Beach Reads Box Set

by Madden-Mills, Ilsa

  “Sounds good. I’ll see you tomorrow,” she says matter-of-factly.

  I want to ask her another question just to keep her on the line, but Wade’s drawings taunt me from across the room, and I feel like maybe I can concentrate on them now.

  “I’ll text you in just a minute,” I say.

  “Thank you, Holt.”

  “No problem. See you soon.”

  “Goodbye.”

  There’s a hesitation in her tone that makes me think she didn’t expect to get off the phone either. But for both of our goods, I press the red button anyway.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Blaire

  “Vacations are so good for you,” I say in my best Sienna impression as I pilot my car down Cobblestone Way. “I just read a study that says you work harder and smarter when you’ve had a chance to relax. And Holt is so cute.”

  I blow out a breath and try to relax back into the driver’s seat.

  “This is all that screaming baby’s fault. Not mine,” I tell myself. “I could’ve held on until morning. I know I could’ve.”

  The street is lined with giant oak trees. Their curved, drooping branches hang with picturesque Spanish moss flowing nearly to the ground. Houses are tucked back from the road, encompassed by large lots and obscured by the vegetation. With the final rays of daylight streaming through the foliage, it’s almost as though I’m driving through a movie set.

  In this particular movie, however, the heroine isn’t a fashion designer coming home to get divorced or a bride-to-be heading to the beauty shop with her mother. This time, the leading lady is a displaced attorney heading to the house of a man she met a whole two days ago—and slept with once—as though it’s a good idea.

  Because that’s what people do who graduated J.D. summa cum laude in law school. I’m really putting all my intelligence to good work these days.

  As though the universe can sense my wobble, the numbers 1942 appear out of thin air. The numbers are black and pop against the brick mailbox that sits next to a wide driveway. A lamp sits on either side.

  I turn toward the house.

  My headlights flicker on as I slip beneath a row of moss-heavy trees. I travel around a little bend before I see the house itself.

  “Holy shit,” I whisper.

  Sitting in front of me is not just a house but an estate. Tall, white columns stand on the porch and frame a massive wooden door. The roof is slate gray, and the house itself is a warm, almost yellow paint that nearly glows in the sunset.

  The driveway, a stamped concrete that makes it feel like you’re driving on stone, forms a y at the front steps. The right arm wraps around the side of the house; the left leads to an oversized four-car garage with doors the same gray as the roof.

  It’s immaculate and incredible, and the landscaping adds to the secret garden, magical ambiance.

  I park the car just as Holt appears on the porch.

  “Dear lord,” I say, turning off the ignition.

  He’s wearing the same jeans from this afternoon but has replaced the white button-up with a black T-shirt. And he’s barefooted.

  Of course, he is. He knows how to play me like a fiddle.

  He hops down the stairs with a spring in his step. “You found it,” he says as he pulls my door open.

  “I drove past it five times, it’s so small.”

  He makes a face as I climb out of the car.

  “That’s something a guy never wants to hear,” he says, shutting the door behind me. He reaches in the back and grabs my bags and briefcase from the back seat. “But I’m glad you made it even if it took you five tries.”

  “Six. But it was worth it. I can carry those,” I say.

  He silences me with a look. The heat in it makes me shiver. After ensuring his point was made, he starts toward the porch.

  “On a serious note, this place is beautiful,” I say as I follow him. “You are now officially never invited to my apartment in Chicago.”

  “I didn’t know I was invited before.”

  “Well, you weren’t. But you’re really not now.”

  He grins as he holds the door open. I try to slip by without tipping him off that his cologne lights me on fire.

  I step inside and gasp again. “Oh, my gosh, Holt. This is incredible.”

  The foyer is white marble with a subtle yet spectacular chandelier hanging in the center. A few steps farther and the room opens up. Floor-to-ceiling windows with white shutters line the far wall. Pine flooring warms the space that hosts cathedral ceilings. An oversized fireplace constructed from the same marble as the foyer is the centerpiece on one wall, and across from it, nestled against a set of stairs, is a grandfather clock.

  I tear my eyes away from the fluffy sofa that begs to be curled up on with a book and look at Holt instead.

  He’s leaning against a wall, watching me review his home. The playful look that’s typically written across his features—or is hiding just beneath the surface—is gone. Instead, a seriousness is painted on his handsome face.

  “It still needs some work,” he says.

  “What are you talking about? This is … this is beautiful.”

  He almost smiles. “When I was a little boy, I’d ride my bike up and down this road and look at the houses. It was a slight obsession. My father thought I was going to be an architect because of it.”

  “Your one brother is an architect, isn’t he?”

  He rewards me with a grin. “Yes. Wade. That’s correct.”

  “Did he design this?”

  “No. This place was built in the seventies. I’ve been in the process of overhauling it since I bought it.” He cocks his head to the side. “Do you want a drink or something?”

  “A drink would be nice.”

  “Follow me.”

  He shoves off the wall and leads me down a hallway. A large piece of art hangs between two sconces, and I pause to look at the wild, colorful blasts of color.

