Beach Reads Box Set

by Madden-Mills, Ilsa

  My chest cracks right down the middle.

  Emotion squeezes my throat and makes it impossible to speak.

  He pushes away from the table and carries our plates to the sink. “Think about it.”

  He doesn’t need to angle himself that way to wash a dish. He doesn’t need to keep his attention on the sink. He could have pressed me for an answer, but he didn’t. He’s letting me stand here with tears filling my eyes and overwhelming gratitude bubbling up inside of me, and he’s giving me privacy.

  I’m pushing out the back door and stumbling out into the back yard before I can even process that I’m moving.

  That…that is so not what I was expecting from him this morning.

  A pat on the shoulder and a sad, pitying smile—maybe. A one-way ticket away from this ranch—much more likely. Instead, he just looked me in the eye and told me I’m his brand of crazy, that my flaws and failures don’t scare him, that he believes me about why I left my marriage.

  I’m nearly back to the shack when I turn on my heel and run right back to the kitchen. He’s still there, washing dishes when I whip the door open and lean inside.

  “Okay! But I want Alfred too!”

  * * *

  In the days following the wedding, Jack and I solidify what can only be described as a friendship. We smile at each other a lot. We joke and tease and I picture him in his underwear. Friend stuff.

  Edith and Jack don’t have an official adoption ceremony for me, but I’m theirs all the same. I have a standing invitation for dinner every night. Most of the time Jack grills chicken or steak and I whip up a side dish or two. Edith provides two things: sweet tea and local gossip.

  If someone were going to make a movie about my life, this chunk of it would be contained in montage-style scenes backed by an upbeat song from a band with banjos. I’d be laughing and cleaning one second then running in gleeful slow motion through the lawn sprinkler with Alfred the next.

  It’s great.

  Everything is great.

  There’s just one tiny, microscopic problem: I have developed what I can only describe as the world’s biggest crush on Jack.

  To anyone watching the montage play out, it’s painfully obvious. There are quick cut scenes where I watch him and the second he turns my way, I jerk my gaze in another direction so fast my neck breaks. The montage then gets a quick dose of comedic relief as I visit a chiropractor to fix my new neck problem.

  But it doesn’t end there. I spend extra time doing my hair and makeup in the mornings, as if he will notice that I look prettier than usual as I empty his trashcans. I make his favorite foods and bring him coffee in the afternoon just to have an excuse to see him. It’s pathetic. I’m pathetic. All the viewers shift uncomfortably in their seats.

  In the early weeks of working at Blue Stone, I was so consumed with the turmoil surrounding us that my attraction for him wasn’t at the forefront of my mind. I was discovering the art of survival and learning how to share the shack with woodland critters. I was basically Harry Potter in a parallel universe where he never gets a Hogwarts letter, instead living in the spidery cupboard under the stairs all the way through his late twenties, cursing the mean Muggles he lives with. Now that things have settled down, however, it feels as if someone has tweaked the connection between us like a TV antennae. All the static and background noise are gone—he’s coming in loud and clear. That handsome face of his is showing in full HD glory, and there’s no going back now.

  I like him. I really like him. However, I’m smart enough to sit on my crush, to push and shove and poke it so that maybe, just maybe it’ll go away. Why? Because nothing good will come from wanting my boss, the man currently providing me with a safe haven and who also sort of happens to be my only friend (besides you Alfred! You’ll always be my numero uno).

  To his credit, he is nothing but respectful and kind. I never get the sense that he’s harboring feelings for me like I am for him—and believe me, I look for the signs. There are the obvious things men do when they’re interested in a woman: spending time with her, laughing at her jokes—but he has to spend time with me because I’m always around, and he’s probably laughing at me rather than with me. Beyond that, there are more subtle ways to tell if a guy is interested, like if he finds excuses to touch you (he doesn’t) or if you catch him checking you out (I don’t) or if he creates situations to get some alone time with you (I wouldn’t know—Edith is always around).

