forced the sandwich to fall from my hands and land half open on the kitschy diner table. What in the ever-loving hell? If Turtleneck was coming back for her seat, it was about to go down.

  “Excuse me,” was muttered over a man’s shoulder as his dress-slack-covered ass—fantastic ass, mind you—moved past my chair and toward the doors. His face was too buried in his phone to realize he had just barreled through my lunchtime fun.

  “Jesus,” I grumbled. “Does everyone in New York have to be so pushy? I mean, how hard is it to watch where you’re going instead of knocking into everyone?”

  Dean tilted his head to the side, eyes focused toward the front of the restaurant. “I think that was Mr. Brooks.”

  “What?” I turned in my chair and watched as my boss’s tall frame walked out of the restaurant and onto Fifth Avenue.

  An incoming TapNext message icon lit up my screen.

  “Yep,” Dean agreed. “That’s definitely him. I’d know that body anywhere. Broad shoulders. Sexy forearms. Perfectly toned ass. The things I’d do to that man.”

  “Horny much?”

  “Nah.” He waved me off. “I’m still recovering from having all the horny sucked out of me last night.”

  “On that note,” I announced, standing from my seat. “I think I’ll go order another sandwich. Be right back.”

  “I’ll be here, doll face.”

  While I stood in line, I took a gander at what else Ruck had sent my way.

  BAD_Ruck (1:25PM): Can’t wait. Enjoy your lunch, Rose.

  Two things stood out in my mind.

  1. I wanted to chat more with BAD_Ruck. Which was crazy, considering we had been introduced by a gargoyle of dickish proportions.

  2. How had I not known Kline Brooks had such a tight ass? And more importantly, if his ass looked that good in pants, what did it look like without them?

  Chapter Six

  Kline

  “I found the perfect date for you Friday night,” my mom claimed in my ear as I walked out of my office to head home for the night.

  I didn’t even have to think about it.

  “No.”

  I pulled the door shut behind me and walked slowly down the hall and around the corner to the main office space.

  “She’s twenty-nine, long dark hair, well kept and attractive—”

  “No.”

  “Her name is Stacey Henderson. I don’t know if you’ve been at any social engagements that she’s attended in the past—”

  Stacey Henderson? Oh, hell no.

  She was well kept and extremely attractive. And an eleven in vapidity on a scale from one to ten.

  “Mom. No.”

  “She’s really excited—”

  “Mom—”

  “Said she had just the thing to wear—”

  “Mom,” I snapped, finally speaking firmly enough to earn her attention.

  “What?”

  Excuse. I needed an excuse.

  My marketing director’s back and bright red hair caught my attention from across the office, and the words left my lips before I could think of anything else.

  “I already have a date.”

  “Oh. Oh dear. Well, I guess I’ll have to call Stacey and cancel, then—”

  “Yes!” I agreed eagerly. “Cancel Stacey.”

  Her voice turned suspicious.

  “Kline—”

  “Gotta go, Mom. Have to touch base with my date.”

  Convince her to go with me.

  “Kline—”

  “Loveyoubye.”

  With a tap of my thumb, I hung up fast, hoping I wouldn’t find myself in too much hot water for ending the call so quickly but desperate enough to end the conversation that I didn’t care.

  Thirty-four years old and, if anything, my mother was “mothering” me the most she had in my entire life. Wanting a respectable woman to take under her wing and claim as her own was a powerful motivator, apparently, compelling her to meddle like she’d never meddled before.

  Most of the time I gave in, but living with Walter on a day-to-day basis was a pretty unforgettable lesson. The grumpiest cat in Manhattan—if not the world—lived with me, and it was all my mother’s fault.

  I don’t want you to be lonely, she said.

  We’re traveling too much to take care of him, she said.

  You’ll love him, and he’ll love you, she said.

  Ah, to go back in time.

  There were days I actually avoided going home—to my apartment—because Walter lived there.

  But that was a subject for another time.

  I crossed the office quickly, my shoes slapping out a muted rhythm on the marble tile and a whistled tune flying from my lips.

  Georgia Cummings.

  My employee and the cure for my Stacey Henderson-themed nightmares.

  She’d been working for my company for a couple of years now, but as I approached, I realized I’d never actually looked at her in all that time.

  A glance here, a smile there, a professional exchange every week or so. But I’d never studied her body the way I was now.

  I knew I hadn’t.

  Because I sure as fuck would have remembered.

