Fireworks on the Beach Read online

  Praise for Poppy Parkes

  “The Down the Shore series is off to a thunderous start. Crispin and Tess’s chemistry is off the chart with amazing passion that will take you on a hot and steamy ride . . . you will have to catch your breath.”

  “The first three paragraphs will have you sweating bullets. The story just keeps getting better and better.”

  “I love the characters and the chemistry between them. I can not wait for more book from this author.”

  “The character together fit so perfectly together as they become each other's other half. I look forward to reading the other stories in this series.”

  “I enjoyed this short, insta-love story. [I] especially enjoyed the epilogue.”

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

  “The plot and characters were strong. The story was written well. Poppy Parkes did a great job on it.”

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

  Dante has never looked out for anyone besides himself and his sisters.

  Daisy came down the shore thinking she was about to be wifed.

  Both are learning how wrong they were about the past.

  When they meet, fireworks explode.

  But can that guarantee a happy future?

  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

  Fireworks on the Beach

  Down the Shore: Book Two

  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

  Daisy

  Dante

  Daisy

  Dante

  Daisy

  Dante

  Daisy

  Dante

  Daisy

  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 [email protected]. 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

  Daisy

  I try not to squeal when I see the Ocean Point suite Mike rented for us. At least, not too much. I know he doesn’t like it when I act too giddy — that’s the word he uses for it.

  So I bite my bottom lip and do a tiny little happy dance just inside the door as I take in the clear glass dining room table with a small chandelier above it just to my right with and the impeccably decorated living room that’s in front of me. Off to the left, there’s a cozy kitchen and a door through which I can see a king-sized master bed adorned with a mountain of assorted pillows.

  The whole place is done up in a palette of creamy whites, subtle greens, and soothing blues — in a word, ocean colors. I’m in love.

  Dropping my bags, I dash through the living room to the sliding glass door on the other side of the suite. Pulling the blinds aside, I throw open the door and step outside.

  The balcony looks out over the Atlantic, the cerulean sky meeting the blue-gray ocean in the distance. The people down at the beach look so small from up here, their blankets and umbrellas miniature toys. To either side of me are two identical balconies, and if I stretch over the rail I can see six floors of the same below.

  I hear Mike join me and twirl to embrace him, the skirt of my delicately turquoise cotton dress swirling around my knees and making me feel like a princess.

  Like his princess.

  He thinks he’s being secretive, but I know why he stole me away to Ocean Point for the week, putting us up in the beautiful Seaside Resort.

  He’s going to ask me to marry him.

  I mean, why else would we be here for our fifth anniversary, and in such style? I’m positive he’s going to propose, and I can’t wait to say yes. Just the idea of it makes me, well, giddy.

  “It’s perfect,” I say, standing on tiptoe to kiss Mike’s cheek.

  “I put your luggage in the bedroom,” he says with a scowl, “as you should’ve.”

  “How very gentlemanly of you,” I croon, ignoring his sour tone.

  He extricates himself from my embrace without returning my kiss. “I’m going to take a nap.”

  I feel my excitement begin to deflate. “But —“

  “I drove the whole way down, Dais, and work was a pain in my ass this week. I’m napping,” he snaps.

  I put my hands on my hips. “No.”

  Mike’s gaze narrows, anger tightening his jaw. “Excuse me?”

  The warning in Mike’s eyes tells me I should back off. But that’s what I always do — keep my mouth shut and my head down to make him happy.

  But this week isn’t just about him. It’s about us. Which means that what I want matters too.

  “You can take a nap . . .” I begin.

  He relaxes and starts to turn away, running a hand through his greasy brown hair, then freezes when I continue.

  “After we go down to the beach,” I finish.

  He rounds on me, eyes bugging with incredulity. But I hold my ground, hands on hips and chin lifted, and stare him down.

  After a long moment, Mike shrugs. “Okay, fine. One short visit, then back up here for a nap.”

  I release the breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding, happiness blooming behind my breastbone. “You are amazing!” I say. “Thank you, love.”

  “Yeah,” he grunts, allowing me to hook my arm through his. He only drags behind a little when I pull him back through the front door and down to the elevators. I can’t keep a little skip from my step thanks to the fact that soon my toes will be covered in sand and the salty ocean air will be whipping through my hair.

  Dante

  “You sure you don’t have anything more powerful?”

  The beefy, shirtless man leaning on the counter of my fireworks stand, trying to bully me into giving him the answer he wants to hear, is nothing new to me. He’s just another white guy who’s come to my stand thinking he’s better than me, expecting me to bow to his whim.

