Beach Reads Box Set

by Madden-Mills, Ilsa

  As Ax predicted, it’s anything but brief, and by the time I’m jotting down Axel’s tenth point, while cross-referencing it to Ryder’s somewhat conflicting advice, the noise of a car pulling in front of my house makes all of us freeze.

  “Dewberries!” I hiss.

  Oliver snorts. “Did you just say—”

  “That’s her!”

  I slap the computer shut on Ryder and Axel. Oliver and Viggo stand, clumsily bumping fronts as they try to escape their chairs. They stumble over each other, down the stairs to the sand and around the side of the house just as Frankie walks into the kitchen. Her eyes travel to the deck, taking in the giant pile of food my brothers left on the table. She raises an eyebrow, but before I can so much as wave hello, she’s gone, out of sight.

  I stare after her, like a dumbstruck idiot, hearing all my brothers’ thoughts ricocheting in my head, their voices warring with each other about what I should do next. Anxiety and nerves tighten my stomach. What do I do? Which move is the right one to make?

  Frankie tugs open the sliding door, and Pazza bounds out, sprinting toward the shore. She smiles up at me, starlight dancing over her skin.

  My brothers’ voices die away. The ocean breeze wraps around us. And the answer is crystal clear. “How about a moonlit stroll, Francesca?”

  Her smile deepens as she slips her arm through mine, without saying a word. But it’s all the answer I need.

  12

  Ren

  Playlist: “Hallelujah,” Jake Shimabukuro

  “I saw a Subaru out front.” Frankie jerks her head toward the house but keeps her eyes on Pazza dashing across the sand. “Neighbor’s car?”

  I throw the ball for Pazza, then turn to look at Frankie.

  So beautiful. No makeup, her hair slicked back in a bun from the pool, those soft lips she tugs between her teeth, dark lashes blinking slowly.

  She leans in and drops her voice. “Maybe it’s the mystery lady’s car. She finally got wise and paid a visit.”

  I can tell she’s mostly joking. She wouldn’t be down on the sand with me if she truly thought someone else was waiting for me in my home. But it’s so hard to know what to say when Frankie brings herself up without knowing it’s Frankie I’m always thinking and talking about.

  The wind snaps between us and tugs a dark ribbon of hair across her face. Carefully, I slide my finger along her cheekbone and tuck that loose espresso strand tight behind her ear. I shouldn’t, but I can’t help myself. She leans, almost imperceptibly, into my touch. I let my fingers trace the shell of her ear, whisper lighter than a breeze down her neck, before I drop my hand.

  “It was my brothers,” I manage hoarsely.

  She frowns. “Your brothers? Where are they?”

  “They left. Right when you got here. Trust me, you’re not ready to meet them. Not the man-cubs. You saw the carnage they left on the table.”

  Her soft laugh and smile hit me, a double wave I wasn’t braced for. I can count on one hand the times I’ve made Frankie laugh. It feels like a gift.

  “Did you tell your family about UCLA?” I sweep up Pazza’s ball, fake her out, then send it flying in the air.

  “I did. I called them before water aerobics and told them. They were excited for me.” Frankie clears her throat. “Oh, and I had a voicemail from my landlord. He said they’re still fixing the damage done to the kitchen and my room, but after that it’ll be ready. I should be able to get in by next week, after our games in Minnesota.”

  “Well…that’s good.”

  Verbal brilliance, Bergman.

  I’m a nervous wreck. There’s so much I want to tell her and none of it will disentangle in my brain. I want to ask her to stay, even when that bungalow is safe to return to. I want to confess that I’m wild about her. I want to ask if she’s even a little wild about me, too.

  But the one thing all five Bergman brothers agreed on tonight was that I should wait to tell her how I feel.

  The when was not a unanimous agreement between my brothers. While Axel and Oliver said to wait until she’d left the team, Ryder and Viggo voted not to wait that long, just until she’s back in her own space again, at which point, if I told her and she didn’t feel the same way, she at least wouldn’t be stuck under my roof.

  Just stuck working with you.

  Frankie stares at me. I’ve noticed she does it sometimes, like she’s not just looking at me, but as if she’s trying to look into me.

  “Is everything okay?” she asks.