  My infatuation is screwing with my head. The fact that all day I actively try to push Jack out of my thoughts means at night, my desire comes back stronger and more demanding than ever. Night after night, my sleeping hours are filled with raunchy sex-filled dreams. I wake up with my hands on different body parts (boob, thigh, stomach, halfway down my Fruit of the Looms), or I wake up sweating and so turned on I have no choice but to finish what my incorrigible subconscious has started.

  It’s a real problem. Night after night of bad sleep means I have less energy to stand up to my crush on him come morning. I’m jittery and self-conscious and worried my true feelings are becoming too obvious to ignore. All these harbored fantasies have to be manifesting somehow. I bet I’m leaching pheromones like a farm animal in heat.

  Without a doubt, Jack knows I have a crush on him. There’s no way he doesn’t know. I’m just not sure what he’s going to do about it.

  25

  Jack

  Meredith has been here for almost seven weeks now, and I’m officially stuck between a rock and hard place. It’s a dingy hellhole I like to call the friend zone. I can’t act on the feelings I’m developing for her. She opened up to me about her marriage, I’m newly single, she’s only been single for a month and a half, and technically, that’s not even true considering she’s still legally married. I know she’s in a fragile place. She’s probably glad to be free of her crazy husband and on her own; the last thing she wants is another guy sniffing around. I need to keep my distance and help her get back on her own two feet, at least that’s what I tell myself while I stand under the shower stream and wrap my hand around my dick.

  What? I’m trying to be a gentleman, not a saint.

  I close my eyes and prop my hand against the wall, remembering how hot Meredith looked the other day while she was bathing Alfred in the back yard. She was wetter than he was, her t-shirt clinging to her curves. It was spring break in South Beach. She kept saying things like, “Okay, big guy, you’re gonna get it!” and “Stay still, I’m about to finish! I just need to get your face.” It was pornographic, and if any of the ranch hands had seen it, I’d have needed to put them down like a rabid dog.

  “Jack!” Her voice sounds from the other side of the bathroom door. “You in there?”

  I jerk my eyes open, tilt my head back, and stare up at the ceiling. Wow, is my imagination this good?

  “Jack?” Meredith calls again, all sweet and naive. Her voice is honey, and my dick hardens even more.

  I grit my teeth. “Yup. What’s up?”

  “I just realized you don’t have any clean towels! I bleached them earlier and forgot to put one in here before your shower.”

  “Just leave one by the door!” Or better yet, turn around and walk about a thousand yards the other way. I don’t need a towel—I’ll just shake myself dry like Alfred.

  “You sure?” she asks. “I can close my eyes. No big deal!”

  No big deal? NO BIG DEAL? If she comes into this bathroom to bring me a towel, there’s a 100% chance I will fling open this shower door and drag her in here with me. I’ll haul her up against the tiled wall and cover her body with mine and roll my hips against her ass and give her the employee review I so badly want to.

  “I just know I hate getting out of the shower without a towel nearby,” she continues.

  Oh good, now I’m thinking about her in the shower with me…suds running down her stomach, slipping down between her legs. I think the majority of the blood in my brain has left, headed south for greener pastures.


  “Meredith, just leave the towel outside, okay?”

  My voice is gruff and she calls me on it.

  “Sheesh okay, sor-ry. I didn’t know I was interrupting some private ‘ranch hand’ time.”

  “What? I’m just showering, nothing else.”

  “Uh-huh. The lady doth protest too much.”

  After she leaves, I’m left there, staring down at my hand, frozen. I can’t finish, not because I’m not horny as hell, but because I feel like a disgusting perv lusting after Meredith like that, not to mention she obviously guessed what I was doing. I cut the water and pad out to get the towel she left on the other side of the bathroom door.

  She’s incapable of meeting my eyes when I walk down into the kitchen a few minutes later.

  “Feeling better?” she asks with a high-pitched, helpless voice.

  “From my shower?” I ask, fooling no one.

