Page 46 of Marriage is a Shore Thing
“No, no.” Joanna waves me off. “You two just head out. Or better yet, I heard there’s acoustic guitar music now on Sundays at Bayside Table. You two should get dessert there. It’s too lovely a night to pass up.”
I catch a mischievous twinkle in her eye before she heads down the stairs.
A few moments later, after saying our thanks, we’re efficiently dismissed with containers of leftovers. We’re silent on the walk home, lost in our own thoughts. A guitarist strums in the distance, but they lack Van’s talent, the way he makes everything effortless.
Instead of using the back door like I always do, I punch the code into my repaired front door, my gaze dropping to myGo Awaywelcome mat. Something thick and enigmatic swirls in my chest, but Van’s question distracts me from wondering what.
“Are we headed to Bayside Table after this?”
The lock disengages, and I push through the front door, waiting for Van to follow me before I snatch the leftovers from his hands and put them on a vintage sideboard table next to the stairs. The containers clunk onto the sage surface, rattling a mason jar filled with black-eyed Susans—because of course they do.
Of course there’s this historic piece that Van bought off a middle-aged local trying to get a restoration business off the ground. And of course it’s perfect, nestled right here. And of course, he’d find time today once we were both finally fever free to find me wildflowers.
A shuddered breath slips into my lungs because I’m pretty sure I don’t deserve any of this, but I’m apparently the villainess everyone thinks I am because I’mnotgoing to do the right thing. I’m not going to push Van away anymore.
“Gen?”
I spin, splaying my hand in the center of Van’s firm chest and shoving him toward the couch instead. “Sit down, Van.”
Van stumbles back, the heat of his smile as I push him downward melting the remaining cells in my brain. “Yes, ma’am.”
nineteen
Van
When Geneva’s lips collide with mine, I’m pretty sure I black out for a moment, but then her fingers in my hair bring me right back to life. Fireworks ignite along my scalp and sizzle down my spine when Geneva crawls onto the couch, hovering just above me. Her pant-covered knees settle outside of my jeans as I reach up to unfasten her hair elastic. Silken dark strands curtain around us as she pulls back with a short, breathy inhale.
My heart freezes in my chest as our gazes meet, but my fingers settle loosely over her thighs, because I’m not letting her bolt away this time. I’m not letting her recede into her shelter of narrowed eyes and harsh words. I’m prepared to tighten my grip and keep Geneva from hopping off this couch and saying something nonsensical, like this was a mistake, when us kissing is a foregone conclusion.
Then her expression contorts in a way I don’t expect. It’s almost painful watching the wisp of uncertainty stain Geneva’s brow as her eyes dart between mine. How can she not know this is what I’ve wanted since an Elvis impersonator pronounced us husband and wife? Ever since that missed opportunity—when we both laughed it off and said our goodbyes—I thought about kissing her more than I should have. And then, when the possibility to re-enter Geneva’s life presented itself, I upended everything to be here.
“Yes.” The word is a low rumble in my chest as I skirt one palm up her leg and along her ribs until I’m framing her jaw.
My focus follows my thumb brushing the line of her jaw, the hollow of her cheek before I return to her warm brown eyes. The way her brows furrow makes me shift my hand to the back of her head to bring her forehead to my lips. And when Geneva bends, when a ragged exhale shakes out of her, goosebumps shoot over my skin.
“I’m an unlovable porcupine,” she says as I set a soft kiss over her temple.
“You’re not.”
“You’re right. Porcupines are too cute. I’m more like a sea urchin—black hearted with dangerous spikes.”
A soft chuckle leaves my mouth as I kiss her cheek. “Darlin’, you have no idea how sweet you are.”
When Geneva balls her fists on the tops of my shoulders, I lean back against the couch. My hands collect one of her curled ones and slowly unfurl each of her fingers, my gaze focused on my work.
“I recognize this isn’t going to be something you’ll accept with a single conversation. You’re far too stubborn for that.” My eyes dart to hers with a smirk. “But one of these days, I’m going to help you see that it’syour opinionof yourself that’s negative. Everyone else likes you.”
When Geneva snorts, I let my smile bloom.
“They might fear you a little too, but that’s because you’ve always got your guard up.” I place a kiss in the center of her now opened palm. “You should let them see the version of you that I get to see.”
She shakes her head in short, quick movements.
“Okay,” I soothe, settling her palm over my heart. “Can you admit that I like you?”
Her face is a kaleidoscope of emotions, making my pulse uptick beneath her hand, because it’s an absolute honor to know this version of Geneva. I understand the significance of her not being an impenetrable brick wall in this moment. She’s giving me her trust by allowing me to witness her insecurity, by letting me see the sticky, unkempt parts of her soul.
When Geneva presses her lips into a firm line, I know we’ve reached an impasse. A deep breath fills my lungs as I relinquish a small nod.