  I balk at that. “What do you mean?”

  “I thought maybe you were angry. Your answer was short. And that usually translates to me as anger.”

  “Frankie, no.” I have to restrain myself from hugging her. I want to kiss her forehead and beg to know how I made her feel I was angry with her when I’m so far from it. “Why would you think that?”

  Her gaze drifts to the waves breaking on the shore. “Reading people is tricky for me. Usually, I can’t tell by someone’s face how they’re feeling, not until I know them really well and I have lots of time to learn their expressions.” She turns and stares at me again, her brow furrowing seriously. “That’s because I’m autistic.”

  Air rushes out of me. Frankie’s on the spectrum.

  God, I’ve been thick. While I know it’s unique to each person, I’m familiar with autism’s complexity, the way it both hides and sneaks out. My youngest sister, Ziggy, who I’m close to, was diagnosed just a year ago. Axel hasn’t been diagnosed, but more and more since Ziggy’s diagnosis, I wonder why he hasn’t been. The point being, I’m well acquainted with the autism spectrum in people I’m close to. Why didn’t I recognize it in Frankie?

  Stepping nearer, I tentatively thread my fingers through Frankie’s, bracing myself for her to pull away, to reject the gesture. But she doesn’t. Instead she slides her fingers tighter with mine. “Thank you for telling me, Frankie. For trusting me.”

  She tips her head, lifting her eyes to meet mine. “I wish I’d told you sooner. But when I met you, you were just another player on the team. It didn’t seem necessary.”

  One little word—were—but it makes hope soar through my body.

  “Can I ask why you don’t tell others? Why you’re telling me now? If that’s personal, I understand.”

  Frankie squeezes my hand, and I have to stifle the rough inhale it causes. Her palm’s soft and cool from the night air. It fits perfectly inside mine.

  “I have a…a mask that I wear for work,” she answers. “I hide a lot of myself to do my job. Why tell people I’m autistic when I act like I’m not?”

  “Isn’t that exhausting?” I remember that being Ziggy’s refrain: I’m so tired. So tired of pretending and still feeling like I suck at it. I feel invisible. Even to myself.

  “Yes.” She smiles. “Thus, law school. Studying and negotiating the law, it’s a strength to be fastidiously observant and detail-oriented, methodical, hyper-focused, literal, direct. Sometimes I worry what I’ll do when I miss things interpersonally. I know law can get dirty and people can twist their words, but I’m not battling it out in a courtroom. I’ll be reading fine print, negotiating contracts for clients I get to know well, so I think I’ll do okay. I’ll get to truly be myself.”

  “I’m happy for you, Frankie. You deserve to be yourself. At work. With friends. Anywhere.”

  She peers up at me, another one of her incisive stares. “Thank you.”

  Pazza barks and spins, chasing her tail. We glance over at her as quiet settles between us but for the incessant pound of the ocean nearby.

  “You remember I have a small country’s worth of siblings, right?”

  Frankie wrinkles her nose, clearly confused. “Yes?”

  “My little sister is on the spectrum. So, while everyone’s unique, and I’m no expert, I love someone who’s autistic. And I hope you know I’m a safe place for you to be you.”

  Frankie sniffs and wipes her nose. Blinks a few times and dabs her eyes with the heel of he
r hand, gripping her sweatshirt.

  “You okay?”

  “I’m not crying,” she says immediately.

  I squeeze her hand, rubbing my thumb in a gentle circle across her palm. “Of course not.”

  “It’s windy,” she says.

  “Very windy.”

  When she glances up at me, she’s smiling. And it’s an arrow to the heart.

  I want to kiss Frankie. Badly.

  Not while she’s your guest, with nowhere to go. Be patient. You’ve waited this long. Wait a little longer.

  “You’re staring at my mouth,” she whispers.

  “S-sorry.” I try to blink away, but my gaze swivels right back to her, a compass set to true north.

  “It’s almost like you want to kiss me, Zenzero.” She bites her lip, her eyes locked on my mouth, too.

  I just stare at her, like an idiot. Pazza drops her slimy ball right on my foot, headbutts me, and barks. But I’m oblivious. All I see is Frankie, Frankie who’s staring back at me, and it’s like free-falling through time and space, lost in the vortex of her gaze.

