Beach Reads Box Set

by Madden-Mills, Ilsa

  They’re nearly twins in profile, except that everything about Ren just screams at me to look at him. Unruly russet waves, long nose, and sharp cheekbones. That playoff beard he somehow keeps neat, so I can still see the hint of full lips that twist in wry amusement. His eyes crinkle when he laughs, and he has this habit of clutching his chest and bending over slightly, like someone’s capacity to amuse him goes straight to his heart.

  So happy. So carefree. What’s it like to live like that? To be so unburdened?

  I have no clue. In past relationships, I’ve been the burden. A set of issues to be handled, complications to be managed. Back home, people treated me like a problem, not a person. And so, I came to two conclusions. First, it was time to move away, and second, for the sake of protecting myself from repeating that humiliation, my heart is best left alone, safe under lock and key.

  So I wear black. I don’t smile. I hide behind a heavy curtain of dark hair and a mile-long to-do list. I welcome the witch metaphors, walk around with a frown, and grunt in response whenever possible. I don’t make friends with the neighbors or attend team picnics. I stay safe in my solitude, cold and untouchable.

  For damn good reason. I will not be treated how I was ever again.

  Willa pats my hand gently, then pops a fry in her mouth. “Want to know what made me change my mind?”

  I glance up at her. “No.”

  That makes her laugh again. “Ah, Frankie. You’re a keeper. Rooney’s going to love you.”

  “Rooney?”

  “My best friend from college. She’s at Stanford now. Biomedical law.”

  A rare feat for me, I manage to bite my tongue and not mention my own plans for law school. Yes, I sent my application to UCLA months ago. Yes, I obsessed and slaved over my application, and I’m practically positive it’s perfect. But I haven’t received my acceptance letter.

  I keep my mouth shut and suck down some root beer.

  “One of the Bergman brood will inevitably have a birthday soon,” Willa says. From what I can remember of what he’s said about his family, Ren has a daunting number of siblings, most of whom live nearby. He’s one of those rare athletes who got drafted by his hometown and never wants to leave it. Which, to this ex-New Yorker who deliberately moved cross-country, is mind-blowing.

  “Ziggy, is it?” Willa stares up at the ceiling, going through some sort of mental calendar. “Yeah, I think Ziggy’s next. Once Ry and I got together, especially once we moved to Tacoma, Rooney started coming to all the Bergman family parties to have the most time to see me and catch up. She’s an extroverted only child, so she fell in love with the big family, and now she’s an honorary Bergman. Come to Ziggy’s party, and you’ll meet Rooney then.”

  I choke on my soda. “Uh, I don’t know why I’d be there.”

  Willa pats my back gently. “Because I just invited you. I need solidarity at these things, Frankie. All these Bergmans, Rooney, too—none of them are surly or maladapted enough. Not like you and me.”

  “Thanks?”

  “I need a kindred cantankerous spirit. Seriously, come next time. You and Ren are friends. His mom’s always nagging him to bring a lady. I bet he’d love to have you come along.”

  There are so many stupefying components to what she just said, I’m coming up short of words. I blink away, shuffling my fries around my plate.

  Willa picks up her food but pauses before she takes a bite. “Also, from one crotchety soul to another, should you ever find someone who makes you want to reconsider your stance on relationships, I’m here for you, okay? Just say the word.”

  2

  Frankie

  Playlist: “How to Be a Heartbreaker,” MARINA

  Before I have a chance to respond to Willa’s unsettling offer, Matt, The Master of Douchical Mischief, drops next to me at the bar. I can smell beer on him.

  Reaching right over me, Matt offers Willa his hand. “You’re the soccer star. Renford’s sisler-in-law,” he slurs.

  “Not quite. Just Willa.” Shaking his hand, she quickly releases it, then wipes her palm on her jeans beneath the bar.

  Matt’s arm lands with a hard thud around my shoulders, nearly knocking me into my food. “Frank. Frank, Frank, Frank.” He sighs. “When are you gonna stop with the ice-queen act?”

  I straighten and try to shrug off his arm, but he just locks it tighter. “Frank,” he says. “We both know there’s something here—”

  “Matt. Get your arm off of me before I crush your nuts with the Elder Wand.”

