Page 11 of Marriage is a Shore Thing
Geneva wasn’t the only one who did a little cyber-snooping after discovering our situation. Once I had her full name, I did a simple search, finding years of beauty pageant photos and videos before reading a few articles about her converting an old auto repair store into a no-contact boxing gym. But unlike Geneva, I don’t know anything about her personal relationships beyond the fact that she celebrated her thirtieth birthday shortly before we wed.
I continue northward, stopping to read the signs posted on the fence separating the beach from the sea turtle hatching ground beyond. Then I weave past the library, the market Cliff said he was the assistant manager of, a tailor shop, a coffee shop, a water tower, and the fire station until I end in front of The Garage Gym.
It’s an older cinderblock building with two automotive garage doors. There is a glass front door, and what used to be a waiting area now holds a water cooler and shelves of boxing equipment. Several punching bags hang from the ceiling, and there’s a separate section for free weights, a squat rack, and medicine balls. The exterior is painted white with a dark-gray awning that matches the color of the floors and the words written on the far wall.
Rule number one: Check your ego at the door.
Heavy-metal music pours out of the half-opened garage door as Geneva lays into a punching bag like it personally offended her mother. Since she’s facing away, I take a moment to decide my next move. One thing’s for sure: I don’t want to startle her like I did in Vegas. I’d had a bruise for several days after taking an elbow to the solar plexus.
I stoop under the garage door, making a wide circle around the bag Geneva is punching with wrapped hands. You’d think that would hurt, not using gloves, but she doesn’t even grimace. She’s also discarded her oversized shirt, exercising in only a longline sports bra and snug athletic shorts. It’s not until I’m closer that I notice Geneva has her eyes closed, placing targeted hits from memory. I wait for her to sense that she’s not alone, but she continues, a little wrinkle between her dark brows as she shuffles her feet between punches.
A helpless sigh slips from my lips.
There’snothingsexier than a strong woman.
I clear my throat, but the sound barely registers over Metallica’s screaming guitars. My hands settle on my hips as I consider the least lethal way to let Geneva know I’m on the other side of her punching bag. Then her eyes pop open, and she misses her next punch, grazing the bag. Her mouth falls open with a startled sound as her momentum carries her straight into my bare chest.
five
Geneva
My fingers splay open to brace my fall. One hand lands on Van’s firm pectoral muscle, and the other rakes down his unnecessarily defined abs. How does Van even look like this? He’s supposed to be an overworked doctor without a gym membership. Sean, my private investigator, mentioned that Van ran a few mornings a week, but that doesn’t explain the definition my fingertips are currently experiencing.
“Whoa there.” Van’s arms come around my body, pulling me upward. It’s probably in an attempt to steady me, but the action brings me flush against him.
A shuddered breath fills my lungs when our eyes meet. I feel his responding inhale, how his heart sprints beneath my palm.
“I…um…” Van says, blinking.
Inarticulate isn’t a word I’d use to describe Van. During our time in Vegas, and even earlier this morning, he always had a quick quip for whatever I threw at him.
But I guess I neverthrew myselfat him before.
“Hi?” My voice is too soft, too breathy, and Van’s responsive grin is entirely too sweet.
I get lost in it for a minute—the feel of him, his easy smile, and the crisp apple top note of his cologne. The fact that Van’s expression isn’t one of flirtatious triumph but unguarded sincerity allows my shoulders to settle.
But then…I register that the music has shifted. The Darkness’s “I Believe in a Thing Called Love” has replaced Metallica, the title lyric screeching through the speakers at an ear-splitting decibel. I always keep the music loud enough to overpower my thoughts, but now I’d give anything to be able to voice-command my speaker off.
“What are you doing here?”
Van lets go of me easily when I break away to click off the music.
“I could ask you the same thing,” he says, that smile slipping into flirty territory. “Are you avoiding me, dearest wife?”
Wifesinges through my ribs, leaving a pinpoint hole in its wake, but I remain visually nonplussed.
“First of all, I’m not—”
“Technically, you are.” There’s no mistaking it this time. Van’s smile has gone full dimple.
Since I apparently cannot control my ridiculous heart’s response to an insignificant facial indent, I grapple for something I can control.
“If we’re going to repeat this conversation, you could at least put your shirt on.”
“You first.” Van winks, and I amnota fan of my stomach’s swoopy response.
I toss an annoyed grunt his way as I crouch to pick up my tee. My hair gets ruffled as I hastily pull it over my head, but I don’t care. Folding my arms, I eye him expectantly. Van chuckles softly and then proceeds to pull his shirt on at the speed of a geriatric turtle. Seriously. I’ve seen clock hands move faster.