  And hell, it’s highly possible that this overly-tanned man in his tiny red swimsuit is better than me. I grew up in Camden with my mom and two younger sisters. Mom raises us solo while my dad was in prison for marijuana possession — a citation that the guy standing in front of me would have gotten a mere warning for. But that’s America for ya.

  Then Mom died when I was fifteen, and my sisters and I got put into foster care, which isn’t exactly a picnic.

  We’re all out now, t
hank goodness, but I can’t say that we got out unscathed. Our education suffered along with our mental health, but hey, we’re free adults now, doing what we please. I’m putting Sibyl, my youngest sister, through community college while Candace, the middle child, is working as a personal trainer and group fitness instructor.

  Even if Dad is still languishing in prison on those same bullshit charges, we’re doing alright for ourselves.

  But that doesn’t mean that the bro standing in front of me is going to get his way.

  “I’ve got everything your heart desires, my man,” I answer with a broad smile and spread arms. A Black man’s got to be explicit when he’s telling a white man that he’s not a threat. Body language matters. “Handheld and ground sparklers, smoke bombs, party poppers, drop pops, glow worms — what’s your poison?”

  “I want explosives,” he grunts. “Like, actual fireworks in the sky.”

  “I love that stuff. It’s the shit,” I say easily, propping myself up on an elbow on my side of the counter. “Unfortunately, the governor of New Jersey’s got other ideas.”

  The man scowls. “What other ideas?”

  “Ideas like only professional fireworks companies can handle the real deal.” I shrug like I wish I could help the guy out, even though I don’t give a shit about equipping this douche with contraband explosives. “Sorry, man.”

  His scowl deepens and I have to bite back a laugh because I swear his mouth looks like a puckered asshole. “Fine,” he says at last, “I’ll take three poppers and two smoke bombs.”

  “You got it.” I bag his order, cash exchanges hands, and he walks away happy. Well, happy-ish. I’m not mad about it.

  The guy in the red swimsuit is peeling away when three kids barely tall enough to see over the counter run up.

  At the same time, a couple about my age walks up. The guy looks like a limp noodle with brown hair and permanent frown lines, but the woman on his arm is a vision. Her blue eyes, creamy skin, and shoulder-length blonde hair are luminous but they can’t outshine her smile. Her turquoise dress hugs her perfectly plump curves in all the right ways. Her guy is a lucky man.

  “Whatcha got, Mister?” one of the little Black girls says, hair all done up in thick braids.

  “All the good stuff,” I say with a smile, forcing my eyes away from the blonde woman in the dress. “What would you like?”

  She and the other two, another Black girl and a white boy, bend their heads over their collective outstretched hands, counting up their money.

  “Uh, what would this much get us?” says the other Black girl.

  They haven’t even got two dollars between them. That wouldn’t buy a single pack of snappers, my cheapest item.

  I scoop up three boxes each of ground sparklers, glow worms, and smoke bombs. Wiggling my eyebrows at the kids, I drop one of each item into three separate bags, then hand one bag to each kid.

  “These are on special,” I say. “A buck for it all.”

  It’s a straight-up lie and I’m eating the decision financially, but I don’t care. I’m twenty-six, not even ten years past leaving the foster care system. I remember too well what it was like to have not enough to stretch between too many people, with nothing left over for fun things like fireworks.

  “Whoa,” says the boy, mouth forming a perfectly round circle as he examines the contents of his bag. “This is awesome!”

  “Just make sure you get an adult’s permission to use it, okay?” I say as I accept four of the kids’ quarters.

  “Okay,” says the second girl, head bobbing fervently.

  The three skip off and I turn to the couple. I get a funny feeling in my low belly as I take in how the woman’s cheeks are a perfect shade of pink, flushed from the summer sun.

  The man’s words snap me out of my appreciative reverie. “You have a special going on?”

  I blink, confused, running a hand over my shaved head. “Uh, sorry?”

  He juts his chin in the direction the kids went. “You told them there’s a special. I’d like the same one.”

  I’ve got a quick tongue. That’s what Mom always said, and she told it’d either be my damnation or my saving grace. But in this moment, it’s neither because I find myself lost for words.

  The woman leans into the man. “I think that was a special thing,” she murmurs, the flush traveling to the skin visible above her bust.

  “Exactly,” he barks. “I want the special.”