  The Elder Wand is what I named my cane.

  Yeah, I’m twenty-six, and I use a cane. It looks like smoke glass, but instead it’s acrylic and totally badass. It’s also great for smacking dweebs like Maddox in the nuts.

  Matt drops his arm and frowns. “I don’t get you. You’re so hot and cold.”

  “No, I’m not, Matt. I run as consistently frigid as a high-end freezer. Don’t put this on me. Just because I’m a female who’s regularly in your vicinity and not fangirling over you like the many troubled souls who buy your jockstraps on eBay does not mean I secretly desire to screw you into next week.”

  Matt frowns. “You don’t?”

  “I don’t.”

  “What the hell, Frank?” he yells. Loud enough that everyone in the private room we’re in stops talking for a second and glances over at us.

  “Matt, I think you should order an Uber now.”

  “I drove,” he growls, signaling Joe.

  Seeing Matt call him, Joe walks toward us. When I catch his eye and gently shake my head, Joe stops, pivots, then turns back to continue washing glasses.

  Matt curses under his breath. “Did you just shut me off, Frank?”

  “Yes.” I turn and smile apologetically at Willa as I otherwise ignore Matt. Tipping my cup, I take a drink of root beer.

  “Frank.” He grabs my wrist, which sends the root beer flying from my hand and landing with an ice-cold splatter all over my shirt.

  I hiss at the shock of it. “Jesus, Maddox.”

  Suddenly a large hand grabs the back of Matt’s shirt and wrenches him off the barstool so violently, he tumbles to the floor. Ren bends, sweeping up my blazer, which fell too, and immediately throws it over my shoulders. When he straightens, my mouth falls open.

  Ren Bergman is really not smiling.

  And not-smiling Ren Bergman is a whole new animal. No, man.

  Move aside, Erik the Red. There’s a new enraged ginger Viking come to slay, and Lord help me, cinnamon sexpots are my weakness. I’ve been relying on the fluorescents we work under to dull Ren’s hair to burnished bronze. I tell myself every time I see him that he’s not actually a ginger god of ice hockey glory. He’s a brassy blond god of ice hockey glory. It helped. Marginally.

  But now I have to face the facts: Ren’s hair is the gorgeous copper of a fading sunset, and the anger radiating off of him is equally breathtaking.

  I gape at him, Ren the Red, vengefully sexy, and command my jaw to snap shut. It’s time to find my inner feminist. To bolster my walls. Ren throwing down on my behalf should not be affecting me like this. Especially given my history.

  Archaic male demonstrations of protectiveness are not sexy. Archaic male demonstrations of protectiveness are not sexy. Archaic—

  Dammit, this is sexy, and my body knows it. I can’t deny it any more than I can deny my Harry Potter panties are now as wet as a rainy day at Hogwarts. Ren swivels his pale eyes, a stunning wintry blue gray, right on Maddox. They’re cold fury as they glare at him, then return to me.

  “Joey, a towel, please.” His voice holds a tone of command I’ve heard Ren use on the ice countless times before, but never in any conversation involving me. My belly does a somersault as I watch a towel fly his way, before Ren immediately sets it in my hands. “Here.”

  “Th-thanks,” I mutter stupidly, dabbing my shirtfront. I’m already shivering from this cold-as-balls wet shirt plastered to my skin.

  Abruptly, Ren lurches toward the bar.
I glance up and realize it’s Matt who slammed into him.

  “Maddox,” I snap. “Stop!”

  Ren shoves him off, spins, and deftly grabs Matt by the throat. “You fucking torture her. It’s enough. Leave her alone.”

  Wow. Ren never swears. Well, not like that, at least not in public or with the team. Elizabethan oaths are more his speed. Hugger-mugger. Malignancy. Canker-blossom. He’s subtle about it, muttering them under his breath, but I have exceptionally good hearing, and since I caught the first one, I’m always craning to listen when I’m around him, hoping I’ll overhear another.

  The worst part? He’s good at it. Like, I have to feign a coughing jag every time he uses them, or I’d run the risk of laughing, maybe even smiling, and then my reputation as resident ice-queen hard-ass would be shot.

  Ren’s still throttling Matt. Perhaps it’s time to intervene before our most valuable player gets himself benched for misconduct.