  Petite in stature but curvy in shape, her body was a perfect pint-sized hourglass per
ched precariously on top of razor-thin five-inch stilettos.

  Her goddamn calves looked like they had been carved out of granite, and the rounded cheeks of her ass grabbed on to my eyes and refused to let go.

  She moved slightly as I got closer from behind, and she bent at the waist to do something in the filing cabinet in front of her.

  The gloriously short filing cabinet.

  I watched as she went about her business, wondering how I’d managed to so effectively blind myself to her. I worked really hard at treating every single employee with fairness and without prejudices. I could remember the looks Dean had given me when he’d thought I wasn’t looking, and the friendly crinkles at the corners of Pam’s eyes. The devil was in the details, my dad had always told me, and I did my best to notice them. Except for hers.

  As I tried to picture her smile from memory—and couldn’t—I knew all of my compartmentalizing engines must have been running at full fucking steam to protect me from getting into something I shouldn’t.

  But those engines weren’t running now, the override switch turned and fully engaged thanks to Meddling-Mom-Maureen, and as the fabric of Georgia’s creamy white dress pulled tight over her ass, alarms started blaring.

  “My neck.”

  A sway of her tight-white-fabric-covered hips accompanied her off-key singing.

  Something told me she didn’t know I was standing behind her.

  “My back.”

  More torture in the opposite direction.

  “Lick my pussy—”

  Ears bleeding. Pants tightening.

  “—and my crack.”

  Holy. Fuck.

  I had to stop her before it got even worse. Better.

  Quickly, I shook my head to clear it and then reached forward to tap her smooth shoulder.

  Hair flung out in an arc, she turned on her heel at warp speed, her eyes widening in horror as she pulled on a white cord to release an earbud from her ear.

  “Shit.”

  I smiled. Her eyes widened impossibly further.

  “Mr. Brooks. I’m so sorry.” She clamped her eyes shut in shame. “I didn’t know anyone else was still here.”

  Her face was mostly hidden in shadow as she tilted it to the ground, but I was still almost positive I saw her mouth the word ‘shit’ again.

  “It’s all right,” I offered, and her head snapped up in question. I grinned slightly. “The singing and the shits. In fact, if you really need to, you can say it again.”

  Her face froze in shock.

  “I can tell you want to,” I prodded. “Maybe even three or four more times.”

  “Three. Four.” She shrugged helplessly. “Forty, maybe.”

  “Forty shits?” I questioned, raising a brow in amusement.

  “Depends on how much you actually heard, I guess.”

  I craned my neck to one side and back again.

  “I’m not sure. I’m feeling particularly attuned to your neck and back, and, well, the rest I’m not sure I can say in an office environment.”

  “Oh my God,” she cried and sank her face into her hands, embarrassment renewed.

  “Definitely forty shits. Maybe even fifty.”

  I coughed on a chuckle before tucking it away, knowing it was the perfect time to get on with what I needed.

  “It’s okay. I know how you can redeem yourself.”

  Her gaze jerked up from the floor and her eyes widened with hope. “Yeah?”

  “Tomorrow night. Go to the benefit for the Children’s Hospital with me.”

  Horror contorted her face into a scrunched-up version of itself. Not exactly what I was going for.

  “What? Go to the…with you… No.” She shook her head frantically, desperately even, her bright red hair swinging to and fro before settling helplessly on the white fabric at her shoulders.

  “No.”

  I had to admit, the double, emphatic nos threw me a little. It wasn’t that I thought no one could turn me down. They could, and hell, they probably should. But they hadn’t in a long time.

  Not in a very long time.

  “You’re busy?” I offered as an excuse, hoping her visible discomfort was more about being caught off guard than anything else.

  One slim wrinkle formed between her eyebrows, and the corners of her eyes seemed to pinch together slightly. “No. Not busy.”

  Ouch.

  For the first time in quite a while, I struggled to find my words. “I…uh…well. Okay.”

  She forced a fake smile in response.

  And yet, I couldn’t bring myself to give up.

  Walking around her desk and into her space enough that she backed up a couple of steps, I leaned my ass into the surface behind me and crossed my arms.

  She rubbed goosebumps from her arms in a nervous fidget.

  “So, how definite is this ‘no’? Is it an ‘I’m mildly considering it, but I’m thinking no’ or a ‘not a snowflake’s chance in hell no’ or maybe somewhere in the middle where negotiation lives?”

