Beach Reads Box Set

by Madden-Mills, Ilsa

  Frankie smiles up at me. “I feel bad, but it’s best he’s not here. You are a noisy lover, Mr. Bergman.”

  A blush heats my cheeks as I glare down at her playfully. “I think you mean, passionate, Ms. Zeferino.”

  Her smile deepens, broken only briefly by a lingering cough that sounds much better than it did three weeks ago.

  I slide my finger along her dimple. “This has tortured me many months, Francesca. Years, to be precise.”

  “My dimple?” She slaps a hand over her cheek and my finger, looking self-conscious. “It’s weird I don’t have two, isn’t it? It always bugged me because my mind craves symmetry.”

  “That’s why I like it. You were always so neat and exact. Then you had this lopsided dimple that I only saw when you gave a rare smile. Even if it’s an imperfection, it’s beautiful to me.”

  Her face falls. “Some imperfections aren’t so beautiful, Ren.”

  “No. Perhaps not.” I slip my fingers through her hair. “But if they’re yours, I love them. And you love mine.”

  She grabs my wrist, stilling my hand. “I need to explain this. I need you to understand.”

  Smoothing her cheek with my fingers, even as she holds my wrist captive, I stare down at her. “I’m listening.”

  Frankie holds my eyes as often as she can, before they dance to my body, the fire, my mouth, my hair. “Something my therapist said to me a few weeks ago… I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about it.”

  I wait for her, listening in silence but for the snap and pop of the cured wood roaring in the fireplace.

  “She said you can’t believe someone’s love for you until you think that you’re worthy of it,” she says quietly, staring at the fire. “You have to love yourself. And in that way, I think you are far ahead of me, Ren.”

  “How do you mean?”

  She sighs. “Some days I do feel cynical. Other days I’m optimistic. I think that on hard days, when everything hurts and everything feels difficult, I don’t find myself very lovable. And I know it’s not true, that I’m not allowed to struggle, that I’m not lovable when I do, but it feels…real.”

  I pull her close.

  Frankie blinks up at me, breathtakingly lovely, lit by the fire, bare and rain-washed, wary and hopeful. “Does that make sense?” she asks.

  “I think so. I’m not saying it’s the same, but it reminds me a bit of when I spiral into old places from the bullied years. Telling myself I don’t fit, that I can’t get it right, that I’m not good enough because I’m not a ‘normal dude.’”

  “What do you do when that happens?”

  “Sometimes I call Ryder and just let him make me laugh. Other times, I reread a book that was the escape I needed at a critical moment in my past, that made me feel like I belonged. Most often, I just count down the minutes until I see you again. Because you, Frankie, have always made me happy. You have always made me feel like I’m exactly who I’m supposed to be, that it’s good.”

  She sniffles. “How? I’ve always been so surly.”

  I laugh. “Maybe that was why. You were the nicest surly grump I’d ever met. You cared. You seemed like you at least picked up on those parts of me that I tried to minimize. Like the parts that I felt made me weird were actually the parts you liked best.”

  “Ren,” she says, cupping my cheek. “You are weird.” We both break down laughing as she strokes my beard and steals a kiss. “And so am I. But not everyone has to love us, just the people who matter. That’s what I told you, but you showed me: be yourself, and let those who are lucky enough to love you, love you for who you are.”

  I wrap my arms around her, kiss her hair, her temple, her cheek. My lips find the corner of her mouth as she tips her head to meet my kiss. Slipping my hand around her back, I hold her close. “I love you.” I tap her bum and squeeze. “So much.”

  She grins up at me. “And you love my butt.”

  “It’s only fair. You love mine.”

  Sighing, she kisses me, nuzzles my nose. “This cabin’s cozy. Let’s move here.”

  “I don’t think so. You’d never leave. You’d wall up the windows with books and make Uber Eats use a four-wheeler to bring us Chinese.”

  “That sounds like a brilliant existence.”

