Beach Reads Box Set

by Madden-Mills, Ilsa

  “You know it was Mrs. Osborne and she’s a pain in the ass,” I said, typing a note on the property file. DO NOT RENT TO THESE PEOPLE.

  “That commission is worth it,” she scolded, before I reluctantly backspaced my note with a single finger, one key at a time. I added a death glare in her direction for good measure.

  “You’re checking them in next time.” Curling my lip at her, I picked up the phone to fetch Mrs. Osborne her water.

  “So, I had sex in a tractor last night.”

  With a raised brow, I paused my hand on the number pad and looked above my screen at her. “A… tractor. How is that even possible? How many tractors are on St. Thomas that you could have sex on?”

  “At least one,” she said, sitting back in her seat. “I feel a little dirty about this one, I will admit.”

  “Really?”

  She stood and walked over to the coffee pot to refill her cup. “No, not at all. No regrets, my friend. And now that I think about it, I’m sure it was a backhoe.”

  I shrugged. “Well, as long as it was a backhoe.”

  “Exactly,” she turned to me, hands propping her up on the counter behind her. Our office was a shoebox, but Jasmine insisted we rent a small space when we managed enough properties to make us more “official.” Yet we never met any of our renters in the office and no one had ever occupied the two chairs we had waiting for clients. Jasmine claimed having a place to show up to made us more accountable. I agreed to a point because if I had it my way, I’d live as a happy recluse and work within the confines of my beach house. She started the company herself, heartbroken and determined to survive in St. Thomas without the man that lured her here and left her to fend for herself while licking her wounds. Our work hours could be grueling at times but, she paid well and after a year of being out of corporate hell, I wouldn’t dream of doing anything else.

  “Will you be seeing this one again?”

  “Meh, I don’t know.” She pulled up her skirt to show me her thong clad, purpling-brown ass. “But man, is this a sign of a good time or what?”

  Sighing, I held up my hand to block the view of her tan globes. “It’s 9 a.m. Do I really need to see your ass this early?”

  “I’ll sing you the “Thong Song,” come on.” She giggled, flexing her cheeks to make them bounce.

  “Oh, you just go straight to hell.”

  I grabbed my phone and purse as she resumed her seat and gave me a wink. “Best video ever.”

  I stopped in my tracks. “You have video?”

  “Just remember I love you, and I have only good intentions for keeping this.”

  Panic raced through me as I thought of the night I’d let all my inhibitions go and I mean let go. The slow spreading smile on her lips revealed she was playing with me. There was no video.

  “Where are you off to?”

  “I’m getting new neighbors today.”

  “Oh, right. The Kemps’ are booked, I forgot.”

  “Yep, two weeks. Newlyweds.” I was excited about the idea of newlyweds. My parents and the Kemps bought our neighboring houses within a year of each other when I was five. They both purchased the properties for vacation houses/investment rental homes. And while the Kemps still rented theirs out, my parents were stuck with a daughter who had fled to theirs from New York costing them a year’s worth of profits. While my dad insisted the house had paid for itself tenfold and it was mine as long as I needed it, my mother kept her tongue idle. I knew it would eventually become a bargaining chip. I always felt guilty about taking away some of their retirement income, not to mention the small fortune they wasted on a degree I no longer used. While my mother was no stranger to money, Ryan Vaughn had been a scrapper and worked hard for his fortune.

  But in a way, even with my mother’s grudge about my current situation, I think they knew that house had saved my life.

  Or at least, helped me find a new one.

  “Take it easy out there,” Jasmine chimed, as I refilled my coffee. “Careful of those chickens, though we both know you could use a little cock.”

  “Classy,” I said, rolling my eyes. “You aren’t off the hook. I want to know what could have possibly led to backhoe sex.”

  My phone rang, and I cringed while Jasmine smirked, but it quickly disappeared when I silenced the call. Mere seconds later the office phone rang. Jasmine narrowed her eyes as she picked up the phone. “Good morning, Mrs. Osborne.”