  She clears her throat a half-dozen times. It’s like she’s got a whole pond’s worth of frogs stuck in there.

  I try to catch her eye, but she looks everywhere but me—ceiling, wall, cutting board.

  I sigh. “I wasn’t masturbating.”

  “I know that,” she answers quickly, pale eyes going wide. “Don’t you think I know that? Ha, obviously.”

  “But just to be clear, even if I was, it’s perfectly normal,” I point out, walking over to pluck a slice of the apple she’s chopping. Between you and me, I don’t really want the apple. I want to get a closer look at that pink flush on her cheeks.

  “Of course it’s normal,” she says defensively. “Everyone does it.”

  “Everyone?” I taunt.

  “Jack.”

  “What?” I tease. “Now we’re even. We both know what the other is doing when they’re in the shower.”

  “I don’t do it in the shower,” she mumbles, almost as if she doesn’t realize she’s saying the words out loud.

  “Interesting.”

  She catches herself and shakes her head, chopping at double speed now. She’s entered some kind of apple-chopping competition with herself.

  “This is inappropriate.”

  Chop, chop, chop. She’s about to lose a finger.

  “You’re the one who tried to come into the bathroom while I was showering.”

  “To give you a towel!”

  She’s getting hysterical.

  I turn to head up to my office. “Uh-huh.”

  A piece of apple hits me smack-dab in the back of the head as I walk away. Alfred snatches it up before I can.

  * * *

  A week later, Meredith convinces me to watch a chick flick with her. Edith is out with her friends, so it’s just Meredith, me, and Alfred. He’s up on the couch between us, taking up more space than the both of us combined. Meredith is wearing a tank top and pajama shorts. Her legs are hidden under a blanket, and her attention is focused squarely on the TV.

  On her lap is a bowl of popcorn she just made for us. I’m watching her bring each kernel to her lips, and I have a pillow strategically placed on my lap.

  Alfred is scowling at me like, Really, dude? Can’t the girl just eat her popcorn in peace?

  Meredith smiles. “I love this part.”

  I make a noncommittal sound and it sounds a lot like someone just kneed me in the groin, but she doesn’t notice. She holds the bowl of popcorn out for me.

  “Want some?”

  I hold up my hand. “No thanks.”

  She sets it down on the table and stands. “I gotta go wash my hands. You want a beer?”

  “Yeah, that’d be great.” And while you’re at it, would you mind grabbing a weapon and putting me out of my misery?

  She drops an ice-cold bottle of Blue Moon over my shoulder a few minutes later.

  “Here, I put an orange slice in there for you.”

  My favorite.

  She saunters around the couch and scoots Alfred to the floor. “Ah,” she sighs, stretching out with a content little smile on her face. “Much better.”

  Her legs are stretched out toward me now, and her toes hit my thighs.

  “Whoops,” she says, scooting them back a little.

  “It’s fine.”

  I reach out and tug them back where they were. It’s nothing—or it should be. I’m touching her ankle, and yet it’s erotic. The pillow’s fabric is straining.

  The movie continues, and I sip my beer, all the while trying to reason with myself about why it’d be a good idea to turn and kiss her. Maybe she wants to move on from her ex? Maybe she’s just as sex-deprived as I am? Maybe you’re an opportunistic asshole. Leave her alone.

  Characters I’m not invested in are suddenly ripping their clothes off on screen. They’ve been avoiding each other for the whole movie, building toward this sexy scene. They’re really going at it—stumbling into things, bumping against walls, making picture frames crash to the floor.

  “Wouldn’t it be funny if sex was actually like that?” Meredith laughs. “Like if you kept having to run to IKEA to replace all your broken lamps and shattered vases because you were so turned on that you lost all spatial awareness?”

  I can’t help but smile. “That’s actually happened to me before.”

  “You broke a lamp?”

  She makes it sound like it’s completely absurd.

  “Didn’t shatter the base, just the bulb.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  I sip my beer, anxious for the next subject.

  “How?” she asks, amazed.

