Beach Reads Box Set

by Madden-Mills, Ilsa

  “No. Not the cemetery.” I lean forward and pull my glass in front of me. “I’d go see the Kelvin McCoy concert.”

  His forehead mars as if he misheard me.

  “What?” I ask. “You don’t like his music?”

  “I … No. I like it just fine.”

  “Then why are you looking at me like I just grew three heads?”

  He sits back in his chair and crosses his arms over his chest. “Are you a fan of his?”

  Something about the way he looks at me bothers me. It’s as if I’m wrong to like the country singer that Sienna turned me on to.

  “Yes, I guess,” I say. “I don’t know his entire catalogue or anything, but I put a couple of his songs on my cleaning playlist.”

  “You have a playlist for cleaning?”

  “You don’t?”

  “No, I don’t,” he deadpans.

  “You don’t what? Listen to Kelvin McCoy or clean?” I narrow my eyes. “You don’t clean, do you? Your house is probably filthy. That’s why you took me to a hotel.”

  His jaw falls open in faux-surprise, and it makes me laugh.

  “First of all, my house is immaculate, thank you very much,” he says, a chuckle in his tone. “That might be because I pay a very nice woman to come do it, but it’s clean nonetheless.”

  “I bet she listens to Kelvin McCoy,” I tease.

  He scoots to the edge of his chair, his eyes sparkling. He rests his forearms on the table. I can’t help but notice the way the veins rope around his tanned skin and beneath the heavy watch sitting around one of his wrists.

  I say a silent prayer in gratitude that he isn’t an attorney that I have to go up against because staying focused—even for me—would be extremely hard.

  He makes a fist and twists his forearm. The muscles flex as he moves it side to side. He clears his throat. I look up.

  “Your watch is nice,” I say, picking up my napkin and dabbing the corner of my mouth. It’s a total attempt at distraction … that does not work.

  He grins. “It is, isn’t it?”

  I nod, setting the napkin back on my lap.

  “I bet Kelvin McCoy doesn’t have one like this,” he says.

  “Probably not. His music makes me think he’d have something more … leathery.”

  Holt’s laughter is loud. “Leather? That’s too badass for him.”

  “So you aren’t a fan. I see the truth now.”

  “Eh, he’s okay. Kind of a pussy but he’s all right.” He stretches his legs out in front of him. “Maybe Kelvin will come to Chicago, and you can check out his watch. See what you think in person.”

  I frown. “I’ll never get to see him live.”

  “Why not?”

  “I spend all my days and most of my nights in the office.” I sigh. “It’s impossible to find time to do anything else. And it’s been so long since I did that it feels … overwhelming. I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

  “Ticketmaster?” he offers.

  I laugh. “That’s not what I mean. I mean finding people to hang out with. You don’t go to concerts and things alone.”

  “You don’t have one friend to do things with?”

  “I have an assistant …”

  Holt laughs as Lola sets our plates in front of us. I thank her, and thankfully, she gets the hint and goes away.

  “An assistant is someone you pay,” he says, dragging his plate in front of him.

  “Maybe I pay her to be my friend.”

  He looks at me like I’m crazy. “You have no social life? None at all?”

  Suddenly, the idea of being a hermit feels abnormal. I bite the bottom of my lip as he studies me like a science experiment.

  “I don’t have time,” I say, fiddling with my napkin and ignoring his gaze. “It’s by design.”

  “Seems to me that you need to rethink your design.”

  “Why? So I can split my time between work and play and constantly be stressed out? Because right now, there’s no split, and it really works for me.” I lift my fork and finally look up at him. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  His head is tilted to the side. “How do you refill your tank?”

  “Coffee.”

  He laughs.

  I start to spear a french fry when my phone rings in my purse. I set the fork down and dig inside my purse. My assistant’s name is on the screen along with her personal cell number.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell him. “I need to get this.”

  “Of course.”

  I tap the green button. “Hello?”

  “Hi, Blaire. It’s Yancy.”

  My assistant’s voice is stressed—more so than it was when I left the office last week. It feels like someone threw a rock into my stomach.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask, ignoring Holt’s concerned glance.

  “The Grimrose Building is closed,” she says. “The contractor redoing the bottom floor found asbestos, and the city came in and shut us down. Everyone had to vacate the premises.”

  “Oh, shit.” I switch the phone between my hands. “What does this mean?”

  “No one is allowed in until it gets remedied. We had a few minutes to grab any files we needed and were ushered out by the health department.”

  I rub my forehead with my hand. “What about my apartment?”

  She sighs. “I think you’re locked out, Blaire. Do you have any pets? That’s one thing they’re letting people go back in for.”

  “No. No, I don’t have any pets,” I say, my mind racing. “Do they know how long this is going to take?”

  “I’ve heard it’s confined to the first floor so far. It’s mass chaos down here right now. No one knows anything for sure, but the office will be closed until at least the start of next week, and I’m not sure when you can get back into your apartment.” She takes a breath. “I’m sorry.”

  Me too.

  “Yeah. Thanks. I … Did you get the Lawson files? I have a hearing on that next week. Shit,” I say, fidgeting in my seat.