  “The chivalry’s unnecessary, Bergman,” I tell him. Standing slowly off the stool, I swallow a groan as my hips scream in disapproval.

  We don’t like barstools, Frankie, my joints holler. You know this.

  I wrap my hand around Ren’s forearm and try to ignore the soft fiery hairs beneath, the powerful tendon and muscle flexing under my grip. “Please, Ren. He’s drunk. It’s pointless.”

  “Oh, there would be a point.” Ren glares at Matt and shakes him by the windpipe. “He’d learn a lesson if I beat his ass.”

  “Hey now.” Rob slides in.

  I sigh in relief. “Where’ve you been?”

  “I had to take a leak.” Rob manages to pull Ren’s hand away from Matt’s throat. “Can’t a guy piss and not come back to the kids trying to kill each other? Ren Bergman, resorting to violence. Never thought I’d see the day. I’m sure Maddox deserves whatever you were about to do, but let’s handle this like adults.”

  Matt leers at him. “Bergman’s just jealous.”

  I rub the pounding spot between my eyes. “Jealous would imply he has something to envy between us, Maddox.” Or that Ren even cares who does or doesn’t hit on me. Why would he?

  “Now, Matthew.” Rob cups his hand around Matt’s neck and pulls him aside. “You’re catching an Uber home. You’re going to sober up. Then, tomorrow, at practice, you’re going to apologize to Frankie.”

  Rob catches my eye and furrows his brow. The first few times he did it after I started working for the team, I thought he was angry at me. That’s because I suck at reading facial expressions.

  How, you ask, does someone with that kind of interpersonal hang-up work in social media? She watches lots of sports interviews and sitcoms to memorize the context and meaning for as much human behavior as possible, that’s how. But sometimes even that’s not enough, and I find myself in the dark. That’s when I simply have to ask. Which is what I had to do with Rob. Now I know that this particular expression is a nonverbal check-in.

  “I’m okay,” I tell him.

  He nods and yanks Matt away. Ren’s still glaring in their direction as they disappear down the back hall. When he turns and looks at me, pinning me with those icy eyes, a shiver rolls up my spine.

  “Are you all right?” he asks quietly. His voice is deep, warm.

  “I’m fine, Ren.” Except for my soaked Harry Potter panties. And my shredded emotional boundaries, after seeing his pissed-off, fiery alter ego that’s made forgotten corners of me blaze to life.

  Leaning against the stool, I reach for my purse and signal to Joe that I want to square up. Ren’s still watching me. I feel his gaze like sunshine, heating my skin. “You’re staring at me.”

  Ren blinks away. “Sorry. I’m just…concerned.”

  “Concerned?”

  “He grabbed you, spilled your drink all over you.”

  “Thanks.” I sweep a hand down my drenched front. “I hadn’t noticed.”

  Raking a hand through his hair in frustration, Ren tugs at the wavy ends. “He could have hurt you.”

  I slide my card across the bar toward Joe and stare at Ren. People normally assume that I’m helpless, let alone when a handsy, oversized drunk athlete throws himself my way. Here’s Ren, referencing that physical vulnerability. This is when the usual embarrassment and anger should arrive.

  But it doesn’t come.

  Because as Ren looks at me, as I process his words, I can’t recall a single moment Ren’s ever acted or spoken like he thinks I can’t take care of myself. He’s never hovered behind me like I’m going to take a tumble. He doesn’t talk to me like I’m an invalid. Saying that Maddox could have hurt me isn’t a reflection on my weakness. It’s an indictment on Matt’s misuse of his strength.

  Ren’s eyes lock on mine. My heart pounds against my ribs, and my throat dries up.

  It’s too much. I blink away, and when I glance back, Ren’s gaze has finally shifted to my mouth. A jolt of heat sears my lips, slides down my throat, and lands, warm in my belly.

  Someone’s hand rests on my back, breaking the moment. I don’t know Willa well enough to read her face, but thankfully she speaks before I’m left wondering any longer. “I was hoping you’d get to use the Elder Wand,” she says. “You okay?”

  “You’re not the only one who’s disappointed. That guy’s overdue for a dick smacking.” I thank Joe when he returns my card and receipt, which I sign with a flourish. “But, yeah, I’m okay. Just tired. I should head home.”

