Page 9 of Marriage is a Shore Thing (Wilks Beach #2)

eight

Van

“I’m driving,” Geneva tells me when she comes downstairs twenty minutes later.

I glance up from my phone and nearly swallow my tongue.

Geneva’s oversized gray tee partially tucked into snug black shorts is something I’ve seen before, but it’s the first time she’s kept her long hair down.

Even in Vegas, she’d worn it in a sleek ponytail.

Loose brunette curls tumble from beneath a Waves baseball hat, nearly touching her waist.

When Geneva looks at me expectantly, my brain struggles to come up with a response.

I should make a joke that only she would buy a black version of the major league baseball team’s blue-on-blue logo, but nothing comes out of my mouth.

Geneva interprets my speechlessness as resistance, crossing her arms.

But before she can speak, I pop up from the couch. “Nice. I never get to be a passenger princess.”

I’m rewarded with a bone-quaking scowl.

“You don’t have to be so excited about everything.” She tosses the comment over her shoulder, striding toward the back door.

“Does my natural exuberance for life irritate you, dear wife?” I ask once we’re outside.

Geneva’s sneakers stumble on the mold-stained walkway bending around the side of the house, and I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from chuckling. Once we’re in her silver sedan, the console screen pops up with GPS presets. The first one is an acronym, but the second is a place called Hotties.

“Hotties? I had no idea you moonlight as a cocktail server at a biker bar,” I say, touching the screen to initiate navigation.

“Don’t—” Geneva reaches forward and cancels navigation. “And what if I was? Would you think less of me?”

“Not in the least,” I say, settling into the seat. “Serving is hard, honest work.”

She eyes me stonily before putting the car into reverse, throwing gravel as she pulls onto Sand Bend Road.

Silence slips between us as Geneva weaves through the farmland that separates the town from the larger city of Virginia Beach, where the home improvement stores are located.

Rows and rows of soybeans and corn stretch on either side of the two-lane road, butterflies flitting in the air.

I’m smiling at a tiny yellow one arching over the tall stalks when Geneva’s voice draws my attention.

“It’s a restaurant.”

“What is?”

“Hotties. They serve hot wings.”

I tilt my head back with a groan. “That sounds amazing. I haven’t had good wings in forever. Can we go after the hardware store?”

When I glance over, Geneva’s gaze is fixated on my Adam’s apple, and she nearly misses the next curve in the windy road. The lane-departure alert beeps as she rights the car.

“Um…sure,” she says, punching her finger on the console screen so that heavy-metal music pulses through the speakers.

I glance out the window, smiling to myself. As much as Geneva might not want anything romantic to happen between us, she’s undeniably attracted to me. And as a man living on crumbs and sleeping on the couch, I’ll take it. I’m beginning to figure out that I’ll take anything she’ll give me.

An hour later, I utilize every opportunity to pester Geneva at the gigantic home improvement store. We select clover seed, a watering system, and hardware to fix her broken door before stopping in the paint department.

“I’m not painting my house pink,” she tells me, assuming her favorite cross-armed position.

“Why not?” I ask, pulling down a variety of rose-colored swatches. “Wendy’s house is a joyful peach, and with the yellow house beside yours, pink would be perfect.”

Geneva doesn’t dignify my comment with a response. She only reaches up to grab a gray color pallet.

I snatch it from her and hold it behind my back. “We can do better.”

“There is no we,” she says, reaching up to select another one.

I’m quicker, though, spreading my palm over the gray display area so she can’t select another swatch.

Geneva glares. “Were you dropped on the head as a child?”

The corner of my mouth quirks. “This will be the color your house will be for at least five years, accounting for how the salt air takes a toll on paint. Really think about what you’d like.”

“What if I like gray?”

I’m unprepared for the way her mouth softens, how her words are slightly uneven.

I’d expected her to spar with me until the end of time.

I’d been prepared to bring up the information I found online, but this question feels…

earnest. When Geneva’s gaze falls to her shoes, hiding her face beneath the bill of her hat, my chest caves in.

“Gray is—” I clear my throat of its grit and remove my hand from the display. “Gray can be nice.”

Geneva selects four ashen swatches, surveying them with a rigid jaw. “It’s a safe choice.”

I want to press the issue. I want to push for why. Why doesn’t she feel like she can have color in her life? Why is she limiting herself? Instead, I gesture toward the service counter.

“Why don’t we get a few samples to try out?”

Back in the car, my stomach rumbles—loudly. It sounds like a thunderstorm is brewing inside me. Geneva takes one look at me and releases a long-suffering sigh.

“I’m fine,” I preempt. “I can wait until we get home.”

In all honesty, I’m starving. I shared a few bites of pineapple with Noah, but I’m used to a big breakfast. I didn’t want to eat any more of Geneva’s food without asking her, and when she came downstairs, we headed right out.

While I’d been waiting for her, I explored the downstairs.

