Page 15 of Marriage is a Shore Thing (Wilks Beach #2)

fourteen

Geneva

Iwake at different intervals throughout the night.

Two times, it’s from Van taking my temperature and giving me more medicine.

Another time, I nearly trip over his long, extended legs on the way to the bathroom since he insists on sleeping in that impossibly small kitchen chair.

A third time, I discover that Van snores—just slightly.

It should be annoying, but the soft sound reminds me of the ocean waves beyond my window.

When I finally rise for the day, it’s after ten, and the chair is empty. The drop of disappointment in my stomach nearly makes me want to punch myself there. I shouldn’t want to see his dimpled grin first thing.

Rising in slow degrees, I take my time drinking the cold glass of water at my bedside table before padding into the bathroom to brush my teeth.

“Hey, sleepyhead.”

Van peeks into the bathroom as I’m spitting out toothpaste, startling me and sending the foam flying, dotting the mirror.

“Oops.” Van laughs, using the hand towel to clean the glass.

“Stop. That’s covered in germs.” I yank the towel from him. “You shouldn’t even be near me. You’re going to get sick.”

His shoulder rests against the door jamb, making my small bathroom feel even smaller. “I don’t think you understand how irresistible you are. It’s physically impossible for me not to want to be around you.”

Now that I’m receiving his dimpled smile, I decide I don’t want it anymore.

“Go away.”

Van waits a beat, his grin growing larger by some unknown bending of the laws of physics. “I’m making breakfast. Scrambled egg whites, asparagus, mushrooms, and sundried tomatoes. No butter hath touched the pan. Cooking spray only. Oh, and a side of pineapple.”

I want to say no on principle, even though that sounds heavenly and I’m famished. My molars grind together, but my stomach rumbles like the traitor it is.

A single blond brow raises in challenge.

“Fine.” I should be saying Thank you. That sounds lovely. Will you marry me? Oh, that’s right, you already did, like a civilized person, instead of grunting single words like a Neanderthal.

“I also let the girls out earlier—fed and watered them. The clover is starting to germinate, so that’s exciting.”

“Riveting,” I say, fishing my brush out of the drawer.

I roughly run it through my usually straight hair, and it snags on a tangle behind my head. My eyes close as I wince, pain shooting through my scalp.

“Easy.” Van moves forward until he’s right behind me. “Everything is still sore, remember? You’ll probably hurt today and tomorrow. In an hour, it’ll be time to give you more medicine.”

His fingers loosen the brush from my hands before Van works at the tangle with searing gentleness. My eyes water, but not because of pain.

“Stop.”

At my cracked request, Van’s eyes find mine in the mirror. “This hurts?”

I tuck my lower lip between my teeth, shaking my head no.

His focus drops to the tangle, working again. When he speaks, his voice is a low rumble—warm and unfairly comforting. “It’s okay, accepting help every once in a while.”

And what happens when that help leaves?

That’s the question I want to ask, but it’s trapped in my too-tight throat.

Instead, I close my eyes and let Van work out the tangles in my hair, trying not to think about how this is the first time anyone has brushed my hair because they wanted to.

All the other times, it was to be evaluated by a judge.

Van’s hands give my shoulders a quick squeeze. “Breakfast time.”

Then, because he’s a good man, he leaves me alone to collect myself before I walk downstairs.

Breakfast is delicious, and after a quick check on Hank because she’s needy in the morning, I retreat to the couch and pick up the remote without thinking.

I tab over to Celebrity Circuit and push play, not considering that Van is washing dishes in the adjacent room or that I’m technically germing up his bed.

It’s not until I hear him humming the catchy introduction song that I realize what I’ve done.

“Shoot.” I turn off the TV, and for some unknown reason—probably because I have the flu and am not thinking straight—I throw the remote into the stairwell like it’s the hottest potato. Fortunately, it thuds on my carpeted stairs and doesn’t shatter.

“What happened to the show?” Van arrives in the archway between the living room and the kitchen, sudsy pan and soapy sponge in his hands.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” And then I proceed to tug at my sweater and reposition my hands from my lap to my shoulders to crossed like a person who’s unfamiliar with how fingers work.

The grin on Van’s face can only be described as delighted.

“Are you ashamed of watching Celebrity Circuit? Of course you are,” he answers before I can say anything.

