Page 12 of Marriage is a Shore Thing (Wilks Beach #2)

eleven

Van

“It’s okay, mister. The mermaids ain’t gonna get you today.” A young girl with a tumble of blonde curls stops beside me.

I’ve been stalled on the damp, packed sand, transfixed by the dolphins swimming down the coast.

The corner of my mouth quirks as I glance down. The girl’s focus isn’t on me, though. It’s out at sea, surveying the waves as she shades her eyes with purple-painted nails. She can’t be more than eight—nine, tops.

“What do you mean the mermaids will get me?”

“If they’re swimming, you have to stay outta the water.” Her blue eyes meet mine, not a drop of mirth in them.

“Why?”

“Cuz they’ll drag you to a watery death.”

I want to snort a laugh at her deadpan delivery, but I manage to keep my expression even. “That’s a little dark, isn’t it?”

The girl settles her hands over the hips of her shiny, fish scale-patterned one piece, her eyes narrowing. “Not if it saves your life. You want to stay alive, don’t ya?”

“Lily, quit bothering him.” A woman who looks like the grown-up version of my quirky little companion jogs up to us, carrying a two-year-old boy.

“Sorry,” she says with an exasperated chuckle, brushing away blonde curls tossed wayward by the strong sea breeze.

“Stranger danger is a foreign concept for this one since she already knows everyone on the island. I’m Nicole.

” The woman extends a hand. “You must be Van. I couldn’t get a sitter to attend the party last night, but I heard it was a fun evening. ”

“Nice to meet you,” I say, smiling as Lily bounds into the water like she’s part fish. “What’s this talk about mermaids?”

“Oh.” Nicole laughs again. It’s a light sound bouncing over the rushing of the waves. “It’s something islanders tell their kids when riptides are present.” She pauses, considering. “Do you know what a rip current looks like? No offense, but since you’re a…um…”

“Mainlander?” I offer with a chuckle.

Her smile is a bit bashful. “Yeah. Hopefully, people aren’t giving you too hard of a time. We’re trying to turn a leaf around here, but old habits die hard.”

“Actually, it’s been—”

“Hey, snugglebear. I’m ready to get into the water if you are.” Geneva’s fingers grip my bicep as she sends the fakest smile I’ve ever seen toward Nicole. “Sorry to steal him away, but it’s technically our honeymoon staycation,” she stage-whispers with a wink.

Snugglebear? And Geneva winks at people? What in the—

“Oh, of course.” Nicole smiles at us both before wadding into the water after her daughter. “No better place for it.”

Geneva drags me twenty feet down the beach before letting go. “You’re welcome.”

“For what?” I say through a laugh. “Saving me from polite conversation? I was two seconds from learning what a riptide looks like. Apparently, having that knowledge will keep me from a watery grave, but you’d probably prefer I remain clueless. It’d save you the trouble of divorce.”

Geneva rolls her eyes at me. “Please. I wouldn’t have let you near the shore if there was a riptide present. And that wasn’t polite conversation. Nicole was flirting with you because you’re new meat.”

My brain wants to take a few seconds to process the protective first part of Geneva’s statement, but the latter is far more interesting. There’s no way that my reluctant wife is jealous, is there?

“New meat?”

She levels me with a flat look. “It’s a small town.

News travels fast, and then all the singles come out of the woodwork to shoot their shot.

It’s embarrassing to watch.” Her gaze shifts over my shoulder, shooting daggers at Nicole even though she’s innocently playing with her kids.

“You should have seen the way Amanda threw herself at Finn before—”

My cheeks hurt. My grin has got to be obnoxious. Megawatt. Of seismic proportions. Put me on a red carpet and let me smile for the flashbulbs because Geneva actually is jealous.

“What?” Her arms cross over the gray long-sleeve rash guard covering everything but her black bikini bottoms. “Why are you smiling like that?”

“We’re married.” I lift my left hand, wiggling my silicone ring.

A matching one rests on Geneva’s finger.

I’m not going to lie. I feel some kind of way, having a ring on this particular finger, but I’ll sort those feelings out later.

Right now, I want to get to the bottom of Geneva’s unexpected jealousy and then take my first swim in the ocean.

Though I’ve never been in the sea before, I’m familiar with the lakes and rivers surrounding Nashville.

“Nicole was just chatting to be nice. In fact, she told me she was sorry she missed our wedding party last night.”

Geneva says nothing, just stares at the cotton ball clouds dotting the horizon, a muscle in her jaw flexing.

