Page 11 of Marriage is a Shore Thing (Wilks Beach #2)

ten

Geneva

My hands squeeze and release the steering wheel as I drive to the superstore.

I should have said goodbye. That’s the thought that keeps circling my head like water down a drain.

I should be focusing on keeping distance between Van and me, but all I can think about is how rude I was, leaving without Evelyn’s tea or saying goodbye to everyone at the restaurant.

Van brought the cups to the car—one with my name written in swoopy handwriting. He likely made an excuse and smoothed over my abrupt departure, but that’s not how I behave at Hotties.

It’s the one place where I can be…me.

Kind of.

I’m not even sure who that is anymore.

It started off as an experiment. Because the stakes were low, I thought I’d try not walking through the world like a bulletproof tank.

If I let my guard down and the three generations of family that ran the restaurant gave me the cold shoulder, I could always walk away.

I’d never have to see any of them ever again, and I could easily pick a new place to grab food when I was on the mainland.

So I gave it a try. I wasn’t the dazzling beauty queen full of the right answers. I wasn’t the gruff boxing instructor who kept to herself. I was some melted version of the two of them.

I helped Raquel, Evelyn’s daughter, pick out prom dresses because she’d said she liked my style.

I usually came straight from volunteering at the women’s shelter, wearing business clothes so the women I was teaching would see what’s appropriate for interviews.

When I overheard Eugene and Charlie arguing over who would win an upcoming boxing match, I chimed in.

Now we talk about matches like dads at the bus stop recounting the previous night’s NFL game.

I started to enjoy being there, loosening up each time.

Eventually, I learned the story of the long-time best friends’ dream of owning their own business and how everyone in Eugene’s family worked there in some capacity.

Charlie—a perpetual bachelor and flirt—ran a surprisingly effective social media campaign for someone in their seventies.

His signature winking signoff even had its own hashtag—#winkysilverfoxhottie.

I still haven’t figured out the exact middle ground between perfect and untouchable, but I desperately want to get it right. Especially now that after our impromptu trip to Vegas, Vivian, Brynn, Summer, and Cade expect a normal friendship from me—something I’m not sure I’m capable of anymore.

“There you go strangling things again.” Van’s tone is playful.

“This is all your fault,” I snap and then immediately regret it. I’m being a jerk again, but all my wires are frazzled.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see him shift in his seat to face me, but I don’t dare keep my eyes off the road. “What’s my fault?”

“I was rude. I stormed out. I don’t do that there. I’m—”

I abandon the sentence, realizing that it probably sounds like gibberish to Van. I’m always rude in front of him. It’s my self-preservation bread and butter. They can’t hurt you if they don’t like you enough to stick around. But I can’t explain that I’m never that way at Hotties.

“If you’re worried if Evelyn was upset, she wasn’t. I told her we were in a hurry. You said so yourself when we arrived.”

“I’m not worried.” The words come out with frosty precision, but Van lets out an unconvinced hum.

“What’s going on, Gen?”

Only my husband calls me Gen.

I nearly snarl at my brain’s annoying reminder. Why does it keep telling me that at the worst possible times?

“Pull over.”

I’ve never heard Van be so direct, commanding. Is this his doctor voice? The one he uses to shout “Get me ten cc’s of propofol!” or “Clear!” like they do on those medical shows.

He points to a small city park just ahead. “Pull over there.”

“But—”

“Geneva Cecila Bradford, so help me—”

I cut off his impending tirade by jerking the car into the one of the slanted parking spots beside the fenced-off dog park.

Van makes an approving sound in his throat as I shift into park. Then he bolts from the car, jaw tight as he crosses in front. I have the fleeting thought to throw the car in reverse and leave him behind, but he left his door open.

I expect another command when my door is swung open, and this time, I’m prepared to fight. I really hate being told what to do. I spent way too much of my life following my mother’s orders and haven’t let anyone boss me around since I carved out my own life in Wilks Beach.

But Van’s fingers smooth over my clenched ones, still strangling the steering wheel. “Let’s just take a minute to eat. Nothing makes sense when you’re hungry.”

I don’t move, not an inch. I’m pretty sure I don’t breathe.

“Come on, darlin’.”

It’s the darlin’ that gets me. Darn him and this effective Southern charm—though I’d never let Van have the satisfaction of knowing that.

My shoulders fall from my ears in helpless surrender as I shift to unbuckle my seatbelt.

I hate this too—conceding—but Van’s murmured words of encouragement as I pick up the to-go bag soften the blow.

He stoops into the car to grab our teas and turn off the ignition.

I hadn’t even noticed I left it on. My brow furrows because I’m never anything if not meticulously careful about everything.

But before I can question it further, a strong hand at the base of my spine leads me to a picnic table.

It’s too hot for a midday picnic, but the table is shaded on one side by a mature magnolia.

Van places my drink in the shade and silently portions out our food, setting my mango-habanero and atomic paper boxes in front of me.

When he digs in, unabashedly enjoying his wings, I open my boxes.

The delicious scent of spices tickles my nose, and my mouth waters. I guess I’m hungrier than I thought.

The wing sauce burns my tongue, and it’s a welcome sensation—something expected, predictable.

Because the last two days with Van are confusing.

My brain shakes off its foggy state, reminding me I need to set strong boundaries with Van.

The last thing I need is to open up to someone who’s leaving in a few weeks.

“We have to stop doing this.”

“Having wings?” Van asks, a smear of orange across his right cheek. It’s dangerously close to slipping into the dimple that’s winking at me.