  Holt pauses a few steps ahead of me.

  “Is this meaningful to you?” I ask, taking in the vivid stripes of primary colors. “It feels very personal in an abstract kind of way.”

  “Oh, it’s personal all right. And it holds a very important meaning. Don’t leave your auction paddle anywhere near Coy.”

  I giggle. “Sounds like a story there.”

  “A story about me almost killing my brother for bidding an exorbitant amount of money on a piece of art that, while very nice, wasn’t worth the price of a small country’s gross domestic product.”

  I bite my lip to hide my amusement as I follow him into the kitchen.

  While he makes us a drink, I gaze out the windows. There are no shutters or curtains covering them. It provides a clear, unobstructed view of the pool and, beyond that, what looks like a marsh. It’s hard to tell with only the moon giving off light.

  “I hope you like iced tea,” he says.

  I turn around as he approaches. He hands me a glass.

  “Tea is great,” I say.

  “This tea is exceptional. My housekeeper makes it for me. It’s better than my mother’s, but don’t ever tell her that, or I’ll have to kill you.”

  I laugh. “I won’t. Promise.”

  He takes a drink, watching me over the brim. I, in turn, watch how his bicep ripples as he lifts his glass. I tell myself it’s because attention to detail is what I do best, but in reality, it’s probably because not one thing in the room is more attention-worthy than him.

  He sets his glass on the black-and-silver granite countertop.

  “I was happy to get your text tonight.” His deep voice rumbles over my skin. “I was sure you were going to wait until tomorrow.”

  “I was, but Colic Baby started up again.”

  “Maybe I should send them a fruit basket.”

  “I think they’d appreciate a good night’s sleep instead.”

  His eyes twinkle. “I hope I’ll be a little sleep deprived too by the time you leave.”

  My heart leaps
to life. Blood pours through my brains at a manic level. Every cell in my body goes into overdrive, hoping to come into contact with the hard body just a few feet away from me.

  I shift my weight from one foot to the other as I set my glass on the counter beside his.

  “I think we need to communicate a little better about a few things before I get too settled in,” I say, my voice steady thanks to years in high-pressure courtrooms.

  He crosses his arms over his chest. “What do we need to communicate about?”

  “Well, for one, I’m not against having sex with you. I mean, clearly. But I want to be clear that I didn’t agree to stay here just to sleep with you.”

  “I don’t think that.”

  “Good,” I say, forcing a swallow. “Also, let’s be clear that I do expect to stay in a guest room. It’s imperative that we keep this thing between us straightforward, so it’s not problematic when I leave in a few days.”

  He lifts a brow, his jaw flexing. “You’re talking like my hospitality is something to be negotiated.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Yes, you are.” His arms fall to his sides. “I can forgive you because I suspect that most things in your life are a contract or agreement.”

  “Aren’t all things in life?”

  He rolls his eyes. “Follow me.”

  “Where are we going?”

  He doesn’t bother with an answer. Instead, he makes his way back down the hall, past the overpriced artwork, and to the foyer. He gathers my bags and briefcase in his large hands.

  “Holt,” I say, catching up to him. “What are you doing?”

  “Putting things in the guest room.”

  He flashes a look my way that makes me think that was his original intent. And that makes me flush with embarrassment as I ascend the staircase next to the grandfather clock.

  We stop at the first door on the right. He flips on a light.

  “Here you go,” he says, setting my things on an antique four-poster bed. “There’s a bathroom just for this room through that doorway.” He motions to his right. “You can stay here as long as you want. My room is down the hall.”

  I suck up my pride. “I apologize if I was rude.”

  “You weren’t rude. Just … presumptuous.”

  “Well, I apologize for being presumptuous.”

  He studies me. His eyes narrow as he works his bottom lip between his teeth. Finally, it pops free. “I’m going to need you to do one thing for me if you stay.”

  “Oh, sure, put conditions on me now,” I say, hoping he takes it as the joke it’s meant to be.

  If he does or doesn’t, I’ll never know. He simply continues to watch me carefully.

  “I invited you into my home to stay with me as a friend,” he says. “Whether we’ve had sex or not doesn’t matter. I enjoy spending time with you—even when you’re a presumptuous little darling.”

  “Hey!”

  He chuckles. “You’re going to need to stop talking to me like a business associate and more like a friend. Okay? While I find your prowess insanely attractive and also kind of adorable, I really don’t want to feel like I’m at a business meeting in my own home.”

  His words ring through my ears and bury themselves in my heart. Do I do that?

  I try to think back to the words I use when communicating with my friends—or my family because I don’t really have a lot of friends. I have a way of getting to the point. I’m aware that I have a tendency to take over situations and impose myself in decisions.

  But do I talk to people like business associates? I don’t know. What I do know is that I need to steer this conversation into easier waters.

  “I suppose my problem is that I didn’t know we were friends,” I say, a grin tugging at the corner of my lips.

  “You didn’t?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “That’s interesting. Do you often agree to stay with men you aren’t friends with?”

  I bite my bottom lip. “Only when I need fucked.”

