Page 17 of Marriage is a Shore Thing (Wilks Beach #2)

sixteen

Geneva

Once Van is reclined back with his eyes closed and a washcloth over his forehead, I tell him I’ll be right back and sneak into the hallway with my phone.

“I think I messed up,” I say when Noah picks up my call. My fingers tug at the collar of the oversized sweatshirt I’m wearing because I have my AC turned as low as it’ll go.

“Excuse me? I know you’re recovering from the flu, but are you delirious? You must be to admit that. Put Van on the phone.”

“I can’t.” I glance around the open doorway, catching Van’s strong jawline.

Still above water. Good.

“He’s worse off than me.”

“Here we go,” Noah groans. “Men are babies. Women can go through twice as much pain while simultaneously nursing a newborn, making dinner, and solving world peace.”

“No.” I pause. “Well, yes, that’s all true, but that’s not what I’m talking about.”

Noah finally catches on to my anxious tone. “What happened?”

“Nothing? His fever hasn’t gotten worse, but he’s weak. I have to help him with everything.”

My brother chuffs. “I bet he’s helpless. That’s exactly how I’d play it if I had someone pretty to take care of me.”

“He’s not like you,” I growl. “He’s not lying or playing games. He’s sick.” I didn’t realize that I’d yelled the last part until I hear Van’s voice from the bathroom.

“Gen, what’s going on?”

I put the phone to my chest and peek around the door. The washcloth dangles in Van’s long fingers as his Adam’s apple bobs, concern etched onto his flushed forehead.

“Nothing, snookums,” I say entirely too brightly.

When Van’s blond brows pinch, I lift the phone into view. That seems to make sense to him, because he leans his head back, placing the washcloth over his eyes.

“Tell Joanna I say hi and that the soup was incredible.”

“Will do!”

“I hate when you use your chipper pageant voice,” Noah says when I put the phone back to my ear.

“I hate it too. Now pretend you’re a helpful member of society and tell me how I’m going to get Van out of the tub. Is there some sort of special fireman carry for water situations?”

“I am a helpful member of society,” Noah grumbles. “And I’m a much better man than I used to be. You, of all people, know that.”

“Noah, focus,” I hiss as quietly as possible because Van thinks I’m talking to Joanna. “This isn’t about you.”

I ignore his mumbled, “It’s never about me,” and memorize his instructions on how to safely lift Van if it comes to that.

“You can always call me back, and I can get him out. I’ll wear PPE so I don’t bring the flu back to the station.”

“If I’m truly stuck, I will.”

While Noah is mid-jab about how I must really like Van—since I never ask for help, and yet, here I am, calling him—I hang up on him.

“Joanna’s good?” Van asks when I lean against the bathroom countertop.

He mistakes my noncommittal hum for something else, sitting up slightly and tugging off the washcloth.

“If you want to tell her the truth as soon as we’re out of this…” His fingertips drum on the side of the tub. “This…situation, it’d be okay. Actually, if you’d rather I…” He stops again with a hard swallow. “If you want me to—”

“Let’s rinse your hair.” I perch on the edge of the tub, unable to take the pressure in my chest at the way Van looks like he’s being slowly eviscerated. “That made me feel better.”

It’s weird that I get nearly as much joy out of cradling Van’s head and running my fingers through his short silken strands as I did when he rinsed my hair days ago.

Once he sits back up, I dry his face and hair with a towel before asking if he’s ready to get out.

Then I roll up the sleeves of my sweatshirt, bracing my legs like Noah told me to, and lean down to wrap one arm around Van’s back.

“On three,” I say into his damp shoulder.

“Gen, I can get up by myse—”

“One. Two. Three.” I tug and then promptly slip on the floor mat that I’m not used to because it wasn’t there a few days ago.

My feet fly back while my chin juts forward, knocking into Van’s collarbone as I end up over the edge of the tub and atop of him in the cold water.

Releasing his back, I push my palms against the side of the bathtub, but that only presses our bodies closer, our legs interlacing as my face ends up a mere inches from his.

“Um.” A shuddered breath leaves my lips open. “Sorry, I was trying to…”

All I can think about as that sentence drops off is that I’m grateful that I’m wearing leggings in addition to my sweatshirt, because Van is in nothing but a pair of very wet sleep shorts. His body is a chiseled inferno beneath me. It’s honestly surprising he hasn’t heated the water by conduction.

“It’s okay.”

Except, Van’s voice doesn’t sound like it’s okay. His body tenses beneath me—and not in a what a delightful surprise you’re throwing yourself at me again kind of way. He seems genuinely uncomfortable.

“I promise I’m not usually this clumsy.”

I try to shift my hands to push away, and in doing so, my left palm slips, tossing my ponytail over my shoulder and smacking Van in the face.

My eyes fly wide, and air becomes gelatinous in my lungs as time seems to freeze.

We stare at each other for three thudding heartbeats before his lips twitch with a puff of breath.

The slow grin spreading over his face is more beautiful than ten thousand sunrises, and a single thought hits me like a sucker punch.

I love when this man smiles.