  * * *

  With the back of my floorboard full of clanking wine bottles, I pulled up to my piece of paradise, which was the second to last of two identical cottage-style houses on Vista Lane. To the right of the Kemp house, large boulders crowded the beach giving it an intimate feel, and to the left of my cottage lay a large stretch of silky beige sand and an endless view of the ocean. The builder had only erected two of the three planned houses before the Kemps intercepted and bought the last available lot for more privacy. Aside from the residences on the neighboring cliffs, I basically lived on a private beach, which was the richest real estate you could find on St. Thomas. And though the houses weren’t as modern as others—built in the eighties—they were equally as inviting. Between the two-story twin dwellings lay a wide sand path which was convenient for me.

  I parked my Jeep between the two porches cutting off Bobby McFerrin singing to me “Don’t Worry, Be Happy,” hopped out and grabbed the flowers and wine before I dug for the last bottle lodged under my seat. I cursed my timing as I heard tires on the gravel behind me.

  Crap, they’re early.

  I had no idea what condition the house was in and prayed the cleaning lady had done a decent job. Finally getting a grip on the loose bottle, I pulled it out along with the flowers and caught a glance at the retreating cab before I was motored over.

  The bottle I’d retrieved hit my chin and I landed on my ass with a soundless thud. Large hands gripped me by my bare shoulders and I was instantly pulled back on my feet. A man dressed in a power suit stared down at me with shattered features and tortured gray eyes. Recognition of his pain was instantaneous, and I felt despair leaking from every part of him. Through thick black lashes, ready tears threatened to spill as he assessed me to make sure I was in one piece. It was a split second before he righted me on the sand and released me with a quick and barely audible, “I’m sorry,” before he rushed away. I looked down at the crushed flowers on the ground and mourned them briefly along with dashed hopes of happy new neighbors.

  If that man was one of my newlyweds, I was in for a shit two weeks.

  I looked around for a bride to follow the groom and came up empty.

  Shit. She left him at the altar!

  My phone rattled in my pocket as I made my way toward the Kemps, my eyes in the direction of the groom, chin burning. He was standing at the edge of the water, shoulders slumped, hands in his suit pockets. Even from yards away I could see his devastation.

  Poor guy. What an evil woman. How could she do that to him? Why do people do that? How do they leave someone standing at the altar thinking they are about to start the rest of their life and not show?

  Even though I had made it out of New York a laughing stock with my peers, I got away with only a slightly jaded heart. And even that shit hurt. I’d been in the dating neighborhood, browsed but never decided to buy. I still had plenty of years to find Mr. Forever.

  When it came to me, renting was a better option, and even with that decision, I hadn’t bothered to act on it. It seemed the ideal thing to do when one goes flying off the handle, only to abandon her life and live in a new one. I was a work in progress and love could wait.

  I tried to give my jilted groom privacy as I made my way to the porch of the Kemps’ house and opened the door. It was spotless and up to standard; which was a relief. I doubted the guy would give a damn about the state of the house. I threw the broken flowers in the trash and stuck one of the wine bottles in the fridge as I eyed the window. My phone rattled again just as I pulled it out of my pocket to shoot a t
ext to Jasmine and saw she was calling.

  “Hey.”

  “We have a problem,” Jasmine said without a trace of humor. That tone meant we had a serious problem.

  “Oh, I can assure you we do. I’m staring at a jilted groom.”

  “Jilted groom?”

  “My new neighbors. It looks like the bride was a no-show.”

  I’d managed to land us the Kemp account last summer when they had come to stay for a weekend before heading further south. I adored Rowan and William Kemp, they were worldly wise, extremely kind, and more than happy to hand the business over. I was sure I’d pissed on someone who had managed their rental for years, but I needed the commission. I loved the house, it was warm and inviting much like mine with subtle differences in décor. So far, the house had brought in a steady commission and was rented for every week of the summer.

  “No, your bride and groom are about to pull up.”

  “No,” I spoke slowly. “He’s here, she’s not.”

  “Tall? Late thirties, dark hair?”

  I squinted in the afternoon sun. “Yeah.”