  She shook her head as if mystified and tapped the toe of her stiletto twice.

  My gaze shot down the length of her legs and back again, only to find her bright cerulean eyes narrowed slightly at the end of my circuit.

  “I’m not disgusted with you, if that’s what you’re asking, but negotiation isn’t likely.”

  Jim Carrey inhabited my body and took over my vocal chords before I could stop him. “So you’re telling me there’s a chance?”

  “What the hell is going on here?” she snapped softly at the ceiling, almost as if to herself. Her eyes jumped to me. “Why are you asking me out? Why now? None of this is making any sense.”

  The only thing I could do was give it to her straight. Whether it was a good thing or not, I never could stop the honesty. It was just my nature.

  “Look. For some godforsaken reason, society has decided to care about my completely uninteresting life because I have money, and because tabloid fodder is way more important than donations or time volunteered, they want me to have a date at every function I attend. Normally, this wouldn’t be an issue, as in they can go fuck themselves, but in another slap of fate, my mother has decided she cares. Wants a daughter-in-law and grandbabies and all that crap.”

  Her previously peachy-tan skin blanched white.

  “But she has terrible taste, and though I know next to nothing about you, you’re already guaranteed to be better than any of my other options.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “Trust me, I intended that as an insult to the others, not you.”

  “Right.”

  “I’m not trying to marry you, though I’m sure I’ll enjoy our time together endlessly—”

  “I’m sure.”

  I couldn’t help but smile at her mockery.

  “I’m trying to avoid ending up with another chattier, day-spa-loving version of Walter.”

  “Walter?” she asked with good reason.

  “My cat.”

  Incredulity warred with confusion on her face, pulling her lips out flat to the sides and back again several times.

  I knew I was talking her in circles. I just hoped her confusion would lead to grudging acceptance.

  Just when I feared she’d chew her lip raw if she kept on at that pace for much longer, she broke the silence with one simple question. “Why me?”

  Once again, honesty prevailed.

  “Because you’re here.”

  She pursed her lips around the sour of my words, but as I tore my gaze away to look into her bright blue eyes, I knew I wasn’t done.

  Not with her, not with this conversation, and not with being stupid for the day.

  “And you’re fucking beautiful.”

  Chapter Seven

  Georgia

  “Beautiful?!” I shrieked, slamming the door to my apartment behind me. The walls shook from the undeserved abuse. “For fuck’s sake, all it takes is one guy—who’s never even been on your let’s get naked together radar—to ca
ll you beautiful and you’re acting like some desperate hussy! Really? Really? That’s all it takes?” I dropped my purse to the floor and kicked off my heels. “Where is your pride, you stupid hussy! Where is your fucking pride?”

  Cassie barreled out of her room like a herd of buffalo with a curling iron in hand and the cord trailing behind her, startling me enough that I slammed my ass into the counter of our island.

  “Where’s the stupid hussy?” she yelled, eyes manic and searching.

  I rolled my own eyes dramatically, too pissed at myself to laugh at her antics. “You’re looking at her!” I pointed at myself like a lunatic. “She’s here! She’s right fucking here!”

  “Oh,” she sighed, losing her aggressive stance, dropping the unlikely weapon to her side, and standing straight at once. “You don’t count. I thought there was actually a stupid hussy out here you needed to be saved from. I was ready to throw down and beat some ass.”

  “Oh, I am a stupid hussy. A pathetic slut who’s a disgrace to our gender. Trust me.”

  “Nooooo, you’re not. You’re a Wheorgiebag, but even that isn’t a real whore. Whores have excessively loose vaginas. I’m talking big enough to store all of their whoring money, and yours has never even been open for business. Probably couldn’t even fit a nickel.”

  She had a point. My vagina was sealed tighter than Fort Knox. A proverbial “do not pass go” zone for all cockbandits begging entry. It wasn’t because I was a prude or saving myself for marriage. I had just never found the right guy I deemed worthy of thrusting into my goodie bag.

  Maybe I was too picky. Maybe my sex therapist mother had driven me to insanity. Or maybe my expectations of waiting to do the deed with a man I had an actual connection with were unrealistic in this day and age. I mean, the plethora of dick and sac pics floating around social media could’ve been evidence of this.

  Don’t even get me started on the reaction I received from men when they found out I was a single, twenty-six-year-old woman with an unclaimed V-card. I might as well have told them I was a unicorn who could shoot sparkles out of my ass.