  Not that I’m sure how that’s happening. Normally, I drive myself everywhere and burn through audiobooks to pass the staggering amount of time I spend in LA traffic. But my car’s “check engine” light was on yesterday, so it's in the shop. Rob drove me to Louie’s and would I’m sure gladly drive me home as well, but he’s still handling Maddox, meaning I have to wait or catch a ride with someone else. I don’t do late-night taxi rides alone.

  “Frankie,” Ren says. “Let me drive you.”

  I glance up at Ren and commence a Frankie-stare for the books. His eyes are luminous, gray as fog, the kind that blots out your world but for a few feet in front of you, that makes you question what’s up or down. So many times, I’ve had the unsettling feeling I could get just as lost in them.

  “Let him drive you,” Willa says. She smiles while threading her arms through her jacket. Ryder steps behind her and helps her get it up over her shoulders, giving her arms an affectionate squeeze as he plants a kiss on top of her head. A small, intimate gesture brimming with so much love, I feel like I just saw something I shouldn’t have.

  “I may be a little rusty on my LA geography,” she says, “but Hawthorne’s on the way. We’re staying at Ren’s for the night, and he’s driving us, too. It’ll be a dance party in the new van.”

  My attention snaps to Ren. “You bought a van?”

  Ren’s cheeks redden, but he stands tall. “Heck, yes, I bought a van. There’s no shame in owning a Honda Odyssey.”

  Willa clears her throat and grins, while Ryder’s shoulders shake with what sounds like laughter. He hides it behind a cough into his fist.

  I recognize Ren’s posture as signifying defensiveness and immediately feel bad for opening my mouth. This happens sometimes. I ask a question, and people hear…more than a question. They hear criticism or judgment or teasing. I’ve given up trying to explain that my brain isn’t wired for that subtlety, that I couldn’t imply those kinds of layers of meaning if I wanted to, because one too many times, people haven’t believed me. They hear excuses, rather than context. So, I stopped trying, and told myself to quit caring when I’m misunderstood.

  Now, only those closest to me are trusted with knowing the real reason Frankie has dubious success with sarcasm and picking up on jokes. Why she works resting bitch face and deadpan delivery, wears earplugs at the games, and is obsessively fascinated with Harry Potter, root beer gummies, NHL statistics, linguistics, knee socks, and only wearing gray scale clothing, among many other things…

  Autism.

  “Ooh!” Willa says. “I ca
ll dibs on the music.”

  Ryder’s laugh-cough abruptly becomes a groan. “When Willa DJs, I wish my ear doodads didn’t work so well either—oof.”

  Willa slugs him playfully in the stomach, then grasps his jaw and plants a firm kiss right on his mouth. “Asshole lumberjack. You’re just looking for a fight.”

  He grins and wraps an arm around Willa as she drops back on her heels. “Maybe I am.”

  They walk out ahead of us, waving goodnight to the rest of the team and their families. A balmy night breeze slips through the door as they head outside, and Ren steps close to me. Carefully, he unhooks my cane off the bar ledge and, bowing with a flourish, tips it toward me. “Your scepter, my liege.”

  I feel a rare smile lift my cheeks. “I have heard rumors that you’re a closeted Shakespeare dork, Bergman.”

  “They got it all wrong.” He straightens and smiles. “There’s nothing closeted about it.”

  A surprised laugh spills out of me, and Ren’s grin widens, brighter than the California noontime sun. But for once, that sunshine smile doesn’t bother this grump one bit.

  3

  Ren

  Playlist: “For the Time Being,” Erlend Øye

  After walking Frankie to her door—complete with a reminder, in her deadpan delivery, that she’s a big girl who can make it from the car to her house—I hop back into the van. She locks herself into her canary-yellow bungalow on 133rd, and I see lights flicker on in the front room before her silhouette shortens as she walks deeper into the house.

  Enjoying my super fancy rear-drive cameras, I pull out of Frankie’s driveway.

  “Soooo.” Willa grins at me, batting her eyelashes. After Frankie vacated the shotgun seat of the van, Willa hugged her goodbye, hopped into it, and is now curled up, staring at me. Reaching for the volume dial, she turns down Busta Rhymes.