Page 14 of Marriage is a Shore Thing (Wilks Beach #2)

thirteen

Van

“Wake up, darlin’.” I keep the tension out of my tone as I jostle Geneva in my arms so I can take her pulse.

It’s strong and fast, just as I expected.

My mind flies through the differential diagnosis and quickly narrows it down to two.

The most likely is influenza. Even though today is September first, the flu has been making an early showing this year with several pockets already in the northeast. The second, more dangerous option is heat stroke hyperthermia—a medical emergency.

Reminding myself that the fire station, with all its EMS supplies is mere blocks away, I gently set Geneva on the tile floor of the bathroom so she’s leaning against her tub.

“Gen.” I run the tap cold before kneeling and framing her sweaty face with my palms. “I need you to fight with me.”

Her eyes flutter open. “What if I didn’t like seascape paintings?”

Unlike the last two times she spoke, her words are clear and biting.

“There she is.” A smile lifts my lips as relief douses every cell in my body.

Her finger comes up to poke me in the cheek. “Don’t dimple-smile at me. This is a serious matter. What if I don’t like comfy patio furniture? Or geometric outdoor rugs? Why do you keep making my house nice?”

“You saying I’m making things nice undermines your argument, dearest,” I tell her, quickly removing her shoes and socks.

She grumbles at the endearment. “You’re the worst, you know that?”

“I am. I’m a complete monster.” I pause, making sure I catch her gaze before continuing. “I need to get my supply bag from downstairs. Can I trust you not to pass out? Or do you want to lie down?”

I try not to ‘dimple-smile’ at the flat look and dismissive wrist flick Geneva gives me, but it’s impossible.

A handful of seconds later, I’m back with the medical bag I keep in my truck when I’m not working and my phone—just in case I’m wrong. And I really, really hope I’m not wrong.

Geneva is right where I left her, an unamused expression on her gorgeous—albeit flushed—face.

Good. She can scowl at me all she’d like as long as she stays awake.

“Can I get in the tub now?”

The wistful way Geneva gazes at the water sends a strange emotion tumbling through my bloodstream. Logically, I know I should be completing my assessment first, but for a woman who asks for nothing, I don’t want to say no.

In the emergency department, to treat heat stroke, we’d dunk her in an ice bath or run cooled saline through her veins to rapidly cool her core body temperature. A ticking clock pings at my temple, but I acquiesce.

“Only if you take this off.” I tug at the hem of her sodden tank. “I know that sounds like a move, but the less clothes the better. Everything else you can keep on, but I want as much of your skin in contact with the water.”

Surprisingly, Geneva lifts her arms. She does so while giving me the death glare of the century, but she complies.

Then she makes a blissful sound that’s slightly distracting as I help her into the cool water.

I dig in my bag, tossing my stethoscope on the ground before I find the temporal artery thermometer I bought during my pediatric rotation.

“Just let me...”

I cradle the back of her head with one hand and run the device over her forehead with the other.

I expect Geneva to grimace at having her temperature taken, but her dark eyelashes flutter closed, almost helplessly.

When her brow smooths peacefully, I set the device aside.

The result on the digital screen reads 101°F, meaning Geneva doesn’t have heat stroke—thank goodness.

My mouth opens to tell her, but instead, I dampen a washcloth and gently clean her forehead, her cheeks.

The sound she makes in her throat—soft, vulnerable—sends goosebumps shooting over my skin, almost breaking me.

Based on what I know about Geneva’s history, it’s probably been years since someone looked after her like this.

“Gen.” I don’t think I’ve ever heard my voice more ragged, tortured.

She turns her face away, lashes squeezed shut like she’s in pain. “Do I need to go to the hospital?”

“No. But can you tell me how you’re feeling? Is anything hurting? Pain in your stomach? Shortness of breath?”

Her mouth opens and closes twice before she mutters, “I’m fine.”

“Don’t lie to me.” I say it too gruffly but don’t regret it. I need to know what I’m dealing with.

Her shoulders sag in unmistakable surrender. “Everything hurts. I woke up achy and sore, but I figured it was just from hitting the bag extra hard this week.”

“Okay.” That’s consistent with flu, especially this strain that has more head and body aches and less upper respiratory symptoms. “What about a headache?”

Geneva nods, but it’s not her defiant chin bob. It’s a small, defeated movement that makes my chest squeeze. “My hair hurts.”

I understand what she means. My sister’s scalp used to ache every time she got the flu growing up. The memory of sitting on our lumpy couch, Disney movies playing while we slurped popsicles, jabs me like a searing poker, and I quickly force it away.

“Alright, this is what we’re going to do. Let’s take your hair down.” My hands are already working the elastic from her damp ponytail as Geneva draws her knees to her chest. “Then let’s get you dry and cool and give you some antipyretics.”

“Some what?” Her brow is smooth again, lashes closed as she rests her cheek on her knee.

The corner of my mouth lifts. “Tylenol. Ibuprofen. Medicines that reduce fever and will also take away some of the pain. You’ve likely got the early strain of flu that’s circling around. Now, lean back for me. I’m going to rinse out your hair.”

