Page 24 of Marriage is a Shore Thing (Wilks Beach #2)

twenty-three

Van

Hey, look at that. Turns out I am a fighter, because I’m going to bludgeon this man for having his arm around Geneva’s waist, his face entirely too close to hers.

It doesn’t matter that he looks more like the incredible Hulk than a human.

This man might have the bulk, but I have years of medical knowledge, detailing the most unexpected pain points in the human body.

“You know this guy?” the man asks Geneva, his lips dipping dangerously close to her ear.

Her mouth opens, but no words come out. Her gaze darts wildly, flitting from my eyes to my mussed hair before stalling on my collarbones. In my haste to get to her, I hadn’t thought to change, so I’m wearing my threadbare shirt, my lounging scrub pants, and sneakers.

When the man’s arm tightens protectively around Geneva’s waist, blinding white fire sears through my brain.

“Gen, step back.”

My words are a warning as my hands fist of their own accord. Some higher-processing part of my brain is calculating how to get Geneva away from this behemoth, but a baser part of me is looking forward to doing enough damage to send this man to the local ER.

“She can’t.” The man has the decency to straighten.

I should feel better now that their faces aren’t inches apart, but fury still courses through my veins. I’ve never been this angry in my life. Burning energy fizzes and cracks through my bones, consuming me.

A harsh, hollow laugh escapes me. “I know my wife. There’s nothing she can’t do.”

“It’s my ankle,” she says, her voice uncharacteristically breathy.

Since I’m locked in a staring contest with the man who’s still touching my wife, I don’t look down immediately.

But when I do, I feel like the biggest jerk of all time.

Geneva is balancing on one precarious heel, the other one clearly broken.

I surge forward, and the man unravels himself, stepping away.

“Sorry, man,” I say, sliding my hands over Geneva’s waist to keep her steady. “I got the wrong idea.”

A half smile tilts his lips. “I get it. I’m protective of mine too.” He wiggles his wedding ring at me, making me feel like even more of a scumbag. “Ma’am, I’ll collect your friends. Will your husband be taking you home?”

I lean back to catch Geneva’s gaze, but she’s not looking at me. She’s staring off into the dance club, jaw rigid. “Yes.”

Vivian comes over, happy to see me and clearly tipsy, but Brynn gives me a strange look as we all say our goodbyes.

“Why are you here?” Geneva asks once we’re alone again.

She’s Geneva from months ago—with her icy tone and steely posture. A part of me breaks apart hearing her question, but she hasn’t asked me to let go, hasn’t asked me to leave. Of course, that could be because she’s currently one-footed.

I thought about the answer to this inevitable question the entire hour-long drive here. I knew she’d ask. I knew that I could very well muck everything up by telling the truth. But even though the darkness of this club might mask my blush, I don’t want to hide this.

“I missed you.”

Her expression shutters, and Geneva finally makes eye contact with me.

“And I got worried when you weren’t home by midnight, so I walked over to Vivian and Brynn’s, thinking I’d offer to walk you home.

And when no one came to the door and you didn’t answer your phone, I called Finn.

He told me you all were here, and I just got in my truck.

I know,” I say as her mouth opens like she wants to argue with me.

“I know how that sounds. It sounds possessive and crazy and a bunch of other negative adjectives I can’t think of right now. It’s just…”

I brush away a strand that’s loosened itself from her ponytail, my gaze following the trail of goosebumps that erupt as I tuck it behind her ear.

“I knew you could keep yourself safe, but I didn’t want you to have to. Finn failed to mention that you had a bodyguard driver.” I scratch my ear. “Or rather I hung up on him before getting that detail. I just—”

A noisy exhale leaves my mouth. “You kind of make me lose my mind.”

Geneva watches me, her breathing deceptively even. I’m not sure if she’s going to scream at me, hit me, or hobble away—disgusted with me. Maybe all three? Or a one-two combo like the strike patterns she calls out in class.

“Did you read the report on the coffee table?”

My brows quirk, but I’ll take whatever Geneva will give me, even if it’s off-topic conversation.

“I did. Looks like we’ll have to find an evening for Stacy to clean instead of her usual Tuesday midday.”

Her nod is clipped. “I thought the same thing.”

I can’t help the slow smile lifting my lips. “So we’re doing this thing?”

“I’m doing this thing.” Geneva rolls her eyes at me but with a fraction of her usual sass. “You and your revocable medical license will be nowhere in sight.”

“At least let me run coms.”

“No.”

Since her refusal lacks bite, I give her waist a little squeeze. “Gear, then. I’ll outfit you with a grappling hook, night-vision goggles, and a utility belt. I guess you won’t need heist clothes because everything you own is already black.”

The hurt way Geneva’s eyes dart away from mine before she chews on her lip punches the air from my lungs. My hand finds her jaw, my thumb soothing over her cheek.

“I’m sor—”

“I bought a dress today.”