When I mirror his grin, his gaze softens. But when Van’s fingers brush my hip, I vault myself out of the water like an alligator going for the kill. Water sloshes everywhere—on the floor, on the new bathroom rug, even on the countertop.

“Sorry. So sorry,” I stammer, hand to my chest to check if my heart is still working, because surely Van just electrocuted me with that slight touch.

What happens to your heart after being electrocuted? It stops? Or does it start up again? Van would know—he’s an ER doctor and everything—but there’s no way I’m asking him.

“We should get dry,” I say instead. “Because you’re wet, and I’m wet, and the bathroom is wet…”

Stop saying wet! my brain screams.

Van chuckling does not help matters. In fact, the sound sends effervescence bubbles coursing through my veins.

I rush to my closet to grab some more clothes, talking over my shoulder. “I’ll get changed in the guest bathroom and meet you downstairs. I brought your bag up earlier. It’s in the corner.”

After what’s probably ten minutes but feels like three years, Van lumbers down the stairs in a fresh t-shirt and shorts.

My brain is so muddled after Wetgate that I didn’t even think to offer help—which is borderline dangerous since I’d been concerned about his ability to get out of the tub mere minutes ago.

Taking my thumbnail out of my mouth, I bolt up. “Let me—”

“Easy.” Van holds up a hand to stave me off. “I’m doing just fine. I’m actually feeling a lot better after cooling down in the water.”

“Oh.” I tuck my feet beneath me on the couch, clutching the throw blanket like it’s a life raft in a tempest. “That’s good.”

Van sits nearby, but not as close as he did before, and every single cell in my body pouts. I pick up the remote to dissipate the nonsensical sensation.

“Want to watch Celebrity Circuit?”

“Sure.” He stretches out, groaning a bit with each movement.

Once the recap is finished, I pause the show. “Once you’re feeling better…”

Van rolls his head on the back of the couch until our gazes meet.

“Maybe we can pick up a rug for in here? My feet get cold in the winter.”

“Yeah?”

The way Van’s face lights up, you’d think I just asked him to take a billion dollars off my hands or handed him a dozen puppies…or kittens…or parrots? I should really find out what makes Van happy, because I’d like to do it more often.

“Yeah,” I say before clearing my croaky throat.

Van watches me for a minute, probably using that x-ray doctor vision of his. “Why haven’t you decorated? Noah says you’ve had this place for years.”

Normally, this is where I’d clam up, shove my shoulders back, and shoot a snappy remark. That or say nothing. I’ve gotten really good at stony silence. My nail picks at a loose thread on my sweatpants like it absolutely needs my full attention.

“I didn’t want to admit I liked being here. If I never settled in, it’d be easier to move if things didn’t work out.”

Saying the truth out loud feels like a literal gash on my side, but I resist the urge to check for blood.

“But you have a business here. You’re part of the community.” Van’s voice is achingly soft, but I don’t look up.

“That’d be easy to sell,” I say, shaking my head. “Carol would be all too happy to have the property back.”

“Carol?”

I glance up. “Her late husband owned the auto shop, but it’d been unoccupied for years before I moved here.”

What I don’t mention is that the anger consuming me at being abandoned by my mother and friends after a lifetime of my father being barely present made me impossible to be around.

I honestly don’t know how Joanna tolerated me before I bought the property.

One night, after lashing out when I shouldn’t have, I stumbled upon the empty auto shop.

There’d been an abused punching bag and tattered gloves in the corner by the old office.

It looked like the previous owner used to work out after closing the shop for the day.

Moonlight streamed through the garage windows as I took decades of frustration out with clumsy, untrained strikes.

The feeling of calm that slipped into my bones after being able to finally release my pent-up frustration was addicting.

I came back the next night and the night after that.

I was still guarded with others, but I stopped seeing the people of Wilks Beach as the enemy.

Whenever I wasn’t helping Joanna with her divorce, I researched how to become a boxing instructor.

Then I priced out equipment and necessary structural changes, dipped into my savings from past sponsorship deals and prize money, and found out who owned the building.

Van processes the information about Carol being the previous owner of my gym, no doubt updating his mental map of Wilks Beach. After meeting someone or hearing a story from me, he’s never forgotten a detail. His genius brain must layer all those minute facts together and lock them away.

“But maybe”—I’m back to staring at my pants again—“you showing up out of nowhere and forcing me to live in my own house isn’t the worst thing.

It’s definitely close to the worst thing.

” Instead of forcing my lips into a line, I allow them to lift.

“Second to worst, for sure. Right above mistaking maggots for rice.”

For someone I had to human crutch-walk to the tub, Van’s arms are ridiculously strong as they drag me across the couch until I’m tucked into the crook of his shoulder.

“Play our show, sassypants,” he says, spreading the blanket over us both.

“Sassypants?” The smile on my face must be obnoxious, but Van is looking at the screen. “Coming out with the big guns. What are you going to call me next? A meanihead?”

Van sniffs. “Some of us are not as naturally good at insults as others.”

I chuckle, resting my head on his steady chest and pushing play.

And as Tasha reveals surprise baby news—It’s twins!—I mull over Van’s word choice, deciding I don’t completely hate it. Instead, I relax beside my accidental husband and enjoy our show.