Page 1 of Marriage is a Shore Thing
one
Geneva
One thing everyone should understand is that your brain is a dirty, rotten liar. That devious, spongy organ likes to come up with creative scenarios to weasel you out of whatever you’re trying to accomplish. Every athlete knows this. Your brain will scream like a toddler being buckled into a car seat to stop you from running, swimming, what have you.
I know better.
That’s why I’m ignoring the story my brain is trying to sell me right now. Sure, it mightseemlike the women I came with have abandoned me, but that’s complete bull. By all accounts, Vivian, Brynn, and Cade don’t seem like the kind to drop me at this swanky resort bar and never look back. Particularly Vivian, who organized this trip to Vegas with the help of her billionaire boyfriend. She doesn’t seem to have a vindictive bone in her body.
A niggling voice whispers,But you’ve been fooled before. You know how ruthless women can be.
Ignoring that thought, I gather counterevidence. Evidence number one: Vivian texted the group twenty minutes ago, stating that she’s spending time with her boyfriend, Finn, and she’ll meet us at the room later. Though ‘room’ is an understatement since our penthouse suite is larger than most houses, Vivian letting me know where she’ll be isn’t the action of someone trying to leave you behind.
Evidence number two: On the empty stool beside me sits Cade’s woven crossbody purse. She wouldn’t have left that behind if she planned on never coming back.
Before Cade left, I think she said something about checking on Brynn, who’d been playing a slot machine.
I’m pretty sure, anyway.
I hadn’t exactly been paying attention. The post-fight interview between heavyweights Simmons and Bellinger had been on the screen above the bartenders at the same time. I’d missed most of the match because this had been Vivian’s night—starting off with a Raven Sacaria concert, followed by a lavish dessert tasting with a celebrity chef, and ending at this bar in the center of the casino.
Normally, I’d be worried about Cade and Brynn’s safety. That’d been the reason I agreed to come on this trip in the first place. Three small-town women alone in Vegas for the first time?
Yeah. Not on my watch.
Brynn is sharp and observant, and Vivian finally started throwing punches correctly at the boxing classes I teach at my gym, but neither of them had ever traveled outside Wilks Beach. Vegas is teeming with people, some of them undeniably shady. But the second our private plane touched down, Mateo, our trip coordinator, put my mind at ease. He’s bubbly and hasall the connections, but he’s undoubtedly doubling as security—something I doubt the other three women even registered.
Since he’s also absent from the casino’s noisy gaming floor, that means he’s with Brynn and Cade.
Good. I can take care of myself.
I’ve been doing it for years.
My index finger taps the side of my phone, debating if I should reach out. I’ve only responded to a few of the—frankly, gratuitous—texts about this trip. But in the twenty long minutes I’ve waited for Cade and Brynn to return, I’ve fended off three pick-up attempts, downed a glass of ice water, and cursed myself for joining in the last round of vodka shots on an empty stomach. Though the other ladies enjoyed the dessert tasting, the last thing I ate was a spinach-and-salmon salad before the concert.
“Just text them,” I mutter to myself.
An anxious tendril collects at the nape of my neck.What if they don’t text back? What if they meant to leave me just like everyone else?
My fingers flip my phone, slamming it down so hard the square jars of sliced lemons and limes rattle.
“Easy now. You’ll crack the screen.” The southern-accented sentence comes from the man beside me. Ever since I got here, I’ve ignored how it feels like I’m perched next to an electric fence instead of a broad set of shoulders.
To his credit, he’s ignored me as well.
Briefly, my mind wanders, wondering if he noticed that I had the seat directly in front of him at the concert—though, no one sat during the two-hour performance from one of the most iconic women in music. What surprised me was that this man sang along to nearly every song, the soulful twang of his deep voice intermixing with that of the headliner.
“If you don’t take a breath soon, you’ll asphyxiate and ruin everyone’s fun.”
He takes a sip from his fruity cocktail—a yellow concoction in a hurricane glass topped with whipped cream, a pineapple slice, and a curly straw. The frivolity of his drink makes me loosen the grip on my phone, not realizing I’d been strangling it.
“You don’t look like you’re having fun,” I say, crossing my arms.
I steal a glance to my right, clocking a sharp jawline. I’ve long since noticed the basics about him—strong build, blond hair, wrinkled dress shirt, hunched posture. He looks like a man down on his luck. An ache settles over my ribs before I remind myself that I don’t care. Maybe he’s done it to himself by blowing a month’s salary at the blackjack table.
When he leans back to meet my gaze, a shock runs down my spine. The sensation is a near replica of the two times it happened before. The second time was just minutes ago when we made the same comment about the boxers finishing out the last round of their famed match. The first time had been when I’d glanced over my shoulder after hearing him singing at the concert.
What I hadn’t noticed before is that his eyes are the oddest shade of gray—like overcast skies clouding the ocean. And in the brighter light of the bar, the dark hollows beneath his eyes are obvious.
