Under the Boardwalk

by Poppy Parkes

  Praise for Poppy Parkes

  “I think [SWEET was] wonderful and a great start to a new series by the great Poppy! Hank and Greta were super cute together. I loved their connection and their quirkiness with other . . . I recommend this book and can't wait for the rest of the series!”

  “This is a sweet twist to the Hansel and Gretel fairy tale and I much prefer this ending.”

  “When you think about retelling fairy tales, Hansel and Gretel is not one that immediately comes to mind. But [Poppy Parkes] took the idea and ran! . . . Hank and Greta aren't brother and sister, but rather boyfriend and girlfriend. High school sweethearts! Love it! And the wicked witch is Hank's mother . . . as a very demanding business owner. Cute and fun, if you enjoy fairy tales, you'll like this book!”

  “SWEET was a great story. The plot and characters were strong. The story was written well. I can't wait for the next book from this author.”

  “SWEET was a great story. The plot and characters were strong. The story was written well. Poppy Parkes did a great job on it. I enjoyed Greta and Hank's story. These two were made for each other, their connection was strong. They were good for each other. Their chemistry was sexy. They were great together.”

  “Fairy tale fantastic!”

  “This book is a page turner and it will definitely warm your heart.”

  Tess didn’t think she’d be working at the boardwalk instead of setting out in her professional career.

  Crispin had no idea his estranged father was planning on making him a billionaire.

  Neither is where they expected — or wanted — to be, but that doesn’t mean they’re not exactly where they’re supposed to be…

  Slather on the sunscreen, grab a towel, and pack your beach umbrella because we’re going down the shore! From Ocean Point’s iconic piers to its salt-scented sand, over-the-top insta-love is in the air. Get ready for boardwalk flings, ocean romps, and sex on the beach because I’m bringing the heat with these sexy happily ever afters.

  Happy reading! ;)

  Love, Poppy

  Under the Boardwalk

  Down the Shore: Book One

  Poppy Parkes

  Copyright © 2020 by Poppy Parkes.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any similarities between elements of this book and real places, people, or things is coincidental.

  This book is intended for adult audiences 18 years and older only. All characters are consenting adults 18 years and older only.

  Cover design by Poppy Parkes.

  Contents

  The Oops Club

  Tess

  Crispin

  Tess

  Tess

  Crispin

  Tess

  Crispin

  Epilogue

  Down the Shore

  A Love Note For You

  Also by Poppy Parkes

  About the Author

  The Oops Club

  Find a typo or grammar error? Let me reward you for your skills!

  Email a screenshot with the circled or otherwise highlighted error and your mailing address to poppy@poppyparkes.com. If you’re the first one to find the error, I’ll send you one of my Kindle books of your choice — for free!

  Thanks so much for supporting indie authors!

  With love and gratitude,

  Poppy

  Tess

  This is not how I saw the summer after my final year of grad school going — me working at The Sugar Shack on Buccaneer Pier on the boardwalk in Ocean Point, New Jersey, again. At least I’m the manager now.

  A manager currently hidden beneath the boardwalk getting her pussy eaten out at two o’clock in the afternoon by a cute Ukrainian boy from Surfside Pier.

  I lean against the piling beneath the causeway, closing my eyes against the sun filtering through the boards above. Olek’s face is buried in my thatch, and while I can’t say he’s taking a nuanced approach, he’s enthusiastic and it feels good enough help me escape reality for a little while.

  His tongue flits over my most intimate place, first lapping inside my slit, then massaging my clit, then returning to my opening before raking teeth that are almost — almost — too aggressive over my lower lips.

  I shiver when he adds a finger, pressing my button. A ragged moan escapes me, immediately lost in the low hum of the pier and the constant rush of the ocean.

  Olek’s fingers dig into my thighs, and that’s enough. I tip over the edge into a shuddering, gasping orgasm, tangling my fingers in his shaggy, sandy-colored hair. He assaults me with licks and tongue thrusts as I ride his face. When the clenching of my insides abates to a mild pulse, I grab his regulation Surfside polo shirt and haul him to a standing position.

  “That was good?” he says, grinning before he nuzzles my neck. I can smell the aroma of my nether region on him and hope that no one will detect it on me when I go back to The Sugar Shack.

  “More,” I grunt, fumbling at his belt and opening his khaki shorts. Shoving his bottoms down to the cool sand, I pause to let my eyes rove appreciatively over the cock that springs free, bobbing in the shadows.

  “Tak,” he says, and some distant part of my brain recognizes the Ukrainian word for yes. He’s not the first Ukrainian who’s come to work the boardwalk for the summer that I’ve met.

  Unlike me, though, most of them don’t come back. I think they might be the lucky ones.

  Bending, Olek rummages in the shorts around his ankles and, after a moment, produces a shiny packaged condom. A hiss of approval slips from my lips as I watch him open the package and expertly roll the condom over his length.

  He steps close to me, angry tip already nudging at my opening without any assistance. I hook a leg around his waist and steady my arms on his shoulders while he places a hand on the piling behind me.