“You’re Geneva, strongest woman alive. You subsist on sunlight and Hank snuggles alone.

Heaven forbid you enjoy yourself every once in a while. ”

He rushes to put the dishes in the sink, turn off the water, and plop next to me. “Where’s the remote?”

I point to the stairs with one hand while burying my face in the other.

A burst of bright laughter fills my small living room, almost making my head hurt again.

“Oh, Gen.”

The words are so affectionate I almost look up.

Almost. I focus on staying motionless until I feel his weight dip the couch beside me.

Even then, I keep my eyes screwed shut. It’s not until Tasha Frazier’s voice announces the rundown of top stories over a B-roll of video recaps that I blink one eye open.

Van isn’t looking at me, though. He’s watching the screen, genuinely enraptured.

“I knew Gregory James was going to bow out of his last concert dates. That man is having a thyroid crisis if I ever saw one. I even emailed his team to check his TSH since the goiter was visible from—”

Van cuts off when Tasha reports the singer’s dangerous hyperthyroidism and recent hospitalization.

“See!” He’s practically giddy. “Oh, they broke up,” Van comments as the recap moves on to two starlets splitting after five years of marriage. “I really thought they had what it took to go the distance.”

“Who even are you?” I ask, leaning away.

A laugh escapes him. “What? A man can’t enjoy a little celebrity gossip? Do I need to do one-handed pushups to prove my manhood now?”

Then Van vaults from the couch and proceeds to pump himself away from the floor, left hand behind his back, bare toes gripping the hardwood, counting back from one hundred.

“Stop,” I say, but it comes out more like a chuckle.

“Can’t stop. I need the levels of testosterone in my body to recalibrate.” He flashes me that infuriating smile. “Ninety-one. Ninety. Eighty-nine.”

“Van, stop.” It’s not until the words tumble out of my mouth that I realize I’m laughing.

He doesn’t cease, though, just continues counting like the goofball he is. My stomach hurts, and my head hurts, and all my muscles hurt from the unexpected joy rippling through me.

“I’m serious.” The words barely squeak out of me, rimmed with mirth.

“Oh, I can tell.” At least he has the decency to sound a tad winded.

I turn off the show. It’s the only way I can think of getting his attention. As expected, Van drops to the floor, rolls on his side, and props himself up with one arm.

“Hey. I was watching that.”

“No, you weren’t. Now get back over here and sit down like a normal person.”

I’m unprepared for how Van’s tongue darts out to touch his upper lip, how his smile melts into something hot. “Yes, ma’am.”

The wave of heat sweeping my skin is definitely from my fever—nothing else.

I expect Van to settle himself a respectful distance away, so when he sits down next to me, taking the remote from my hand and tucking me into the crook of his shoulder, I open my mouth to protest.

“Or,” he says first, “you could not fight me, and we could be cozy, watching this show together.”

“You’ll get sick.” My argument sounds weak, even to me.

Van’s chin is close—way too close—when he looks down and brushes a strand of hair away from my face.

I’ve never seen him with morning scruff before.

Even when Noah came over super early, he’d been clean shaven.

My fingers itch to trace the line of his jaw, to discover if Van’s facial hair is as coarse as it looks.

“Then let me get sick, Geneva. It’ll have been worth it.”

I want to disagree but feel the resistance seeping out of my muscles.

Even though I slept for over twelve hours, I’m unbelievably tired.

And Van is warm, and smells incredible, and something about the subtle rise and fall of his chest is lulling.

I don’t say anything, but my silence is answer enough.

Van pulls the gray throw off the back of the couch and tucks it around me one-handed.

“Just so you know,” he says into my hair as the show resumes. “I plan on planting those boxwoods shirtless this afternoon to restock my testosterone stores. I’ll even dig the holes with my bare hands.”

I swat him in the chest, and Van chuckles, squeezing me lightly. But afterward, I don’t move my hand. His heart beats slow and even as we learn about a former child star’s fall from grace.

“Shame,” he murmurs.

For the first time in a long time, I try not to think.

I try not to calculate every possible outcome and how eighty-six percent of them will end with my heart carved up with more precision than high-end sashimi.

Instead, I let myself relax into the moment with someone who I’m just starting to know, but who feels like a memory.