  Her eyes go to me and I have to bite my lip. Because her eyes are as blue as the sky, as the ocean I grew up on the shore of. Hell, they’re almost as blue as the dress she’s wearing so gracefully.

  I feel my cock stir, but I tell it to calm the fuck down. If there’s one thing a Black man doesn’t do, it’s fall for a white man’s girl.

  Still, I can’t help myself from meeting the woman’s gaze as she stares at me, eyes full of silent apology. She’s shaking her head, mouth struggling to form words and failing.

  I give her a calm smiling, nodding to tell her it’s okay. Yeah, the guy misunderstood the situation. But I was also the one who helped give him the wrong idea. I’ll give him the “special,” even though there is none, because it’s far easier than fighting with him over a few dollars of fireworks.

  “Sure, man,” I say, waving away the woman’s silent protest. “Let me get that for you. It’ll be one dollar.”

  I fill a bag with the same items I gave each kid. He hands me a credit card. I clench my jaw and force myself to keep smiling even though this guy is going to make me pay a credit card fee for the transaction on top of the fake discount. But again, setting things right isn’t worth the fight, so I take it.

  The man accepts the bag and his receipt with a grunt. He tugs the woman after him, but not before she looks at me, so beautiful my heart could bust, and mouths a silent I’m sorry before all of her that’s left facing me is her back.

  I’m sorry too, I think as I watch her peach of an ass waltz down the beach away from me. I’m sorry I can’t make the woman mine. Because I’ve got a special ability to sense douchebags, and her guy definitely is one.

  More importantly, she deserves so much better. I can tell that too.

  But the best thing I can do in this moment is put both of them out of my head. I’m lucky to be where I’m at in life, running a highly lucrative fireworks stand on the beach in the weeks before the Fourth of July. After the holiday, I’ll go back to my usual work managing the Wawa on Sandbar Avenue, grateful that I have such an accommodating boss.

  Yeah, it’s not exactly high-class work. But it does well for me and I’m grateful.

  Having a woman like the one in the turquoise dress, though, would be a dream come true. I’ve felt alone for so long — first when Dad was incarcerated, then after Mom died, and increasingly so ever since. I want a chance to make the happy family I never had.

  That might be a dream too lofty for a guy like me, though. So I’ll keep my head down and sell my fireworks and teach teenagers how to mop a floor and try not to think about gorgeous blonde women with souls that shine like the sun.

  Daisy

  I wake early the next morning, eyes snapping open as sun filters between the blinds of the suite’s sumptuous bedroom. I know we’re on vacation, but I can’t resist the excitement and energy swirling within me. I get up, stealing silently from the bed so I don’t wake Mike.

  Grabbing a fresh sundress and a pair of panties, I tip-toe to the bathroom and get ready for the day. I pay extra attention to my eye makeup, adding eyeliner even though it’s not something I usually wear every day.

  But today isn’t going to be just any day. It’s going to be the day Mike proposes. I can feel it.

  And if today’s the day I become the future Mrs. Downley, everything’s got to be perfect, starting with my makeup.

  When I bustle out of the bathroom thirty minutes later clad in the full-length dress that’s the perfect delicate pink to bring out all my best features, Mike is still snoring. I smile and re
sist the urge to smooth his hair back from his forehead.

  Instead, I slip from the bedroom, closing the door behind me, and step into the kitchen. I’ve got work to do.

  Rummaging around in the cupboards and fridge, I find everything I need to make omelets, Mike’s favorite breakfast. He had called ahead, asking the resort’s patron services to stock the pantry with some essentials, and they did a lovely job.

  In addition to eggs and milk, I find fresh basil, spinach, three blocks of different cheeses, and a package of button mushrooms in the fridge. The cupboards house a variety of nonperishable crackers, canned goods, and snacks, and there’s a whole cantaloupe on the counter next to matching glass jars of oil and vinegar.

  Picking the fruit up, I smell the melon, then knock my knuckles against its rind just like my grandmother taught me, smiling when I find that it’s perfectly ripe.

  I decide to make mushroom omelets. They’re simple enough, but the mushrooms make the breakfast feel fancy. To me, at least. I find a frying pan and spatula and set to slicing the mushrooms and herbs, humming to myself.

  I lose myself in the task. This is the life for me, cooking for my soon-to-be family, providing and making a home we can enjoy together. I can’t wait to add children to the mix.

  Soon there are the shells of eight eggs in the trashcan beneath the sink, and the frying pan on the stove is full of simmering eggs. Next to it, I’ve got a second burner going, cooking the mushrooms and herbs in a smaller pan.