Page 73 of Marriage is a Shore Thing
I’d been so focused on taking back the ring, I hadn’t noticed. And before I entered the house, I’d changed my alerts to silent because I’d gotten a few texts from Camille about the Mom and Me boxing class we’re working on together and didn’t want to be distracted.
“Yes, and—”
Stacy rushes into the hallway from her spot in the kitchen. “Hide.”
Van’s arms cage me, and before I know what’s happening, his body flattens me into a mixture of winter coats. It should be a nice sensation, being wrapped in Van’s scent, but an uneasy tension makes my muscles twitch. The door snicks closed behind him at the exact second a voice I haven’t heard in years booms through the hallway.
“Stacy? I saw your message. Are you still here?”
The unhurried footsteps move toward the closet until Stacy calls out from the direction of the kitchen. “In here, sir. So sorry to be here after hours. Did you happen to see my driver’s license?”
Van’s heaving chest is tight against my back, his arms still wrapped around my middle as we wait for the footsteps to recede. A wool coat itches my cheek, but I don’t move a millimeter. My blood sloshes around in my skull.
It takes entirely too long for Henry to move. Is he right outside the closet door? Is he planning on hanging up a coat? When we finally hear the click of his dress shoes walking away, Van’s chin dips against my neck.
“Hold on. I’m messaging with the hotel, canceling things. Your ID? No, I haven’t seen it.”
“Why is he here?” I whisper once it’s clear Henry is in the kitchen, chatting with Stacy.
“I don’t know,” Van murmurs, his breath puffing at my ear. “We’ll have to stay put until we can think of something.”
The space is tight, especially with every inch of Van pressed against me. I usually enjoy being close to him, but everything is instantly too small. The coats pressing in—scratchy and heavy—feel more like an impenetrable wall. I try to take a deep breath, but my chest won’t expand. It’s stuck.I’mstuck. My palms sweat within my nitrile gloves, and the urge to rip them off is more oppressive than the need to get out of—
“Breathe, darlin’.”
Memories overlap, almost as overwhelming as the panic swirling in my stomach. Van at the bar in Vegas, that ghost of a smile on his lips. Van leaning into the driver’s seat, coaxing me to eat wings at a park. Van telling me it’s okay to accept help while gently detangling my hair. Van in Joanna’s kitchen, washing dishes like he belongs there. Van threatening another man in a nightclub, his hair and eyes wild.
“Geneva,breathe.”
“Gen,” I correct weakly, my forehead sagging on the closet rod. “Only my husband calls me Gen.”
His startled exhale tickles my neck before his lips find my temple for a gentle brush. My eyes fall closed, the sensation of being cherished like starlight in my veins.
“I’m going to give you some space.”
Van’s arms leave my waist as he leans as far back against the door as he can. It takes several rounds of focused breathing, but the incessant whirl in my mind subsides. I’ve never gotten claustrophobic before, but I’ve also never been trapped like this.
“Maybe it’s upstairs?” Stacy’s overloud voice draws my attention. “Can you help me look?”
“Why would your ID be upstairs when you always leave your purse in the kitchen?”
I clench the coat sleeve in front of me as they pass the closet before starting up the grand central staircase.
“I had to pay for my son’s football pictures that day and was waiting for the team mom to call for my credit card number,” Stacy lies. “I had my wallet in my jeans pocket.”
As Henry begins to mansplain that she should take more care with important documents, their voices recede. When it’s obvious they’re tucked away upstairs somewhere, Van cracks the door and glances out. I never thought I’d be happy to see the inside of my father’s new house, but I practically squeak at the beam of light slipping into the closet.
“Let’s make a break for it.” He steps back.
In my haste to get far away from the death-trap closet, I trip over Van’s shoe. My palms come down to brace my fall, but Van catches me around my waist just in time. I hover inches from the floor like Ethan Hunt inMission: Impossibleas the voices upstairs come to an abrupt halt.
“What was that?” Heavy footsteps move toward the upstairs landing.
I’m pretty sure my heart stops. The plan was to get out of this house undetected, but I mentally prepared for a run-in with dear old Dad. What I didn’t anticipate was Van rushing in like some kind of hero—though, honestly, I should have. I’m two seconds from wiggling out of Van’s sturdy hold, throwing my face covering over his head to protect his identity, and forcing him out the front door when Stacy screeches.
“What? What is it?”
“I think I just saw a rat crawl into your favorite pair of John Lobbs!”