  Olek spits into his other hand and, wiping his palm over my crevice, shoves inside me to the sound of my guttural moan.

  Just like with his ministrations with his mouth, Olek doesn’t fuck me with any finesse, but that’s just fine. I’m here for a good rutting to take my mind off the fact that, in spite of the advanced teaching degree I spent six years earning, I can’t find an elementary school in the tri-state area that will hire me.

  Olek is just fine for that.

  He sets an aggressive pace and I meet him thrust for thrust, arching my back so he can hit fresh depths within me. I scrape the back of his neck with my nails and he answers by grazing my jaw with his teeth.

  Already I can feel a new orgasm building. Olek must be able to feel it too because he slides a hand between us and works my clit. I throw my head back with a bleat of pleasure and his lips find the vulnerable expanse of my neck.

  He pumps my breast and I explode, writhing on his furious dick. With a groping hand, I find his ass and, squeezing it, push him further into my wetness. My climax sets his off and Olek collapses forward into me, grunting like an animal as he pumps into me.

  It’s fucking hot.

  Or it would be, if I had feelings for Olek.

  I wish I felt anything for the guy besides horny. I get the feeling that sex combined with romance would be volcanic.

  Too bad I’ve never been in love. And, considering how my life is going, I can’t say I’m holding any hope that I’ll do any better in my love life than in my professional life.

  I blame grad school for my blanket lack of optimism. I’d gone into the two year Master’s program full of excitement and energy, ready to be taught to be
the best damn teacher I could be.

  But then I’d struggled to learn common core math, child development felt like a death march of endless out-of-date papers on infant brains and attachment theory, and even reading, my favorite subject, turned into a semester-long lecture on No Child Left Behind instead of best practices.

  I’d worked my ass off to graduate with honors, but I didn’t leave feeling prepared to teach. I left feeling exhausted.

  And, now that I can’t find employment in the field everybody had said guaranteed a job provided that you were willing to work anywhere — and I am — I’m feeling hopeless too.

  There’s not much space left in me for things like falling for cute boys, Eastern European or otherwise.

  Fucking on my afternoon break will have to do.

  Olek pulls out of me with the same no-nonsense approach he took to pleasuring me. He peels off the used condom and throws it into the darkness further beneath the pier with the rest of the trash that’s accumulated in its recesses. We don’t speak until we’ve reassembledour clothing.

  “Have a good day,” Olek says like I’m a customer who’s just finished my turn on the horse racing game he mans on Surfside Pier, not like we just ravaged each other like wild creatures.

  “Yeah,” I shrug, finding that I don’t much care, “you too.”

  I watch Olek head off toward the sun, ducking from beneath the shade of the boards and jogging in the direction of the stairs that lead back up to the top of the boardwalk.

  With a sigh, I rock my head back and watch the smaller mid-afternoon crowd mill about above. This is my fifth year working on Buccaneer Pier, and while I don’t hate the job or the people, the summer stretches out before me like a desert.

  I’ve got to do something besides work and fuck random guys to take my mind off my professional plight. The question is what.

  Peeling myself off the piling, I follow Olek’s footprints out of the cool of the boardwalk’s belowdecks. I’ll figure something out, I promise myself. I’ve got to. But first, I’ve got to get back to work.

  Crispin

  As soon as I step onto the Ocean Point boardwalk, I know I’ve gotten it wrong.

  I’m dressed in a suit and tie even though it’s nearly ninety degrees in the mid-afternoon sun and I can already feel my sweat soaking through my formerly crisp white shirt.

  Everyone around me is in shorts and tees or tanks, and some don’t even have that much clothing on. The boardwalk staff are all dressed in khaki shorts and polos printed with their various piers’ name and logo.

  Everyone looks at me like the dumbass I am, brows etched with confusion, mouths biting back smiles. That’s what it feels like, at least.

  It’s my father’s fault. He walked out on my mom when I was a baby and the first I heard from him was after his death a few weeks back.

  What kind of man leaves his wife and only son, only to bequeath said son his business and fortune twenty-five years later?

  When the lawyer called and informed me of my windfall — his word, not mine — I was ready to tell the guy to shove it and find some other shmuck to take over my dead father’s business. Mom was the one to talk me into listening to what he had to say. Besides, it’s not like I had much else going on for me, community college grad and employee at my local mall’s video gaming store that I am.

  Being the owner and CEO of The Sugar Shack empire would be way better for me in the long run, Mom said.

  In the short term, though, it’s a huge pain in my ass.

  Because apparently, I’ve got to learn the ropes of how to manage a chain of seasonal refreshment stands. I can’t just hire somebody to manage it for me. The terms of my father’s will were very explicit — I need to be a hands-on C.E.O. or I get nothing.

  And yeah, I use the term “refreshment” loosely. The Sugar Shack sells cotton candy, Italian ice, frozen drinks, and kettle corn — a.k.a. diabetes.