  “I didn’t. I literally had five minutes to get things, and I forgot about Lawson. I’ll file an extension with the court now.”

  I groan. “Thank you, Yancy.”

  “Is there anything else you need me to do immediately that you can think of?”

  “No. I just … Let me get back to my files in a little while and get back to you. I’m supposed to fly home tomorrow, so I might need you to help me find a place to stay until they sort this out.”

  “For sure, Blaire. Anything you need.”

  “Thanks for calling.”

  “Absolutely.”

  I end the call.

  My body ripples with energy. I want to head to the airport immediately and get back to Chicago. But it won’t help. It’ll probably just make it worse.

  “Is everything okay?” Holt asks.

  I blow out a breath. “I work and live in the same building. Apparently, asbestos was found and the building’s been emptied until it’s fixed.”

  “That’s fun.”

  “Right?” I rub my temples again. “There’s nothing I can do. I just need to make a list and look at my calendar and see if I need to push anything back.”

  “Is there anything I can do to help you?”

  His tone is kind and sincere. I drop my hand and appreciate him sitting across from me.

  “I’ll be fine,” I tell him. “I do probably need to go and see which one of my brothers I’m going to stay with.”

  “If I was ever homeless, I wouldn’t be living with my brothers. That’s for sure.”

  I laugh. “Yeah. It’s not the best-sounding solution, but it beats staying in a hotel for God knows how long.”

  Holt shifts in his seat. He starts to talk but stops. Then slowly, his lips part again. “I have an idea.”

  “What’s that?” I ask.

  “Stay here.”

  I laugh again. “I can’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, first
of all, even if I wanted to, all the hotels are booked for the weekend. Something about a seafood festival.”

  He nods. “Yeah. I forgot about that.”

  “Second of all, I need to work. I need quiet. The people across the hallway this morning had a crying baby while I took a shower. That was irritating enough. I can’t imagine how that would go over when I’m actually picking apart witness statements, and someone’s freedom is on the line.”

  His chest rises and falls. With each second that passes, the rhythm grows quicker.

  He leans forward again, his eyes searching mine.

  Our food is untouched between us. Our drinks have barely a sip removed.

  My brain slows down as time seems to stall around our table, and Holt begins to speak.

  “Stay with me,” he says.

  It’s a simple sentence—three whole words. But it feels like he’s just spoken a complex mathematical equation in Mandarin because he can’t possibly be asking me to stay with him.

  “Excuse me?” I ask.

  “Stay with me,” he says again—this time with more force.

  “And you called me confounding.”

  He shifts in his seat again. “I’m just going to lay out a few facts as I see them, and then you can make whatever decision works for you.”

  I don’t respond. I’m not sure what to say.

  “You can’t go home,” he starts carefully. “Staying in a hotel isn’t optimal. Neither is staying with your brothers. But I have a big house, and it’s really quiet. You could work all day unbothered, and I’ll take you out to see Savannah at night.”

  “Holt …” I say, an uneasiness creeping in my gut. It’s not from his offer but because his offer is tempting. He’s tempting. I don’t want to be tempted.

  I want to go back to my apartment that’s twenty floors above my office and work under shitty halogen lights and do all the things that are what I do. That are predictable. That are safe.

  Holt Mason is none of those things.

  Yet for some reason, I’m drawn to it. To him. And that scares me.

  He sits back in a false display of relaxation. “What could it hurt?”

  “What could it hurt? I don’t know. The entire idea is crazy.”

  “Is it?”

  “Yes,” I say, exasperated. “I met you yesterday, and you’re offering to let me stay at your house. You don’t even know me.”

  The corner of his lip twitches. “I’d say I know you pretty well—inside and out.”

  I look at my water glass to avoid his eyes.

  “I’m just saying it could be fun,” he says. “And I think you need a little fun.”

  “I need something, but I don’t think fun is it.”

  He sighs. “What do you need then?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  He fiddles with the edge of the napkin. I want to knock it out of his hand and make him stop, but I don’t want to touch him. Something tells me that if I touch him, things will get cloudier.

  “Your problem is that you can’t put this in a box,” he says.

  My gaze flips to his. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means that you like to have everything labeled. It’s work. It’s acceptable. It’s unacceptable. It’s a one-night stand. You can’t figure out how to label what it would be for you to stay with me for a few days.”

  “Yes, I can,” I say. “I would label it as crazy.”

  He bites his bottom lip. “Crazier than sleeping with me last night?”

  I look around the room. No one is within earshot, and that relieves me a little. But when I turn my attention back on Holt, I don’t think he cares either way.

  “You need a label? Fine. Label it a multi-night stand,” he says, fighting a grin.

  A warmth spreads through my middle as his eyes hood. I used to know how to fight this feeling. I don’t seem to anymore.

  “So you really just want me to sleep with you again?” I ask.

  “Yes. But also no.” He leans forward in one swift movement. “I’m not going to lie and say that it didn’t cross my mind. Imagining you spread out on my bed has me hard as hell right now. But I also think that it might be fun showing you around for a couple of days—even if you don’t want to sleep with me.”