  His eyes light up as his whole face comes alive. His tongue works around his cheek as his entire body moves with each breath he takes.

  Watching him react to me—and forgetting the previous conversation—is a treat. The way his Adam’s apple bobs in his throat and how his thick neck rolls around his shoulders are things I commit to memory for later use.

  He closes the distance between us in two seconds flat. His eyes bore into mine. My breathing becomes labored as I imagine his hands roaming across my body the way they did before—cupping my breasts, caressing my cheeks, and guiding me closer by pressing against the small of my back.

  “Is that what you want? Do you want to be fucked, Blaire?”

  I bat my eyelashes. “I’m afraid to answer you. I might not sound friendly enough.”

  A growl rumbles from his throat as his hand reaches for my face. I hold my breath as his palm grows closer. It’s nearly to the side of my neck when the door chimes ring.

  My breath exhales in one loud whoosh as his hand drops to his side. His eyes are alight with humor.

  “Dinner’s here,” he says as his face breaks into a megawatt smile.

  “You’re kidding me.”

  He turns toward the door. “Hope you like Italian.”

  “You’re just … gonna …”

  I squirm as he walks toward the doorway. My thighs ache with an unsatisfied need. And the only way to sufficiently meet that need is on his way to answer a freaking door.

  Holt pauses and turns around in the doorway. “Am I just gonna what? Leave you there? In the guest room? Where you wanted to be?”

  My jaw hangs open.

  The doorbell chimes again.

  “I’m coming!” Holt shouts down the hallway.

  “I’m glad one of us is.”

  He laughs and shakes his head. “One more thing. In my house, I’m in control, Miss Gibson. Don’t forget that.”

  With an aggravating, delicious wink, he disappears into the hallway. And I’m left reeling in the guest room. Just as I asked.

  Dammit.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Holt

  “I’m absolutely stuffed,” Blaire says.

  She rests her head against the side of the leather armchair. Her dark hair splays against the material as she closes her eyes and sighs happily.

  I finish the rest of my manicotti and then place the empty container on the coffee table between us. The meal was excellent, but the conversation was even better. Who knew that discussing criminal litigation over dinner could be so fun?

  I pick up my wine and settle back on the sofa. Blaire looks right at home with her legs curled up under her. There’s a peace on her face—a look of pure contentment—that’s as lovely, or even lovelier, than when she’s smiling or laughing.

  The cool, outside air breezes in through the open French doors. It’s offset by the soft warmth of the electric fireplace next to my companion.

  “I could fall asleep right here,” she says, opening her eyes again.

  “Do it then.”

  She smiles a sleepy smile. “I’ve already been rude once today.”

  The fireplace crackles next to her as she reaches over and picks up her wine glass. She takes a long sip and gazes around the room filled with some of my favorite items.

  “This is my favorite room in your house,” she says. “Well, this is my favorite of the rooms I’ve seen so far. I’m not sure how many others there are.”

  “This happens to be my favorite room as well. And I’ve seen all of them.”

  She grins at my joke. “What makes it your favorite?”

  “I don’t know. I think it just represents all the things I hoped this house would feel like when I bought it.”

  “Which is …?”

  I blow out a breath and take a sip of my wine.

  Gazing around the room, I try to figure out why it’s my favorite part of the property. I’ve wondered this a number of times and never boiled it down to a si
mple answer.

  “It has a good vibe,” I say, figuring that’s a good enough answer. But I should’ve known better.

  Blaire presses her lips together. “Good try.”

  “What do you mean good try?”

  “I mean, that answer is insufficient.”

  I laugh. “Remember that whole conversation we had earlier about you not making me feel like I’m at work?”

  “Remember that whole conversation when you told me you wanted me to feel like we’re friends?” She cocks a brow. “So answer my question. Why is this room your favorite?”

  I set my glass back down and lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. “This room reminds me of my grandmother’s library when I was a little boy. It had tray ceilings and these grand bookcases that she had stuffed with books. I’d stand in front of them and just revel in the colors of the spines. And she had this yellow birdcage with two finches with little orange faces.”

  Blaire’s face softens. “That sounds wonderful.”

  “It was. She was such a powerhouse and emitted this energy that just captured you when you got close to her. It was crazy. But then you stepped into her house, and it … it had this calmness. This tranquility, I guess. As though she left all the craziness of the world at the end of the driveway.”

  “What was she like?”

  I try to imagine summing up my grandmother in an easy word or phrase. The idea is almost hysterical.

  She was a firecracker. The best adventurer. The best homemade pie baker and the dirtiest joke teller I’ve ever met. It’s impossible to condense her life and all that she was into one statement.

  “Well, she was a lot of things,” I say slowly. “She owned a bookstore and managed a bank. But then she got into real estate after her father died, and she inherited a lot of money.” I stand and stretch my arms over my head. “She bought houses and sold them. She had a huge rental portfolio. One day, she broke down on the outside of town, and a homeless man changed her tire. It changed something in her. Soon after, she started a charity in town called Shelters for Savannah and donated all of her rentals to the cause.”