  So here I go, dressed like the fake rich man I am, off to a job I know nothing about other than it’s definitely not good for people’s health or teeth.

  Great.

  As I make my way past the ladybug kids’ coaster and wind between the carousel and the tilt-a-whirl, I find myself wishing for a partner — a person who’s on my side that can walk me through everything without making me feel like a bigger jerk than I already do.

  Unfortunately, since all this went down, I haven’t met one person who fits that description. You know, except my mom.

  I’m going to have to do this solo.

  And damn, that makes me feel lonely.

  Which is ridiculous, of course, because I went from rando nerd guy to rich man overnight. If I wasn’t the billionaire in question, I’d be offended by a dude in my circumstance feeling sorry for himself.

  But, secretly, I do feel sorry for myself, just a bit. Because even though this truly is a great opportunity, like Mom says, it’s scary and overwhelming. It’s a major league curveball and I’m still swatting tee balls.

  I pass the teacup ride and stop in my tracks because there it is. My future, The Sugar Shack, in all its pink and white-striped, slightly dilapidated glory.

  Hauling in a breath to steady my nerves, I adjust my jacket, straighten my tie, and get ready to pretend like I know what the hell I’m doing.

  Tess

  I’m almost back to The Sugar Shack when I get a frantic message from Daisy, the teeny-bopper I left in charge.

  Where are you? I read. There’s a fancy guy here and I’m pretty sure we’re all in trouble.

  I frown. Fancy guy?

  And then, with a sickening swoop of the stomach, I remember.

  Today’s the day when our new owner is coming to assess the stand.

  And he’s there. Right now. While the manager’s been off boinking a guy from another pier.

  As I haul ass back to the stand, I can’t decide what’s worse. Is it the fact that I took too long of a break, or that I used it to engage in inappropriate relations, or that I’m fraternizing with the staff of a competing pier?

  None of it’s great. And racing up disheveled and red-faced is not the first impression I’d been hoping to make.

  The new owner’s probably some stuffy old man looking for things to be pissed about. I just gave him a full Skee-Ball round of ammunition to use against me.

  Double-checking my clothing to make sure that I’m at least decent, I take a deep breath and step into the stand.

  I’m greeted by the sight of a young man about my age wearing a suit that’s just a little bit too big for his trim body. The stand isn’t as small as others, but with him inside, the windowed walls suddenly feel way too close. He’s got brown hair that begs to have fingers run through it, and a light shadow of hair lining his jaw. His blue eyes light on me and my stomach lurches again, but this time, surprisingly, with empathy.

  I don’t know why, but as soon as my gaze meets his, it’s as clear that this guy is nervous as hell. His lashes flutter and it feels like a plea for help.

  A plea that I want to answer.

  Which is fucking confusing. I turn to my co-worker in an attempt to distract myself, clear my head. Daisy is nervously chewing her nails, then realizing what she’s doing, yanking them away and washing her hands, only to do the whole thing again.

  Which doesn’t make me feel any better.

  “Who are you?” the man barks at me, making me jump. Then his forehead creases and he shakes his head like he’s just as confused as I am. “I mean, what role do you play here at The Sugar Shack?”

  Getting my shit together, I close the space between us and thrust out my hand in greeting. “I’m Tess Giordano, manager. You must be the new owner . . . ?” I let the question dangle as he shakes my hand, hoping that he’ll offer me the name I’ve forgotten.

  “Giordano. Right,” he mutters. “I’m Crispin.”

  I raise my brows, waiting for the rest of his name.

  Crispin takes a half a beat too long to understand my silence, and when he does, he b
lushes.

  He blushes.

  That’s the moment that I know I’m a goner. A guy who looks as lost as he does flushing so damn prettily? It’s too much to resist.

  Which is going to be a problem.

  Because this guy? He’s my boss. And since I’ve got no prospects of a career outside Buccaneer Pier, I can’t mess this job up.

  Talk about a conflict of interests.

  “Donne,” he’s saying, and it takes me a second to come back to reality. “Crispin Donne.”

  I nod like he’s confirming what I already knew. “Nice to meet you, sir.”

  Dear God. He flushes darker, the crimson blush climbing up to the tips of his ears. My thighs press together of their own accord.

  Uh oh.

  “Please, call me Crispin. Sir is what people call —“

  “Your father?” Daisy pipes up.

  Crispin’s blue eyes darken as fast as his cheeks flushed. Once again the meaning is clear to me — Daisy’s walking on dangerous territory.

  She’s got no idea, though, and prattles on. “Who you inherited the business from, right?” Daisy gives Crispin her widest grin, showing off a mouthful of braces.

  “Yes,” he growls, “I did.”

  “We’re so sorry about your loss,” I jump in, Daisy’s words jogging my memory — the elder Donne had left his empire to his son, hence the turnover in upper management.

  His eyes jump back to me, swirling with emotion. “Yeah,” he says at last, the single syllable sounding hollow. “Thanks.” The word lifts at the end like a question. I wonder what Crispin’s relationship with his father was like.