  “That’s Ian Kemp. Mrs. Kemp has been calling all morning to see if he might have shown up there.”

  “Ian?” I walked out onto the porch and studied his back. “I haven’t seen him since I was seven. Well, I saw him for a few seconds when I was seventeen—”

  “Babe, that’s all fine and dandy, but we have a bride and groom whose ETA is now and we have no place to put them.”

  “We can relocate Ian.” Even as I said the words, I knew there was no way I was walking up to that man and asking him to leave. The look in his eyes alone would haunt me for weeks. He stood statue-still as he stared at the aqua glass water.

  “Something’s wrong.”

  “Uh, yeah,” Jasmine said, as I took another step forward. I had the overwhelming urge to go to him, but I was sure he wanted his space. His posture confirmed as much.

  “No, I mean with Ian.”

  Jasmine cursed before she growled into the phone, I could hear her frantically typing in the background. “Every place else is booked. We are going to have to put them at Margulis Mansion.”

  “No, you can’t! That’s a twenty-two-million-dollar rental with nine rooms!”

  “We’re going to have to make up the difference. At least for the night. I’ll call and see if anyone has something we can swap.”

  “Crap,” I said, staring at the back of Ian’s suit. “I needed this commission.”

  Jasmine sighed. “You and me both.”

  “This sucks!” I may have said it a little loud, but Ian didn’t move. Not an inch. He was searching for answers. I knew that feeling. I’d done the same thing.

  “Well, hell, why not a hotel room?”

  “And risk a shit review? We’re trying to build the business. These are newlyweds. Can’t do it.” Jasmine sounded pissed which was rare, but I understood it. We were going to lose a ton of commission.

  “There is nothing else?”

  “Nothing,” she sighed over the line, defeated.

  “Okay, text me the address. As soon as they get here, I’ll divert traffic.”

  “K. Call me when you get home. Fucking ship day.”

  “That was yesterday, Jasmine.”

  “If you can use it, so can I.”

  Chapter Three

  Koti

  After waving to the taxi driver like a bird trying to take flight, I threw the two newly discarded suitcases back into the taxi while I spoke rapidly to a confused bride and groom. After escorting them to their oversized mansion for two, where they repeatedly looked around with a “No shit? This is ours? No way!” I made my way back across the island to check Mrs. Osborne’s water—at her insistence—and scoured the porch for any poop before I turned two more rentals. When my workday was done, I pulled up to my house and pressed my forehead to the wheel. I had an ass full of sand, thanks to my new and unexpected neighbor.

  A chuckle escaped me as I trotted down the alley to my porch where my serenity waited and paused when I saw Ian. He was still standing in the exact place I left him hours earlier. From what his mother had told me last summer, he’d been married and had a daughter. They lived in Dallas and were doing great. The Kemps had emigrated from South Africa and moved to the States. Ian had told me as much when we were kids. Smiling, I recalled the first time we met. It was just feet away from the water he was transfixed on.

  Treading on the surface, I looked at my newly designated playmate. My mother saw fit to entertain our new summer neighbors with strict instructions that we get better acquainted. “You talk funny.” I stared at the brown-haired boy with bright eyes and a chipped front tooth.

  “I lived in South Africa until last week,” he defended.

  “Where did you move?”

  “Texas. Dallas. A dreadful place surrounded by dirt. No weekend safaris. I hate it. Now—”

  My giggle cut him off. “You’re so… proper.”

  “Do you want my help or not?”

  I jumped the wave that rolled through us to keep from getting another mouthful of water. My feet barely touched the sand and we were neck deep. The water was warm, and I could feel the sunburn on my back and arms even with the floaties my mother made me wear.

  “I think I have it,” I said, lowering my mask and biting the mouthpiece.

  “You don’t have it,” he challenged.

  “You don’t have it,” I repeated in the worst imitation of a South African accent ever.

  “Fine then. You’re on your own now.”

  “Fine then,” I mocked with widening eyes through my mask. Ian laughed before he gripped my shoulders. “Don’t worry if it trickles in a little. Let the pressure of the water keep the mask to your face, even when you think it’s safe not to breathe, breathe anyway.”