  It happens in slow motion, Frankie pressing on tiptoe, her fingers wrapping around my arms to brace herself. I suck in a breath as sparks shoot across my skin, and she leans into me. Her curves press against every hard plane of my body, her grip tightens. Before I know what’s happening—

  The sweetest lips brush mine. Her mouth is full and soft as it tastes my bottom lip and sucks gently. My inhale is shaky, my exhale a groan of relief. She slides her hands over my shoulders, up my neck, and weaves her fingers into my hair. Her touch is gentle but determined, warm and tender, as she presses faint kisses to the corners of my mouth.

  I wrap an arm around her waist and tug her closer. Oh, God, her body. Long, strong, lean around her ribs, where I hold her, but soft where her breasts rub against my chest, where her hips curve into mine. Cupping her neck, I knead the tense muscles at the base of her skull. Frankie moans against my mouth, her lips parting, and the sound, I swear, it shakes the earth beneath my feet. I slide my other hand lower down her back and tuck her close, settling it at the tender curve of her spine.

  How something I’ve dreamed of can so wildly exceed my imagination, I’ll never know. I thought I knew what I could expect, how sweet she’d taste, how warm and soft her lips would be. But my dreams are nothing to reality.

  Her tongue teases mine, slow, steady swirls that coax mine to find hers. I tilt her head in my grip, slant my mouth to deepen the kiss. Rocking her against me, tangling my tongue with hers, the kiss becomes as rhythmic as the waves behind us. Slide, tease, retreat.

  “Oh, shit.” She pulls away breathlessly, shaking hands covering her mouth. “Okay. Wow. Just…wow. Okay. Yep, I kissed you. I shouldn’t have done that. Pazza!”

  Pazza scrambles toward us across the sand as reality hits me. Frankie kissed me. She kissed me.

  She likes you! At least enough to kiss you.

  “Ren, I’m sorry,” she mutters, rubbing her forehead.

  “Frankie, please don’t apologi—"

  “My yoga trainer’s coming early in the morning, if that’s still okay?”

  Cheeks bright red, eyes down on the sand. Clearly, she wants to move on, which I have no idea what to make of. “Of course… What time? I’ll join you.”

  That seems to break her from the depths of her embarrassment. She rears back like I’ve surprised her and raises her eyebrows. “This isn’t that newbie warm-up ‘yoga’ that the team does with Lars.”

  “I’m aware, Francesca.”

  “Don’t ‘Francesca’ me, Søren.” Her features are guarded, as she backs away slowly. “Eight o’clock.”

  I can’t help but smile at her. “I’ll be there. Goodnight, Frankie.”

  She doesn’t answer, only spins slowly toward the house. I stare after her, watching Frankie’s form grow smaller as she walks carefully up the steps and goes inside, Pazza trotting alongside her.

  She kissed me. She kissed me. And I kissed her back.

  I pull out my phone and open the brothers’ group text. They’re not going to believe this.

  * * *

  I wake up tired, aching, and frustrated after a night of too little sleep and too many dreams involving Frankie and her maddeningly soft lips. Rolling over, I rub my eyes and look at the clock. I have to be reading it wrong. That, or I slept through my alarm.

  The faint din of a voice other thank Frankie’s, followed by her laugh, confirms the latter. “Barnacles!”

  I brush my teeth while hopping into sweats and tugging on a T-shirt. Quickly, I run my hands through my hair, smooth down my beard so it doesn’t look too crazy, and jog down to my training room.

  At the threshold, I freeze. There’s a man. A man with very little attachment to clothing or, apparently, to having his hands for much longer. He’s shirtless, wearing only biker shorts, gripping Frankie’s hips while he stands right behind her in a highly suggestive position. It takes every feminist, evolved, twenty-first-century corner of me not to growl and throw him against the wall.

  Caveman moment conquered, I stroll in. “Good morning. Sorry I’m late.”

  Frankie peers up from downward dog. “Good morning, Søren. This is Fabrizio.”

  “Fabi, you can call me.” He extends his hand. I take it and indulge in squeezing a little harder than strictly necessary. Fabrizio doesn’t seem to feel it, because he simply drops his hand back to Frankie’s hip once I let go and focuses his gaze firmly on her beautiful backside.