  I blow out a long, tense breath.

  My body screams at me to take him up on the offer while my brain begs me to think it through. My heart checks out of the conversation because it knows better, thank God.

  I’m just left with a brain full of logic and a body needing a replay of last night. It’s a dangerous position to be in.

  “I’ll think about it,” I say.

  “Fair enough.”

  As I watch him slice his fish, I wonder if there’s anything at all fair about Holt Mason.

  Chapter Eleven

  Blaire

  “That feels good.”

  I tidy the papers in front of me into a nice, neat stack and then close the folder. The Lawson case is a mess of epic proportions. Fortunately for me, it was the perfect thing to throw myself into after the whole asbestos bomb was dropped in my lap. But if the asbestos call was a bomb, that makes Holt’s offer to stay with him a nuclear missile.

  We let the idea slide during the rest of lunch. Holt didn’t mention his offer again until he paid for my meal and then returned my credit card. I’m not sure if I would’ve brought it up if he hadn’t. Probably not. I’m also unsure if I should take him up on it. Again—probably not.

  I get up from the table and stretch my arms overhead. The clock next to the bed shows that I sat down at the desk five hours ago. As I look at the folder stuffed full of notes, I’m relieved at what I was able to accomplish despite the crying baby across the hall again. But, at the same time, I’m not sure how I’m going to find the space to sort through the rest of the evidence and witness statements.

  The muscle across the back of my neck tenses as Yancy’s text from a couple of hours ago filters back through my mind.

  They’re now saying they expect us to be displaced for five to seven days. Not as bad as originally thought.

  “Great,” I mutter to myself.

  I walk to the window and peer outside. Groups of people sit on the sand and watch the waves while others kick a ball back and forth. The sky is a brilliant, muted blue. The water shimmers from the sun’s early evening rays.

  For the first time in a long time, a heaviness slides into my chest.

  Instead of fighting it, I let it sit inside me and burn in its dull yet still piercing way. It’s a pain I know well. It’s an ache I avoid.

  I take a deep, shaky breath and close my eyes. The words of the therapist I saw for a few months whisper softly through my brain.

  “You have to feel your feelings to heal, Blaire,” she said. “Feel to heal.”

  My breathing evens out as I open my eyes again. The weight still sits in the center of my chest—a lump that feels as though it’s tripled in size in seconds. With each bit of growth, it brings back memories, and feelings, that I don’t want to deal with.

  The sound of my mother’s laughter. How we would spend all year planning for the long weekends we’d spend in the summer at Lake Michigan and how she’d get so excited about menu planning.

  The way my father smelled like engine grease mixed with the Old Spice he’d use to disguise the smell of the cigarettes that he’d hide from my mother. The long talks we’d have while he was under a truck and I was sitting on an overturned bucket. We planned my entire life in the garage.

  And then one fucked-up Fourth of July afternoon, everything I’d ever known was gone. It was ripped right out from beneath me with one hysterical call from Lance. Things have never been the same. Things will never be the same either.

  I clear my throat as best as I can with a rock resting inside it.

  “I have to get my shit together,” I say, turning away from the window.

  My brain relies on muscle memory and switches away from all things emotional to all
things practical.

  “Where the heck am I going to go?”

  I perch on the edge of the sofa and consider my options. Going home is out of the equation. Staying in this room is also impossible. I could visit my brothers, but that would equate to me getting zero work done because they equate me coming home to acting like children again. I could stay with Nana or I could get a hotel room in Chicago.

  Or I could stay with Holt.

  Would it be so awful to stay with him?

  I bite my bottom lip and eye the folder on the desk.

  He does work a lot, so I’d probably be able to get a lot done. And God knows I need to get a lot done. And would it be that bad to see a little of the city while I’m here?

  I grin. It wouldn’t be terrible if I got a little time in his sheets either.

  “What did he call it?” I ask aloud. “A multi-night stand? That’s not a bad idea. It’s really no different than dating a guy for a few weeks just to get some action even though you know it’s not going to go anywhere.”

  I mull that over. The longer it marinates in my head, the more it makes sense.

  And the more I like it.

  I grab my phone and call Sienna. She answers on the second ring.

  “You’ve called me more since you’ve been out of town than you’ve called me since I’ve known you,” she says with a laugh.

  “I’ve called you twice.”

  “Exactly.”

  It’s my turn to laugh. “How are things back there?”

  “Good,” she says sweetly. “Walker and Peck were out late last night working on a tractor in a field somewhere. They’re just dolls this morning, if you get what I’m saying.”

  “Oh, I know how they can be.”

  “Right. And then they went by Nana’s this morning for breakfast, and guess what they found?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “A man,” she squeals. “And apparently he’d stayed there all night last night. Your cousin kind of lost his mind a little bit, and Walker just got … well, grumpier. They said seeing him at Sunday dinner was one thing, but this was another. I’m totally loving it, though!”

  “Wow,” I say, trying to wrap my mind around that tidbit of information. “Good for her. I’m not sure I’m ready for my grandmother to have sleepovers, but I’m sure I’m dealing with that better than my brothers and Peck.”