  “I needed to use the side table for…well…” I clear my throat, aware that there’s no way of continuing without getting graphic. “Leverage, and I accidentally knocked the lamp to the ground. The light bulb shattered, but you’re right, it wasn’t as dramatic as this.”

  “Oh.”

  She sounds like she’s in a daze. I stare intently at the TV.

  “So you were on top of the girl.”

  Her voice sounds shaky.

  “Woman,” I correct. “Yes.”

  “And just how much…leverage…do you usually need?”

  This question, asked with her innocent lilt, is made worse by the fact that the characters on screen are going all out, scene after scene of rhythmic gyrations overlaid with moaning and groaning. Time seems to slow to a crawl.

  I push to stand, finish off my beer, and deposit the empty bottle on the coffee table.

  I know when I’ve reached my limit, and talking about having sex, while listening to people have sex, while Meredith is just sitting there, perfectly…well, perfect, is…fuck.

  “Anyway, I’m going for a run,” I announce, tugging on the sneakers I left by the door.

  Then I just turn and walk out.

  Running is not something I do. I don’t need to; working around the ranch is enough of a workout on its own. Lately, though, I’ve been running a lot—all the time, in fact. I run after I catch sight of a sliver of Meredith’s stomach when she reaches for a glass on the higher shelf in the cabinets. I run after she makes a joke at dinner and brushes my arm gently. I run after she walks into my office with some afternoon coffee and a freshly baked muffin. She sets it down on my desk and winks then just strolls right back out, hips swaying. I run because it’s the only damn thing I can do that helps me blow off steam without feeling like a predator.

  Hell, maybe I should just train for an Ironman triathlon at this point. If Meredith continues living here, I could probably win the damn thing.

  When I make it back to the farmhouse thirty minutes later, I’m sweaty and breathing hard, but no less worked up than I was before my run. Shit. My coping mechanisms are starting to lose effectiveness. I’ll have to get creative, maybe consider a cold bath or—

  My thoughts freeze when I pull open the door and find Meredith in my living room, pacing. I figured she’d have gone to sleep by now. The movie probably ended a few minutes after I left.

  She whips her attention to me and wrings out her hands.

  “You’re still here,” I say,
deciding that’s the safest thing that could possibly come out of my mouth at this moment.

  She steps toward me, drops her hands, turns, fidgets with her ponytail, and then turns back to me.

  “Okay, I’ve been thinking…”

  Her eyes are wide with worry. Her teeth nibble on her bottom lip. I’ve never seen her look so nervous, not even back when she used to be scared of Alfred.

  “About what?” I ask this while standing very still, hand propped up on the doorframe.

  “You find me attractive, right? Like as a woman?”

  I blink. Blink, blink, blink.

  Is this a trick? A trap?

  I’m her employer, her confidant.

  “Umm…sure?”

  She frowns, and a deep crease settles between her eyebrows. “Women usually hope for a little more enthusiasm.”

  “Were you?” The fewer words, the better, I think to myself. I’ll use one more. “Hoping?”

  “Well yeah, because I find you…”—she waves her hand up and down my body and then clears her throat—“very good-looking.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And we’re both available.”

  “I’m aware.”

  “And I think we should kiss.”

  Gulp.

  “And break lamps.”

  Her euphemism makes me smile, but then reality catches up with me.

  “Believe me, I want to break thousands of lamps with you, but you just got out of a bad relationship.”

  “Right. So did you.”

  “I don’t want to take advantage of you.”

  “Noble, but unnecessary.”

  “Also, you work for me.”

  “True, but irrelevant.”

  “It could make our relationship really complicated.”

  “Indeed, but it’s worth the risk.”

  “And…well…”

  I’m at the end of the line. I’ve run right out of excuses. She was supposed to agree with one of those and call this whole conversation off. She was supposed to nod and say, Oh, you know what? I hadn’t thought of that. Well see ya! Then we’d shake hands and she’d get the hell out of my house.