I abandon my previous train of thought, tossing him a napkin. “You’ve got a little something.” I point to my right cheek.

Instead of picking up the napkin, Van swipes his wing across his forehead, leaving a messy sauce trail. “Where?”

I blink, and it takes several seconds to recognize the sound coming from me as laughter.

When my abs squeeze to the point of pain, I have to admit that I’m not just laughing, I’m cackling.

Unattractive, noisy guffaws escape my body without respect for my mind’s futile signals to stop.

It’s not even that funny, my brain protests.

A toddler can smear sauce on their face.

But controlling the chuckles tumbling from my body is a lost cause.

Van simply sets his chin on his palm, his smile soft. There’s no way for him to know that I don’t do this with anyone—not Noah, not Joanna, not my fledgling friends. Though, I guess Cade pulled a surprised laugh from me once, but that’s because her chaos is—at times—genuinely entertaining.

When Van casually dots his nose with a wing, a mirthful snort shoots out of me.

“Knock it off,” I say, appalled by the sound I just made.

Van gives me that dimpled smile. “I could play dumb here and say I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I think we both know I’m irresistible.”

I groan. “There’s nothing worse than a cocky man.”

“I agree,” Van says. “But I’m not being cocky. I’m being confident—confident in my abilities to make even the surliest version of you smile.” He pauses, his grin shifting into devious territory. “Or to convince you to like pink again.”

Alarm bells ping in my skull, but I give him my best You’re insane glare. I thought we dropped this topic when I walked out of the hardware store with two gray sample cans.

“I’ve never liked pink.”

“Come now. We both know that’s a lie.” The way he leans back, blatant satisfaction rolling off his shoulders makes mine tense.

“You weren’t the only one that did a little internet sleuthing.

Granted, mine wasn’t as official as yours, but I have it on good authority that tween Gen often chose pink as her favorite dress color when competing.

In one interview, you even called it your lucky color. ”

I should have thought of this. I should have accounted for the thousands of videos and photos of me from a lifetime of being in front of audiences.

“You,” he says with the smugness of someone who solves the world’s trickiest crimes, “like pink. You don’t even have to admit it, because I already know.” Van uses the edge of his last wing to tap against his temple, leaving even more sauce on his face.

I pick up the napkins and throw them at his chest. “Clean yourself up. You’re a disgrace.”

“Disgrace?” His eyebrows wrinkle adorably. “That’s weak sauce. I know you can do better.”

My head tilts with a small smirk. “I’ll never forget the first time we met, but I’ll keep trying.”

“Not bad.” His eyes practically twinkle.

Van leans over to steal a wing, but I tug my box away before his fingers dip into it. “You can’t handle this heat.”

All the jokey mischief drains from his face as he pins with me with a focused gaze. “How about you let me decide what I can handle?”

A shaky breath rattles free, but I keep my chin up, extending my wing box to him with a nonchalance I don’t feel.

Everything is too intense as Van slowly brings the wing to his lips.

The sunlight is too bright, somehow sharp as it cuts across his chiseled cheekbones.

The children at the nearby park seem to screech instead of giggle.

Each dog bark, passing car, and chirping bird grates on my nerves, because I know how this will go—how it’s always gone.

Van takes a bite, and to his credit, he barely flinches as he chews. He’s even able to grin a bit with a semi-convincing hum of approval.

His watering eyes give him away, though.

When an unintentional tear slides down his cheek, my hand fists under the table. “Just admit you don’t like it. You like sweet and fun and easy, like everyone else.”

His steady gaze never leaves mine as he takes another bite, chewing before answering.

“I like sweet things and having fun, but…” The corner of his mouth quirks, almost imperceptibly.

“I’ve never liked easy. Easy is boring. Anyone can do easy.

I need”—that slight tug morphs into a wicked grin that I feel down to the soles of my feet—“I need a challenge.”

We both know we’re not talking about Scoville units anymore.

I’m the first to break eye contact, which I immediately regret. I should have fought harder, stayed strong, but I can’t think straight when it’s suddenly a thousand degrees out here. I need an ice bath, and a frontal lobotomy, and a slap in the face, because I believe Van.

Which is stupid.

Haven’t I learned time and again that everyone lies—especially men.

“Let’s finish up,” Van says, licking sauce off his fingers even though his eyes continue crying on their own. “We’ve still got to get kitty litter, pineapple, and fake wedding rings.”

My appetite vanishes at the reminder of buying rings, but Van keeps chatting like he’s discussing the weather.

“I’d also like to take a dip in the ocean. I’ve never swam in it before. Can you believe that, before today, I’d never even seen it? What a sheltered bumpkin I am.”

It’s bait, but I don’t take it. Words of caution about rip tides, undercurrents, and wave strength bounce around my mind instead.

Also, sunscreen. Van’s skin isn’t as naturally tanned as mine.

He looks like he could burn in ten minutes.

In fact, he should be the one in the shade right now.

I make a mental note to pick up three bottles of SPF 70 at the store.

Van uses the napkins to clean his face, tidily putting his box and the dirty napkins back in the to-go bag. “I’ll start on chores a bit later so the house doesn’t heat up while I fix the door. The seed would do better if I spread and water it this evening as well.”

I don’t say anything as I stand up with my half-eaten box of wings or when Van stops to pet a golden labrador and chat up his owner. I don’t even snap at him as he hums a melody when I leave my playlist off once we’re back on the road.

All I think about is that, when Van goes to the beach later, against my better judgment, I know I’ll go with him.