“You know what,” I say, stepping close. “If you’re worried about someone stealing your man—”

“You’re not my man,” she snaps, her fiery gaze returning to me.

I continue, undeterred. “Then we should act like this really is our honeymoon.”

My fingers slide over her ribs as I inch even closer. Geneva’s defiant chin juts up, never breaking eye contact.

“People are watching.” A ghost of a smile lifts my lips. “Maybe drop your crossed arms?”

She huffs but releases her grip until her hands are at her sides.

“You could touch me, you know. Maybe set an affectionate palm over my heart like you did yesterday?” It’s a struggle to keep the flirty grin off my mouth.

Her head tilts slightly, the end of her long ponytail slipping in front of her shoulder. “I could knee you in the groin.”

I laugh, shaking my head. There’s nothing I enjoy more than sparring with this woman. Actually, I don’t remember the last time I had this much fun just talking. Even running errands earlier had been near blissful, and we’d simply picked up kitty litter and pineapple.

“I don’t think you’ll do that.”

“Oh, no?” It’s Geneva’s turn to smile.

I take my time drifting forward, moving until my lips are a hair’s breadth from the shell of her ear. It allows me to see her pulse thrumming on the side of her neck, how her lashes flutter with my close proximity, how her hands flex at her sides.

“No, darlin’. You won’t.”

“You—” She clears her throat. “You have to stop doing that.”

“Doing what?” My lips hover beside her temple but don’t make contact.

Geneva sucks in a sharp breath. “You know.”

I lean back to catch her gaze and memorize everything about this moment—the high-pitched chirps of the sandpipers shuffling nearby, the comforting warmth of the sun on my back, the way the ocean breeze plays with the dark brunette strands of her hair.

But it’s the softness in Geneva’s expression that I’ll see when I close my eyes tonight.

It’s so hopeful while simultaneously wary, making my chest contort.

One hand releases her side, and I slide my fingers down her forearm until my index finger hooks with hers. “I’m not doing half of what I’d like to.”

My focus drifts to her lips—just for a second.

Geneva sways ever so slightly forward before her shoulders tense and her finger releases mine.

Internally, I sigh. One step forward, two steps back.

But that’s okay. I’ve got nothing but time. Three months of it, in fact. I don’t want to exist in a world where I kiss Geneva Bradford and she isn’t one hundred and ten percent certain she wants me to.

“I also want to do this,” I say with a smirk.

Using my now free hand, I sweep Geneva’s legs from under her, completely ignoring her protests and half-hearted pounds to my back while I run into waist-deep water and toss her over the next wave.

“I can’t believe you—” Her words cut off with a growl as she lurches toward me, slinging her arms around my neck in an attempt to dunk me.

A laugh tumbles out of me before she hooks my leg and we both end up under the next crashing wave.

“Truce!” I shout as soon as we both surface.

“Not on your life.”

This time, she jumps on my back, and I end up laughing at how much effort it requires to fling her into the water. I succeed, though—eventually.

It continues like that, back and forth, until a lifeguard whistles at us.

“You got us in trouble,” I tell her, chuckling as we walk to shore.

“Me? This was all you.” She’s not grimacing, though.

Geneva’s not snarling or glaring or scoffing. She’s smiling. And though I love the devious little grin she gives me when she thinks she has the upper hand, I love this wild, carefree version of her even more.

“Look.” I point at a red line on my left bicep with an exaggerated lip pout. “You scratched me.”

“Serves you right,” she mutters, brushing back her disheveled ponytail. The hair elastic should get a medal for fortitude—it’s barely hanging on.

“Let me help you.” I stop her with a palm to her upper arm in knee-deep water. “You look like a drowned opossum.”

Geneva opens her mouth to protest, but when I gently tug at the elastic just above her shoulder, her lips snap shut.

We’re too close again. I know it. She’ll push back any second, but I focus on loosening the tangled strands of hair that wind around the elastic and not on the single freckle on her heaving collarbones.

Once successful, I can’t help myself. I fan the silken strands around her shoulders, taking a deep breath before stepping back.

“There.” I hold the elastic in my upturned palm.

The rhythmic rush of water around us has nothing on the pounding of my erratic heart.

Geneva’s fingertips tremble as she slowly picks it up. The hair elastic hovers in midair for a breath before her brows pinch, her hand fists the band, and she pushes past me toward our towels.

Anyone else would be discouraged, but I hum a Raven Sacaria song as I stroll toward our spot in the sand, practically beaming.

I hadn’t been joking earlier.

If there’s one thing I truly enjoy, it’s a challenge.