Geneva doesn’t move, just opens her eyes. My heart rate ticks up at her soft yet assessing expression, and I can’t not touch her. With the elastic free, I run one thumb over her temple and down her cheek to the corner of her jaw.

“I know I’ve changed a lot, asked a lot of you,” I say, threading my fingers through her sweat-damp hair. “But can you let me take care of you? Just this once.”

She’s silent for so long I’m certain she’ll refuse. The clicking on of the AC, the slight drip of the faucet, and the blood rushing in my ears is my only company.

“I’m tired.”

“I know, darlin’.” It takes all my willpower not to kiss her temple. “We’ll get you in bed soon. Lie back, okay?”

Geneva’s surprisingly pliant as I rinse her hair in the cool water, but she kicks me out of the bathroom so she can dry herself and change into a lightweight sleep set.

I busy myself by pulling the comforter off her bed, turning her ceiling fan on high, and closing her blinds.

When she opens the bathroom door to find me sitting beside her bed in a kitchen chair, she grimaces.

“What are you doing with that?”

“Knitting a sweater.”

“Van.” My name is a growl, and it makes me impossibly happy. “I’m not some dainty Victorian lady convalescing. You don’t need to sit at my bedside.”

“You said you’d let me take care of you this once.”

Her arms cross. “I technically didn’t say—”

“We need to cancel dinner with Joanna. Do you want me to call her?” I cross one ankle over my knee, leaning back like the hard wooden chair is the most comfortable thing I’ve ever sat in.

Geneva reaches for her phone on the bedside table as she crawls beneath the sheet. “I can do it.”

I can’t help performing a visual assessment while she speaks to Joanna. Already, Geneva looks better. The sweating has decreased, and her color has returned to normal. Geneva refuses Joanna’s offer of soup and to activate the Wilks Beach emergency text chain.

“But could you let people know that the flu is here and to take care of themselves?” she asks Joanna. “I’d hate to get anyone sick.”

Geneva listens for a long time before saying, “No. No. I’ve got my handsome doctor husband to take care of me, after all.”

A smirk settles over my mouth as she ends the call. “You think I’m handsome.”

“I had to sell it, or she’d come over and get herself sick. Speaking of which, shouldn’t you be wearing a mask or something?”

My hand splays over my chest. “Does this mean you care?”

“Never mind.” She taps on her phone. “I need to call Brynn and let her know to watch out for symptoms.”

A few minutes later, her head drops back on the pillows after she hangs up. “Vivian will be over with a tater tot-based casserole in an hour and a half.”

“Sounds scrumptious.” A wide grin splits my face.

Geneva scrubs her hands over her cheeks with a groan. “Why will no one listen to me?”

“Probably because you’re an unreasonable grump.” I settle my hands behind my head, smirking. “If you’d allow people to be nice to you, this would all be easier.”

“But I don’t pay into the system.” She’s strangling her phone again. “I don’t make meals, because no one wants to eat dressing-free spinach salads, plain Greek yogurt, and grilled fish fillets. Heck, I don’t want to eat it half of the time.”

It’s hard to miss Geneva’s regimented diet. When I sauteed veggies in butter, she pushed them away like I’d dunked them in battery acid. I’m all for healthy eating, but there should be enjoyment too—at least occasionally.

“While I’m here, I’ll teach you to make a few sharable staples—lasagna, veggie chili, shepherd’s pie. Then you won’t feel bad when you occasionally need to lean on your neighbors.”

With a sigh, Geneva flops her hands wide on the mattress, pushing her phone away before closing her eyes. Long minutes pass as her breathing evens out. I pick up her phone, click it to silent, and set it back on the bedside table.

I try not to stare. I really do, but I have a former beauty queen resting before me.

The slivers of evening light slip between the inefficient blinds, highlighting her cheekbones, her dark hair, her soft brows.

I reposition the chair as quietly as I can until my shoulders are blocking the light.

Geneva turns toward me then, stacking her hands beneath her cheek like a cherub.

She’s sleeping so serenely that it makes sudden, unexpected fury sprint through my body. Geneva should get to be this relaxed all the time. I want to find her father, her mother, anyone who harmed her, anyone who made Geneva feel like she needs to guard this fiercely against the world and…and what?

Challenge them to a duel? Knock out their front teeth?

I’m not a fighter. I’ve never hit another person in my life, except for the one time I lashed out at Taylor when I was five, and Mama made me kneel on grits.

I’m more comfortable either preventing the fight or doing the repair job afterward.

Putting bones back together and stitching up wounds makes sense to me. Destruction doesn’t.

The light fades while Geneva dozes, and plans run through my mind. I might have only a few short months with Geneva, and it’s highly likely that she’ll never like me the way I already like her, but if I can leave Geneva’s life better than I found it, I’d be happy.

“I’m going to help you like pink again.”

It’s a nearly inaudible murmur but it’s also a promise.