Page 22 of Marriage is a Shore Thing
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 withdarlin’, 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.
“FromCheers. 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 theyoung mancomment, 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.
