Page 20 of Marriage is a Shore Thing
It’s only then that I notice he doesn’t have coffee in his.
“What are you drinking?”
“Hot chocolate.”
As much as I don’t want to, I set Hank down to accept my mug. “I don’t have any hot chocolate.”
A soft-pink color sweeps across his cheekbones until it stains his ears. “I always carry instant packets with me since I don’t drink coffee.”
My heart does an involuntary pinch. How dare this man be this sweetly wholesome.
“What are you going to do with yourself while you stay here?” I ask, busying myself with scattering feed. “We can’t be in each other’s space all day, every day.”
“Technically, I’ve only been in your space less than twenty-four hours.”
“And it’s already too much,” I fire back.
“You know…” Van’s introspective tone makes me glance over my shoulder. “You get this little divot between your brows when you think you’ve gone too far.”
I should maintain my unflappable composure. After all, I just gained the upper hand, but my mouth drops open, stunned. How is it possible for Van to pick up on these little tells in such a short period of time?
“But to answer your question,” he continues, oblivious to the exposed sensation slipping over my skin. “I’m not sure. I’ve been working non-stop since before I can remember. I’d like to get the full beach experience for a few days. Then I’ll probably volunteer at the free care clinic Noah told me about on the outskirts of Virginia Beach.”
That could work. With him being gone during the day and me teaching classes at night, we could harmoniously co-exist. And hopefully, that’ll decrease the moments of sweet domesticity, like the one we’re experiencing now. Moments like this are dangerous. I know better than most that they’re fleeting. The second you get comfortable and expect someone to be there every day, they vanish.
“I’d also like to help around here—in lieu of rent since I’m still paying for my place in Nashville. I could fix the front door. Paint the siding.” He puts one hand on his hip, surveying my bare-bones backyard. “Put some clover down for the girls. That’s supposed to be better for chickens than grass. I looked it up last night when I couldn’t sleep.”
I try not to let that last thoughtful suggestion arrow through my heart. Van is just looking for ways to do his fair share. I’d do the same thing in his position.
“That would work,” I say, picking up Hank again.
We’ll keep things friendly and platonic. And eventually, I’ll figure out some way to let Joanna down easy—since I don’t want Van to be the villain of the story anymore. He doesn’t deserve it.
Van smiles, a simple lift of his lips somehow brighter than the sunshine beaming down on us.
“I’ll head to the mainland and get those supplies, then.”
I watch him turn and climb the deck stairs, pressure building in my chest. It isn’t until his hand is on the doorknob that my words burst free like steam from a hot kettle.
“I’ll come with you.”
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.