  The truth was I’d been out there for the better part of an hour panicking before he swam in, barking orders. I’d watched Jaws the night before with my father’s permission. It was the one time I regretted talking him into letting me get my way. I didn’t want to go anywhere near the water. No matter how many times I told myself it was just a movie, I heard the du-nuh every few seconds.

  “Okay,” I said with false courage. “I’ve got it.”

  He shook his head as if he knew I would choke. “All right, give it a go.”

  “You sound like The Crocodile Hunter.”

  “He is Australian.” He rolled his eyes. “And you sound ignorant. Now stop stalling.”

  “Don’t be rude, crocky pants,” I piped.

  Ian shrugged, pushing his dark hair off his forehead. “You’re scared.”

  “I’m not scared of anything.”

  “Well then go on, miss.”

  “I’m six years old. I’m not a miss.”

  “You sure don’t have tits enough to be called a miss.”

  His eyes sparkled with his laugh.

  “Pervert alert!” I yelled at the top of my lungs.

  Ian cringed. “I was just joking.”

  “My father says any time a boy says a word about privates in front of me to tell.”

  “I’m not a pervert. And I’m too old to be babysitting you.”

  Offended but too terrified to be alone in the water, I shrieked when the next wave got the best of me. I was too far out in the surf and I knew I was about to get in trouble for it.

  “I’ll have tits one day,” I promised, unable to think of anything else to say. Ian rolled his eyes as he pulled me by my floaties closer to shore. Choking, I pushed my hair out of my face. “I know you aren’t a pervert.” I smiled the way my mother did when she wanted her way. “I was just joking too.”

  Ian squinted at me as if he was trying to decide if I was being truthful.

  “I want to be your friend. I’m sorry, Ian. Please don’t leave me out here.”

  He grabbed hold of me then and pulled me to where I could safely stand.

  “It’s okay, little puffer fish.” He lined my mask up for
me. “All right. You can do this. I know you can. But,” he looked behind his shoulder and then back to me, “no one said you had to.”

  “I asked for the mask and flippers for my birthday. I’m gonna be seven next week. I’m not afraid.” I was lying. And he knew it.

  “Are you scared of what you’ll see under, then? Give them here.” He took the mask from me and peeked underwater before he pulled up and shook his head. “Nothing to see but a few fish.”

  “Okay.” Taking the mask from him, I pulled it over my eyes and nose and he became harder to see when the lens fogged up.

  “No big deal.” He knuckled the top of my head and I glared at him before I went under. Within seconds, a needle nose fish swam a centimeter from my mask and I began choking as I surfaced. “Holy shit!”

  “Koti!” My mother shrieked from shore. She had the ears of a Doberman.

  “Sorry, Mom, there was a fish!”

  She stood in a bright red bikini and I saw Ian’s eyes float her way with interest. My mother had ‘tits’ in abundance and a whole lot of everything else. Curves from head to foot, I could see Ian deduce she was the ultimate miss. Even as a retired supermodel she commanded the eyes of everyone she sauntered past. “Young lady, I better not hear that language again.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I could feel the blood rush to my face. Ian shook his head and nudged his chin forward.

  “Try again.”

  Embarrassed, I shrugged. “I don’t want to.”

  “Mad? Humiliated? Scared? That’s when you should do things anyway. It will always piss the other guy off.” He grinned at me with pencil point freckles dotting his nose. “Have fun anyway, Koti. I’ll keep a lookout for you.”

  I knew a little about the boy inside the man I watched. The boy who had put together my first s’more, laughed with his whole body at the surprise in my eyes when I tasted the toasted marshmallow, a product from a fire which he, himself had built. While Ian was allowed freedoms like that, I was allowed very little sugar and spent an hour bubbling marshmallows and smashing them between graham crackers and melted chocolate. I could still remember Ian’s amused reaction as I gorged. He was a firecracker then, about to turn fourteen, but he took me under his wing that summer.