  I smile down at her. “Where you go, I’ll go. I didn’t take you for a drafty Pacific Northwest girl but…”

  As if only by the power of suggestion, she shivers, her nipples hardening in the cold. It makes parts of me harden, too. I stare at her, tenderly cupping her breasts.

  “Excuse me. Eyes up, Zenzero.”

  I don’t glance up. I kiss each nipple, swirl my tongue and lick until they’re stiff peaks and her breath comes shorter, faster. “What?” I ask.

  “I—” She sighs, pulling me over top of her, taking my aching hard-on in her grip, rolling her thumb over the exquisitely sensitive tip. “I forget. I was going to argue about something, but this is much more enjoyable.”

  “Frankie,” I whisper. Easing inside her, I hold her close.

  “Ren,” she breathes against my skin.

  My mouth finds hers, as I taste and savor and tease. As my hips roll, each stroke steady and reverent. My hands find the soft swell of her breast, the velvet between her legs. My fingers sweep over her, as her hands claim my shoulders, then neck, as she sighs, quiet cries that grow in desperation.

  The room is a haze of firelight and candle glow. Smoky air and sweat and soft blankets tumbling to the floor. Her hands hold mine and tangle our fingers. Glorious, tortured need, sharp demand course through my body.

  I call her name, pressing my body deep inside her. Frankie clasps me close and writhes beneath me, as the waves of her release catch me in their power and take me with them.

  On a gasp for air, I turn her with me, our bodies close, our hearts closer. I kiss her hair, look into her eyes. And I stare at Frankie for long, quiet moments, memorizing firelight on her skin, the way flames dance in her eyes that watch me intently.

  I push up on my elbows, carefully separating myself from her. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Where are you going?” Her hand trails down my chest. Her voice is tentative.

  “You’ll see.” Giving her a kiss, I smile down at her. I was going to wait, but if this experience has taught me anything, it’s that the only right time to tell someone what they mean to you is the moment you know it. No more waiting. No more partial truths.

  I sit up and hurdle the sofa, strolling down the hall until I find my jeans in a pile near the bathroom. Yanking out my wallet, I extract the paper and toss my wallet aside.

  Frankie watches me reenter the great room, arms behind her head, a wide smile on her face. “I think you should slow down probably,” she says. “The floors seem slippery. You, rushing, naked, lit only by a fire… It seems dangerous.”

  I grin at her, freezing for just a moment to let her feast her eyes, before I run at the sofa, stopping myself enough to gently land back on the couch with a flop.

  She sighs. “One day I’ll turn you into an exhibitionist for me.”

  “Here.” Pressing a kiss to her temple, I offer her the fortune cookie paper, pinched between two fingers. “You do the honors.”

  Frankie unfolds the paper, spins it around and stares at it, then reads quietly, “‘Your love is the one you look upon.’ Oh, Ren,” she whispers, throwing her arm around me and kissing my neck. “This is insanely sweet. And thank goodness you weren’t ‘looking upon’ the wonton soup when you read it.”

  I laugh as I kiss her back. “I’m so glad it was you instead.”

  “You didn’t really love me at first sight,” she says skeptically. “That doesn’t exist.”

  “I don’t know, buttercup. You walked through the door on my first day, and my heart kicked in my chest. Knocked the wind right out of me.”

  “Hm. Well, for my part, I realized I liked you when I bumped into that fabulous naked chest.”

  “Francesca.” I growl softly against he
r neck and nip it.

  “Okay. It was when you were doing shirtless push-ups.”

  Pressing her into the sofa and sliding down the blanket, I settle between her legs. “Gumdrop, you’re taunting me.”

  “Doodlebug.” Frankie slides her arms down my back. “I’m going to be real honest and confess the first thing I liked about you was your butt, but only because you’d passed me while my head was down, walking into the meeting room, so I only caught the back half of you.” She gives the backside in question an affectionate squeeze.