Besides the couch, there’s a wall-mounted TV and…

that’s it. There are no wall hangings or curtains.

Simple, functional blinds cover the windows, but they likely came with the house.

Her dining room is empty. There’s no table in the kitchen.

Maybe she eats over the sink? I get the feeling that had I ventured upstairs, I’d have found it just as barren.

Noah mentioned she bought the house four years ago, but it looks like she moved in yesterday.

“I’ll order pickup.” She slips her phone out of her sling bag and opens an app. “What sauces do you want?”

“For wings?” I sit up straighter. “Sweet chili and honey garlic please.”

“Of course you only like the sugary flavors,” she mutters while jabbing at the screen with punchy fingers.

I decide not to take the bait, too pumped that we’re getting delicious, delicious wings. But the closer we get to the restaurant, the more Geneva’s shoulders tighten.

“Why don’t you stay in the car?” she says after she’s pulled into a parking spot.

It’s not a question. It’s a command.

“I know you like to tease that I’m like a puppy, but I am not, in fact, a dog. Besides, I have to use the restroom.” I open the passenger door before Geneva can protest, whistling to myself.

Geneva tucks her hat low over her eyes as we enter the restaurant, almost hiding behind me. It’s a strange move from a woman who usually walks like she expects buildings to rearrange themselves out of her path.

Her fingers clutch my sleeve as she drags me past the cashiers. “Go use the bathroom. I’ll grab the pick—”

“Geneva!” Two older men from the kitchen cheer when they look up from tossing wings in saucy bowls.

The teenage cashier pops an oversized gum bubble, glancing over. “Geneva’s here?”

“Sweetheart, come tell Charlie that he can’t mix lemon pepper and honey barbecue. It’ll muddle both their flavors.” A mustached man in his seventies comes out of the galley kitchen.

“Sweetheart?” I whisper, raising my eyebrows.

Geneva doesn’t seem like the type to tolerate nicknames. I know I’m barely getting away with darlin’, chalking my tiny victory up to Southern charm.

Geneva ignores me, grabbing our sauce-stained to-go bag and looking like she’s two seconds from sprinting toward the exit.

“Tell Eugene that I should be allowed more creative freedom. I’m not just the pretty face of this operation.” The bald man preens, jutting out his white-bearded hairnet-covered chin.

Geneva hesitates, rolling her lips. “Eugene is right. Good to see everybody, but we’re in a hurry.”

“Geneva!” Another employee—a middle-aged woman with streaks of gray in her dark hair—walks in from a back room. “You’re not usually here on the weekend.”

“You’re Norm,” I say, a laugh bubbling free.

“Who’s Norm?” She tugs on her brim again, even though the jig is well and thoroughly up.

“From Cheers. It’s a sitcom from the 80s. Norm enters the bar, and everyone is excited to see him. Just like this.” I gesture to the smiling staff.

Her eyes narrow. “Aren’t you younger than me? How are you versed in 80s sitcoms?”

“It’s a classic,” I say, brushing off her comment about our ages.

Though I’m only three years younger than Geneva, I don’t need to give her any more reasons to push me away—not when everything about her is inconceivably intriguing. And now this…the supposed ice queen of Wilks Beach has a hot wing fan club. Who knew?

“Why don’t you stay a bit?” the middle-aged woman says, wiping a table clean with a rag. “I just made tea. I’ll get you a cup before I sweeten the rest of it. Would you like some, young man?”

I can practically feel Geneva’s smug smile at the young man comment, but I keep my gaze on the woman in front of me, grinning. “I’ll take it sweet if you don’t mind, ma’am.”

“Oh, don’t you have the nicest accent.”

“Thank you kindly,” I say, dipping my head.

When the woman turns back toward the kitchen, Geneva sets the bag on the clean table and pinches the back of my arm—firmly but not to the point of true pain.

“Thank you kindly? Are you kidding me right now?” she hisses in a hushed whisper.

I lower my chin, my voice quiet. “Looks like some people appreciate my good manners.”

“You are a menace wrapped in pretty packaging.”

“That so?” A smirk tugs on my mouth, preparing to point out that she just called me pretty.

Her eyes flare—a warning and a dare at the same time—but then Geneva rises onto her tiptoes.

The higher-functioning part of my brain knows it’s to gain an advantage—to make herself taller than she already is—but all I can think about is how that simple action shatters the distance between our lips.

Then the world tilts sideways when Geneva has the same realization at the exact same time.

Her fingers on my triceps shift to a possessive grip as her gaze dips to my mouth.

My hand flexes at my side, unsure if I should palm the back of her head, tip up the brim of her hat, or slide my thumb over her jaw—perhaps all three.

A prickling sensation runs backward from my fingertips to my shoulders as I wait. Our short history has proven that she’ll probably sneer, or poke fun at my manhood, or step back and ignore me altogether.

But then—unfathomably—Geneva leans in.