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

“Why else would you drink it?”

His gaze slips to my mouth, just briefly. “Maybe I like sweet things?”

I don’t get a chance to respond because two inebriated men push into Cade’s and Vivian’s open seats.

The one closest to me uses his meaty hand to slap Cade’s purse onto the bartop.

Before I can even protest, the second man lurches to the side, completely missing his stool and toppling onto his friend.

The man nearest me flicks his arm out like a whip crack to regain his balance.

My forearm comes up to block the impact, but I’m spun away from the two newcomers as a crash resonates through the bar area.

Instinct takes over. All I feel is hot, unyielding hands on my waist and the rapid pulsing of my heartbeat in my ears.

Every cell in my body screams for me to defend myself.

My hips angle away from the body behind me at the same time my elbow comes back for a punishing blow.

I pivot, preparing for another strike, when reality slips in.

I just hit the man I’d been talking to.

“Sorry,” I blurt, placing my hands on his hunched-over shoulders as he wheezes. “I didn’t think. I just reac—”

“It’s alright.” His eyes meet mine as he lets out a pained grunt. “I startled you.”

A strangled sound escapes me. I was hoping to make this man’s night better, not worse.

“Is everything okay here?”

Three black-suited security members surround us. Two of them pick up the drunken men and escort them away while one remains beside us.

“Everything’s fine,” I answer, still surveying the man I hit as his breathing evens out.

“I wasn’t talking to you,” the behemoth of a security agent tells me.

Oh. That’s fair.

The man chuckles, low and deep, and I’m overwhelmed with a sudden longing to see him laugh—to know how his eyes would curl with mirth, to see his mouth fully relaxed.

Then he stands upright, taking my hands with him.

I should let go, step back, but my fingers stubbornly remain on his firm shoulders.

“I’m fine. Thanks for checking,” he tells the security agent while keeping his gaze zeroed in on me.

He’s only a few inches taller than me with my heels on, making his lips distractingly close to mine. I bite the inside of my cheek to banish the wild thought.

The agent murmurs something into the microphone clipped to his lapel before striding away.

“I’m Evander, by the way. Everyone calls me Van—in case you write the names of your victims in a log somewhere.” A playful twinkle settles over his mesmerizing eyes.

I release a controlled exhale. “I’m sorry again.”

“It’s okay.” A half-smile settles over his mouth. “I’m sure we’ll laugh about this someday.”

An unfamiliar yet soothing sensation slips over my muscles. They should be tensing, moving away from this man, but I feel almost pliant in his reassuring presence.

“Ma’am?”

I welcome the bartender’s interruption, using it to break contact and regain my composure. I’ve never had it slip so quickly, but there’s something disarming about Van’s dimpled grin.

She hands me Cade’s beer-sodden purse and my smashed phone before sliding over a thick stack of bar napkins. “They went over the edge. Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” I mutter, checking the contents of Cade’s unzipped purse to see if her phone needs to be dried like mine.

Besides the aforementioned breath mints and pepper spray, the only other things inside are three lipsticks, a New Orleans fabric patch, and a tiny rubber duck.

My ID, credit card, and room key are in a secret pocket of my scoop-neck black mini lounge dress, so Cade probably has her essentials in the pockets of her sparkly jumpsuit.

My shoulders settle before I assess my phone. The screen isn’t just cracked; it’s annihilated. It blinks helplessly at my attempts to get it to function. I sigh, using the napkins on Cade’s small purse before drying my phone.

“You can use my phone if you need to,” Van tells me.

Under normal circumstances, this would be where I’d turn, march back to the expensive suite, and put an end to this long day. But I made a decision before everything went sideways, and I always follow through on my commitments.

Straightening my spine, I face Van. “Since I made your night worse, I can get you into Bellinger’s afterparty to make amends.”

Van just stares, amused.

“However”—I pause, my jaw hardening—“you need to understand that nothing is going to happen here.” My index finger flicks between us. “After an hour, we’ll go our separate ways. That’s it. The end.”

He runs a hand through his hair as a shadow passes over his face. “I’m honestly in no state for…”

His words trail off in an exhausted exhale, leaving a painful twist in my belly.

“I’d just be grateful for a bit of company.” Van tugs his lips up, the effort to appear normal as obvious as a neon sign in the dark. “Are you a boxer?”

“I teach it, but I don’t enter the ring,” I say, grateful for the subject change. I excel at getting people into fighting shape, at helping them understand their full physical potential. Navigating amorphous emotional situations…isn’t my strong suit. “Are you?”

“No.” Van rubs his jaw with another slight chuckle. “But my buddy in med school boxed. He turned me into a fan.”

My face remains expressionless as I absorb this information.

It explains why Van was as engrossed in the heavyweight match as I was before my friends took off.

With the casual drop of “med school,” I can assume he’s a doctor, making him less capable of standing by when someone needs help.

That is, if he’s even telling the truth. In my experience, men rarely do.

Van’s smile grows genuine at my silence, and the relief at seeing it has no right being this dizzying.

“Am I allowed to ask the name of my benevolent hostess?”

“Geneva.”

The way Van processes this information, as if he’s tucking it into his chest pocket for safekeeping, makes my skin tingle. Maybe I should go straight back to the room. That vodka seems to have done a number on my common sense.

Instead, I turn and stride deeper into the casino. “Keep up, Van.”

“Yes, ma’am.” His quick response is cheeky—almost flirty—sending goosebumps down my arms.

I exhale slowly, disregarding the sensation.

We’ll have just one hour together, then go our separate ways, and then I’ll never see Van again.

What’s the worst that can happen?