Page 19 of Marriage is a Shore Thing (Wilks Beach #2)

eighteen

Geneva

“Iknew that fever fried your brain,” I say, staring at Van in disbelief. “Shouldn’t you be concerned about protecting your most valuable asset?”

Van’s grin turns suddenly wicked, but I continue before he can speak.

“Not that, you…”—a more biting insult is at the ready, but since Joanna is here, I settle on—“numbskull. Your medical license. If you get caught breaking and entering, you’ll end up in jail just the same. Except, my assault charges won’t hurt my career, but yours will.”

“Not sure you should insult your husband by calling him a numbskull,” Joanna says out of the corner of her mouth.

“Oh, don’t worry.” Van sends that dimpled smile her way before his flirty gaze crashes with mine. “I’m into it.”

Electricity gathers at the base of my spine and runs backward until it’s stinging my scalp. Joanna’s bathroom is markedly larger than the small closet we spent the last half hour in, but the walls feel like they’re simultaneously closing in and steaming as if the shower was left running.

Resisting the urge to fan my face, I say, “This is an insane idea, and we’re not humoring it.”

Silence hovers for a moment as Joanna’s gaze grows distant, pensive.

“Joanna,” I say, warning in my voice. “We’re not doing this. Henry probably has cameras over every inch of the property. Plus, we don’t even know where the ring is. We’d get caught searching for it—that is, if we even get in.”

But Joanna is not listening. She’s sliding her phone out of the back pocket of her jeans. “We don’t know, but Stacy might.”

“Who’s Stacy?” Van asks, half-leaning/half-sitting on the bathroom countertop and crossing his arms.

The motion is casual, not closed-off. The mirror behind him reflects the fabric of his light-gray plaid shirt pulling tight across his back muscles. I get lost for a minute, wondering what it’d feel like to run my fingertips down the strong column of his spine.

“She was our maid while we were married. He didn’t like the idea of using Melissa’s cleaning service because she was a local.

Melissa is William’s mom and cleans most of the larger houses on the island,” Joanna supplies when Van’s forehead wrinkles.

“He didn’t like the idea of the person cleaning your home also talking to you at the grocery store—the snob.

Stacy lives in Virginia Beach and still works for him today. ”

“How would you know that?” I ask.

“Because after Stacy found out what he’d done, she told me that she was going to quit, but I insisted that she stay with him. Because even though he might be a philandering, lying, backstabbing, piece-of-garbage human, he pays his staff well. And she has three kids to support.”

“Okay,” Van says, “but what would make her want to help us now, years later?”

Joanna is slightly sheepish as she turns her focus to him. “I funded her divorce. My ex didn’t know about it, but Stacy didn’t have the means. She and those babies weren’t in a good situation, and I wasn’t about to stand by and do nothing. That was a year before everything fell apart.”

Van tenses as he absorbs this information. Then, with a slow nod, his gaze flows from Joanna to me. One eyebrow lifts in a silent question.

I let out a noisy breath. “Call her. Don’t text her. Text conversations can be pulled up in court. I’ll see if I can get some information on Henry’s habits, his schedule, and see if this is even possible.”

Giddy is the only way to describe Van’s expression. He’s a kid hopped up on too much cotton candy, soda, and chocolate chip cookies. “So we’re doing this?”

“Maybe,” I say with a cutting glare.

But my golden-retriever husband takes that as a yes, shifting his shoulders in a delighted little shimmy. It shouldn’t be attractive. It should be annoying, not adorable.

“We’re doing a heist,” he whispers to Joanna. “I’ve always wanted to be involved in a heist. They’re my favorite movies.”

“This is not a movie,” I reprimand. “This is real life. And we’re not doing anything without lots of information and planning.”

“I don’t know.” Van shrugs, and it’s the most playful thing I’ve ever seen. “I watched lightning bugs fly in shapes earlier. For all I know, this is a very elaborate hallucination, and I’m in a coma.”

I march across the bathroom and pinch his forearm—hard.

“Ow. What was that for?”

My body pushes between his legs until our noses are inches from each other, my gaze steely.

“To prove to you that you’re alive. And to remind you that alive people can ruin said lives by doing stupid things like breaking into houses.

Even if this foolhardy idea goes beyond planning stages, you’re not going to be a part of it. ”

Van’s expression dropping is almost comical. I almost chuckle at the forlorn pout making his lips seem fuller than they already are. “Why can’t I be the lookout or”—he brightens with a large inhale—“the getaway driver?”

“You drive slower than all the grandpas on the island combined.”

The day we got the boxwoods—when I’d been coming down with the flu and hadn’t known it—I’d let Van drive us to the mainland in his truck.

He slowed for every roadside turtle, waved everyone on at four-way stops, and always kept the speedometer five under the limit.

I nearly chewed my nail off in frustration.

Van just grins before leaning even closer. “There’s nothing wrong with taking my time. Don’t you know good things come to those who wait?”

Now I’m angry for two reasons: the fact that Van is willing to put his hard-earned future at risk and that he’s making my pulse kick into overdrive. My fingers lift to grip his upper arms, but I can’t decide if I should strangle him or cup his jaw and kiss him.

Van tenses his biceps, and the flush spreading over my collarbones and singeing down my forearms already knows the answer to this conundrum.

When he’d set his lips on my temple earlier, I’d been shocked initially, but then everything in me wanted the action repeated.

I wanted Van to tenderly kiss my forehead, my eyelids, to softly brush the corner of my jaw, because I’ve never felt more cherished.

But now, I don’t want sweet affection or tender caresses. I want to kiss the confident smirk off his face. I want Van to be as lost in this insatiable attraction, this incessant wanting, as much as I am.

Joanna clears her throat behind me, startling both of us.

“If it’s okay with the two of you, I’d like to get a hold of Stacy now.”

I step back with a noisy inhale, snapping to my full height. I hadn’t realized how much I’d softened into Van.

“Oh, okay. Can we help with anything else? Finish the dishes?”

“No, no.” Joanna waves me off. “You two just head out. Or better yet, I heard there’s acoustic guitar music now on Sundays at Bayside Table. You two should get dessert there. It’s too lovely a night to pass up.”

I catch a mischievous twinkle in her eye before she heads down the stairs.

A few moments later, after saying our thanks, we’re efficiently dismissed with containers of leftovers. We’re silent on the walk home, lost in our own thoughts. A guitarist strums in the distance, but they lack Van’s talent, the way he makes everything effortless.

Instead of using the back door like I always do, I punch the code into my repaired front door, my gaze dropping to my Go Away welcome mat. Something thick and enigmatic swirls in my chest, but Van’s question distracts me from wondering what.

“Are we headed to Bayside Table after this?”

The lock disengages, and I push through the front door, waiting for Van to follow me before I snatch the leftovers from his hands and put them on a vintage sideboard table next to the stairs.

The containers clunk onto the sage surface, rattling a mason jar filled with black-eyed Susans—because of course they do.

Of course there’s this historic piece that Van bought off a middle-aged local trying to get a restoration business off the ground. And of course it’s perfect, nestled right here. And of course, he’d find time today once we were both finally fever free to find me wildflowers.

A shuddered breath slips into my lungs because I’m pretty sure I don’t deserve any of this, but I’m apparently the villainess everyone thinks I am because I’m not going to do the right thing. I’m not going to push Van away anymore.

“Gen?”

I spin, splaying my hand in the center of Van’s firm chest and shoving him toward the couch instead. “Sit down, Van.”

Van stumbles back, the heat of his smile as I push him downward melting the remaining cells in my brain. “Yes, ma’am.”