  “But then I walked in, and saw this copper hair, those wintry eyes.” She sighs. “And I thought, ‘Well, damn. He’s off-limits, Frankie. So fuhgeddaboudit.’

  “Don’t notice the way he listens attentively. Don’t fall for how gentle he is, how hard he works. Don’t feel yourself falling deeper when you see him demonstrate that strength lies not in an assertion of power but in acts of service. Don’t love him when he reads children’s books and tears up or holds your friend’s baby like he was made to hold babies. Definitely don’t give him your heart when he dances with you by the shore and makes you feel like you’re light on your feet.”

  She smiles up from underneath me, her hands gentling my face. “Don’t fall in love with him when he touches you. When he makes you feel from a place in your heart that you didn’t know existed. All that ridiculous naysaying, and I still never stood a chance.”

  Her hand rests over my heart as I hold her eyes. “Francesca?”

  “Yes, Søren.”

  “I love you. Always.”

  “Always,” she whispers and seals her words with a kiss.

  THE END

  Ren and Frankie’s story is over, but this isn’t the last time you’ll see them! Freya and Aiden’s story is next, and with their marriage in crisis, the whole Bergman family is in on the plan to save it.

  Acknowledgments

  This wasn’t an easy book to write. More than usual, it felt like tugging out my guts and shoving them into a romance novel for theoretically countless people to put their eyeballs on and critique. A bit exposing, you might say.

  I’ve known I wanted to write an #OwnVoices story, but for a good while, I was far from confident about where to begin. Turns out, confidence never came so much as conviction. Conviction that autism needs to be loved and better understood, and that as an autistic woman, I am the best person to write stories that affirm that.

  Frankie is me in some ways, and in others, she is not. She’s an amalgamation of life experiences and autistic friends and research. Though autistics are not a monolith, we have things in common, and so I hope that while Frankie does not capture all facets of autism any more than a single autistic person in real life would, she does justice to the many spectrum girls and women who deserve to be compassionately, sensitively represented. A special thanks to Katie who gave me one of my favorite things as an autistic: straight talk. Katie made Ren and Frankie stronger both individually and together, and affirmed that the two autistic women in this story are not caricatures or cliches, but three-dimensional, lovably imperfect people.

  It is my hope that you see them that way, too—as women who are most likely different from you, who struggle in ways you do not, yet who are worthy of great lives and deep loves; who have so much to gain from and give this world not in spite of being neurodiverse but because of it.

  XO,

  Chloe

  About the Author

  Chloe writes inclusive romance because she believes everyone deserves a love story. Portraying underrepresented experiences, her romances embrace humor, heart, and heat, with a dash of nerdiness for good measure. She's an avid reader, lover of leggings, and can't eat enough mint chocolate ice cream.

  To sign up for Chloe’s latest news, new releases, and special offers, please visit her website (www.chloeliese.com) and subscribe! Want to connect further? Find Chloe on the following platforms:

  goodreads.com/chloe_liese

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  Books by Chloe Liese

  The Bergman Brothers Novels

  Only When It’s Us (#1)

  Always Only You (#2)

  Ever After Always (#3)

  The Tough Love Romantic Suspense Series

  He’s a Brute (Nairne & Zed, #1)

  She’s a Spitfire (Nairne & Zed, #2)

  They’re a Match (Nairne & Zed, #3)

  They’re Strictly Friends (Elodie & Lucas, Spinoff #1)

  Restraint

  Adriana Locke

  Mason Family Series Book 1 by USA Today Bestselling author Adriana Locke

  Blaire Gibson knows better than to have one-night stands.

  She prides herself on her decision-making skills. It’s the one asset that has never let her down. But even the best thinkers have weaknesses.

  Hers is a delicious business mogul with a quick tongue.

  Unfortunately for her, that tongue is good for more than just talking.

  Holt Mason doesn’t need to justify anything to anyone.

  He wants Blaire. He pursues Blaire. And he gets Blaire because that’s how his life works.

