Page 3 of Marriage is a Shore Thing (Wilks Beach #2)

two

Van

One month later

I stare at the front door to the quaint two-story cottage for longer than advisable.

It’s just…stalling feels…necessary. So that’s how I notice that while the rest of the homes on this residential street are painted peach, yellow, or seaside blue, Geneva’s house is a drab beige.

How there’s neither a welcome mat nor a cheery ocean-inspired wreath.

“Come on, man. Buck up.”

It’s not the first pep talk I’ve had with myself. The thing is, I doubt Geneva will be excited about the life-changing news I’m bringing with me, especially since it’d been her idea not to exchange contact information after our evening in Vegas.

The late-August sun beats on my neck as I knock, a sheen of perspiration dampening my skin.

When there’s no answer, I glance at the car in the gravel driveway, boxing equipment strewn over the backseat.

That’s one of the things I remember about that night: Geneva’s love for teaching others the sport she’d picked up a few years ago.

The truth is, I remember a lot about that night.

Maybe Geneva has been playing those memories on repeat as well.

After another round of loud knocking with no response, I move to check the backyard. Before I can get close to the high garden gate, a scratchy voice stops me.

“What are you doing?” an elderly woman asks as she crosses the street. She’s wearing a pantsuit with a jacket buttoned to the neck in frank defiance to the stifling heat and humidity.

I smile, grateful to be able to ask one of Geneva’s neighbors where I might find her. I jog to meet the woman since she’s using a cane to walk.

“Hello, ma’am. Do you know where I could find Geneva?”

“Who wants to know?”

It’s only now that I realize this woman isn’t squinting in the bright sunshine. Her face is pinched in distrust.

“Evander Young, ma’am, but everyone calls me Van.” I extend my hand.

Her tattooed brows raise, glancing at my outstretched hand like it’s a warm tuna sandwich from a gas station. “Like a minivan?”

I force a chuckle. “Something like that.”

Her cane comes down hard on the asphalt. “State your business.”

“I…uh…”

I’m used to curveballs—you have to be when working in the ER—but I don’t think telling a stranger the truth before I get a chance to speak to Geneva is the best idea.

“Just what we need—another floundering mainlander who doesn’t know what he wants,” the woman mutters, rolling her eyes.

Main—what?

“I need to speak to Geneva,” I say.

“Obviously, cowboy, but why?”

I’m two seconds from telling her, as politely as I can, that it’s none of her business, when another woman appears in the doorway of the house across the street. She’s holding two glasses of lemonade, her long white braid draping down the front of her yellow sundress.

“I leave you alone for one minute,” she calls into the street with an amused smile.

The woman in front of me makes a buzzing sound with her lips, waving a hand at her friend. “Don’t interrupt me in the middle of an interrogation.”

“Is that what this is?” My eyebrows lift.

“Naturally.”

Her tilted chin and defiant nature remind me of the woman I’m here to meet, and I can’t help the smile blooming over my lips. Maybe wariness is filtered into the drinking water of this small beach town.

“You know,” I begin, “I was here to see Geneva, but now I’m thinking I’d rather get to know you.”

I send her a genuine smile. Usually, when I ask nicely, even the most obstinate patient will agree to a necessary CT scan or to stop throwing medical supplies at the nurses.

But the gesture backfires—spectacularly.

The woman laughs right in my face, starting with an amused cackle that escalates until she’s leaning hard onto her cane as if needing it to support her weight.

“Ignore her,” the woman in the sundress tells me, coming to her friend’s side. “How can we help you?”

“We? Don’t rope me into this.”

“I’m Wendy, and this ball of sunshine is Carol.” Her hand is warm and soft as we shake. “Geneva is probably in her backyard with her chickens.”

I shouldn’t be delighted by this piece of information, but my cheek quirks even higher. For as much as Geneva projects a tough exterior, she’d been undeniably nurturing when we’d happened upon a woman who’d been crying barefoot in the hall of the casino.

It’d been just after we left the boxing afterparty and were supposed to go our separate ways.

I’d offered the woman my shoes and to escort her to her hotel three blocks away, but Geneva marched up to the front desk and demanded a pair of en suite sandals since the woman’s feet were considerably smaller than mine.

After we’d safely returned the woman to her room and her friends, Geneva asked if I wanted a drink.

And then, I had to keep the shock out of my smile when Geneva extended that second hour to three, and then four, nearly pushing daylight.

“Earth to Tex.” Carol snaps her fingers at me.

“Van,” I correct.

“Whatever. I can assure you that whatever snake oil you’re selling, Geneva doesn’t want any. She’s even tougher than I am.”

But that’s just it. I’ve seen Geneva soft.

It’d been after hearing the sound of her bright laughter as I grimaced while drinking whiskey neat. Well after we began the game of truth or dare that ended up being all dares. It’d been after too much whiskey and at the beginning of that very last dare when I heard Geneva’s voice soften.

“I can’t get married.” Geneva’s muscles tense in response to my dare.

“It won’t be real.” I chuckle at the absurdity of marrying a stranger. “We won’t sign the marriage certificate afterward. I just love the idea of Elvis performing a wedding ceremony.”

“But I’m not supposed to get married.”

“Why not?”

Her jaw clenches as she shakes her head.

“I know it’s never going to happen, because we’re going our separate ways after this, but if I had the chance to chip away at that armor and really know you, I’d want to marry you in a minute,” I tell her, more than a little drunk but the words still feeling right in my chest.

“You’d regret it.”

Though her sentence is a challenge, her tone softens into a surrendering murmur. My fingers graze the back of her hand, and her posture relaxes even more.

I lean closer, my gaze never leaving hers. “No, darlin’. I don’t think I would.”

A sharp voice snaps me back to the hot street. “Is this man bothering you, Carol?”

I flip around too quickly, and there she is.

Geneva.

My wife.

The sight of her unexpectedly knocks the wind out of me.

Her hair is pulled into a ponytail, and an oversized tee nearly eclipses her tiny shorts.

Her arms are deceptively loose at her sides, but I know she could strike quicker than a viper.

It takes my cloudy brain a few seconds to process the graphic on her shirt—a hissing opossum baring its teeth below the words First of all, I’m a delight.

My head shakes with a growing grin when Geneva’s expression gives nothing away. She simply stares me down—fierce and breathtaking at the same time.

Absolutely freaking perfect.

I roll my shoulders back, preparing. As an emergency physician, I’ve had to tell countless families the hardest news they’ll ever hear. I can tell Geneva that we’re accidentally married.

Because the signatures we laughingly scribbled at the beginning of the ceremony weren’t just for the bill. We’d unknowingly signed a digital wedding certificate—brand new to the Chapel of Endless Love and very much legally binding.

“Hey, darlin’.” A smile quirks the corner of my mouth. “We need to talk.”