  She’s wearing black leggings with a sheer panel zigzagging all the way up to her hip bone. Her toenails are painted black just like her fingernails, and her tank top is black and cropped, hugging her ribs. So much golden skin, so many muscles and perfect Frankie curves.

  “Well, then,” Fabrizio says. “Søren—”

  “Ren,” I correct him, strolling to the other side of the room and circling my arms, softly twisting my torso, waking up my body.

  He bends his head in apology. “Scusa. Frankie called you that, I just assumed.”

  “It’s okay. She does it to tease me.”

  Frankie glances up at Fabrizio and says something to him in Italian. He laughs and his hands slide down her thighs, grasping her kneecaps. He’s bent and practically using her backside as his pillow.

  “So, Fabrizio,” I manage between clenched teeth. “How long have you been teaching Frankie?”

  He smiles. I swear he knows he’s taunting me. As he stands, he sets a hand low on Frankie’s back and smooths it over her spine.

  “Three years,” he says on a grin. “Now, why don’t we start with something basic to see where you are in your practice, Ren?”

  Moving to the front of the room, Fabrizio starts a sun salutation. While I only practice basic yoga with our team’s nutritionist and wellness coach, Lars, I’m familiar enough to follow Fabrizio’s sequences, and I do them with ease.

  I can feel Frankie’s eyes on me, but every time I glance her way, she’s watching Fabrizio, chatting with him in Italian, then translating what I’m suspicious is only part of it for me. After what feels like a bajillion chaturangas, then warrior variations that remind me how damn tight my groin is, her instructor straightens and eyes me up.

  “Ren, you are modest, my friend.” Fabrizio turns to Frankie. “He is good. You two do some poses together, sì?”

  “Um.” Frankie glances up from child’s pose, her cheeks pink.

  I roll onto my back and grin at her, feeling mildly vindictive about the half-naked, handsy Italian yoga instructor. Couldn’t be some crunchy, maternal type. No. Had to be a guy who looks like he’s a cover model on some cologne ad and who speaks her language. Literally.

  It might be nice to see her squirm a bit. “What do you say, Frankie? Let’s do it.”

  Frankie glares at me. Clenching her jaw, she turns and grimaces at Fabi. “Fine.”

  “Eccellente!” He claps his hands.

  Frankie’s scowling at me but I just give her a wide
r grin. There’s my grump I love to needle with a smile.

  “Camel pose. Ustrasana,” he says. Frankie and I kneel at his direction, knees touching. Then, gripping each other’s forearms, we lean up and away into the pose. Our groins fuse with the position—my pelvis pressed into the soft hollow between her hips. Frankie’s breath hitches as I bite my cheek to stifle a groan. This is torture. I was half-mast when I woke up, but now there’s nothing remotely “half” about what’s inside my sweatpants.

  “Breathe into the pose. Hearts open, chests to the sky,” Fabrizio says, before he steps away for his water.

  All I can feel is Frankie. The warmth of her thighs and the welcoming give between her hip bones that my aching body fits perfectly. She shifts, a deliberate movement. A decadent swirl of her hips.

  Sweet Jesus.

  I try picturing that one time I walked in on Freya and Aiden making out when they were first dating—like really making out—because there is nothing more revolting than seeing your sister with her tongue down a guy’s throat, but not even that quells the heat surging through me. I’m a slave to the pound of my pulse, the urgent need to be closer to Frankie, deep inside her, connected.

  “Francesca,” I warn.

  She cracks open one eye and smirks at me. “You got yourself into this mess, Søren. Before you accepted a couple’s pose you might have considered we’d be pretzel-ing each other’s intimate bits.”

  I hiss when she does another shimmy. That’s it.

  Gripping her forearms, I tilt my pelvis even deeper, sliding myself against the warmth between her thighs. Her eyes widen as she makes a tiny muffled noise.

  “How ya doing, there, fresterska?”

  “What did you call me?” she squeaks.

  “You’re not the only one who speaks another language.” I roll my hips against hers and feel her nails dig into my forearm.

  “Good.” Fabrizio comes back. “You have beautiful energy together.”