  Until it doesn’t.

  What begins as a single night in a hotel room spirals into an unusual agreement. As late nights provide the space to trade secrets and walls come tumbling down, more is shared than just pillow talk.

  They both should’ve known better. They should’ve shown restraint. Because when guards are dropped, hearts get shattered.

  Chapter One

  Holt

  “Watch where you’re going.”

  I quirk a brow at the man who just bumped my shoulder. He reads me correctly and mutters a half-assed apology just as I switch my brown leather briefcase to the other hand — maybe to avoid a confrontation and maybe to get a hand free for one. It’s up to him.

  The stars must align in his favor because the next thing I know, he’s scurrying to the other side of the partition that separates us.

  It crosses my mind, once again, that I could avoid this. I could forgo the hassle of airports altogether if I’d just give in and buy a private jet. Oliver, one of my younger brothers, keeps bringing it up, but I keep vetoing the idea. It’s not the money. It’s the pretentiousness of it all. Unless you’re flying weekly or have more money than brains, owning your own jet is a sign you need attention. It’s the more affluent version of the middle-aged, balding man driving a cherry red sports car, and I have no trouble getting attention without an overpriced toy.

  Turning the corner, I’m muttering to myself about how Oliver’s going to be on my case about being late when I collide head-on with another body.

  “Ah!”

  A flurry of gauzy fabric and long, tobacco-colored hair go tumbling in front of me. My mouth falls open, practically brushing against the cheap linoleum of the breezeway, and my eyes feast on the beauty bent on one knee in front of me.

  She picks up an array of items that fell from her purse. Each motion is deliberate and graceful. Scents of her perfume—warm and seductive—drift through the air.

  She looks up, her blue eyes in stark contrast to the dark hair that sweeps below her elbows. Her fair cheeks pink as she watches me. She runs a hand through her strands as her full lips, a pale red, begin to part.

  Holy. Shit.

  Travelers scamper around our diversion, but they’re no more than a blip on my radar. I’m focused on her as I try to put all the pieces together that are laid, so beautifully, so exquisitely, in front of me.

  “Let me help you up,” I offer, extending a hand.

  She watches me for a long moment before lifting her delicate palm. The handful of gold bracelets encompassing a narrow wrist clamor together before she places her hand in mine. Her skin is warm and soft—so soft it almost makes me shudder. Immediately, I wonder what the rest of her feels like as I tug
her gently to her sandal-clad feet.

  She stands, removing her palm from mine, and smooths out her skirt. Pulling at a cord nestled between her breasts, two earbuds pop free. “I should’ve been paying attention. I know better than to listen to an audiobook in the airport.”

  “Must be a damn good audiobook.” I cringe at the reply. It’s not my best line, but it’s all my brain can come up with to continue this conversation and keep her standing in front of me for a while longer.

  “It’s a podcast, actually, on a recent Supreme Court case.”

  Brains and beauty? No wonder my cock is throbbing.

  “Do you agree or disagree with the decision?” I ask.

  Her perfectly arched brows pull together as she tries to hide a smile. “Well,” she says, pausing as if she’s unsure whether to answer the question or not. “I believe the Justices followed the Constitution, and that is their job.”

  “Nice non-answer,” I chuckle, watching a sparkle flicker through her irises.

  “I’m an attorney. We never say too much. Or,” she says, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, “most of us try not to.”

  Clearing my throat and, hopefully, my head, I pick up a tube of lipstick at her feet and hand it to her. She takes it without touching me. Instead, her eyes roam over my suit, take in my watch, then draw up my arm and over my chest, landing on my face. She studies me with intent. If I turned around right now, I bet she could draw a composite of me with intricate detail.

  As if we’ve done this before, we turn toward the baggage claim and begin to walk together. Her posture is perfect, her narrow shoulders held just so. There’s a cool elegance to her, a sophistication, a refinement that lures me in. But it’s the warm complexity, an intelligence in her eyes that holds my attention.