Geneva meets my gaze, insecure and challenging at the same time. How does she manage to be incredibly strong and breathtakingly vulnerable all at once?

“Did you?” I keep my tone open, like I’m verbally holding her hand, urging her along.

She presses her lips together, nodding.

“It’s…” Geneva stops and swallows. “It’s burgundy.”

“Darlin’.” Her nickname has never sounded more reverent, more earnest. “Really?”

Those expressive eyes find mine again. “And it’s a sundress,” she whispers.

I can’t help my appreciative groan as I tug her closer. Don’t get me wrong. I’m a man with functioning eyeballs, so I love these snug dresses, but the idea of Geneva in something with a flirty, flowy skirt is nearly enough to make my knees buckle.

“You’re showing me when we get home.” I barely keep from nipping her earlobe with my teeth.

She shakes her head, lifting her palms to press against my stomach—lightly pushing me away. “Not after that machismo showdown.”

“I thought women liked displays like that. When men beat their chests and growl words like mine.”

Though Geneva’s eyes flash at my last word, she continues her slow head shake.

My eyebrows raise as a smirk settles over my mouth. “You didn’t like being called ‘my wife’?”

Her fingers twitch before she can stop herself, and my abs tighten in response.

I tilt my head to the side, my smile darkening. “You di—”

My sentence breaks off in a laugh when Geneva pushes and turns to stomp away—right before we both remember that her right heel is broken.

“Ow,” she says, lurching to the side before I catch her.

I’d been so distracted by finding her in another man’s arms that I hadn’t noticed how her ankle is purpling.

“Oh, Gen.” I crouch to gently palpate the area, letting her brace my shoulders for balance. “I’ve got an ACE wrap in the truck, but let’s get some ice from the bar first.”

Before she can protest, I slip a hand under her knees, swooping her off her feet.

“You’re annoying,” she tells me, poking my chest.

“The worst,” I agree, kissing her temple as I steer us through the dwindling crowd.

The bartender yells for last call, so it’s perfect timing to grab some ice and get out of there.

Once Geneva is comfortably in the passenger seat, I cover her legs with an extra t-shirt and perform a full exam using the penlight from my medical bag.

Predictably, Geneva doesn’t squirm or complain, just fists the seatbelt and grits her teeth as I rotate her foot.

I wrap her ankle gently before propping it up on the truck bench and covering it with ice.

Before I put my bag in the back, I give her a dose of ibuprofen.

“You’ll need to keep off of it for a few days, but it only looks like a mild sprain. Can you teach while seated on Monday?”

“I guess,” she says with the petulance of a cranky teenager.

I gently palm the back of her head and bring her forehead to my lips. “I’ve got you in the meantime.”

“Don’t I get a treat or something for being a good patient?” she asks as I lean back.

My eyebrows inch up, prepared to tease her, but then Geneva fists the collar of my shirt and crushes her mouth to mine. I brace one hand on the side of the truck, so I don’t collapse onto her, and then fervently return her kiss.

We’re only ten minutes into the drive home when Geneva huffs. “I really did want a treat.”

The corner of my mouth twitches. “I know of a 24-hour wing place. It won’t be as good as Hotties, but—”

“Yes,” she cuts me off, digging her phone from her small purse. “Need me to navigate?”

My smile blooms. “That would be helpful.”

As a computerized voice instructs me on which turns to take, I let my palm fall onto Geneva’s outstretched calf, pleased when she doesn’t pull away.

A country song hums in the background—one that Geneva would usually berate me for—as I brush my thumb back and forth over her smooth skin.

She shifts in her seat, relaxing against the passenger door with a pleased sigh.

I’m certain she’s unaware of her serene expression, of how much she’s softened from my touch alone.

And all I can think about as we ramble through the quiet streets of Virginia Beach is this is what happiness must be—taking your wife to get wings at two in the morning.

But then, my mind jumps forward too fast, thinking of Geneva with a swollen belly and the other middle-of-the-night cravings that I’d be more than happy to drive to the mainland to satiate.

I drag a deliberate breath into my lungs, hold it, and exhale slowly.

There’s no guarantee that she’ll want to be with me after our agreed three-month time limit.

Geneva is one of the strongest women I’ve ever met, but she also spooks easily.

Bringing up anything about our relationship before then will only send her running in the other direction.

Geneva not being able to accept that I like her is proof enough of that.

If I push forward too fast, I’ll ruin this.

Instead, I focus on now—on staying in the moment.

One of my favorite songwriters is singing his best love ballad on the radio.

The mid-September air sneaks through the slightly cracked windows, bringing a cool breeze and the crisp scent of leaves circulating through the cab.

Stars wink in the distance beyond the wan streetlights.

I release another breath, but this one is full of contentment.

“I think I’ll try a spicier sauce this time,” I say, my lips already twitching as I anticipate Geneva’s response.

When she simply snorts, my grin fully blooms, feeling a whole lot like sunlight radiating from the center of my chest.