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  “Genevieve. Holy fucking… babe, you’re…” He’s breaking off his words to kiss and suck at my skin, his hands tight on my hips, braced on my back, running up and down my thighs, wild over my entire body.

  I dig my hands into his shoulders, lean back, and drive harder over him, so hard I’m panting at the edge of an orgasm. I look at his face, his green eyes fierce and possessive, his mouth twisted with the deep, hungry moans that are still a surprise coming from my controlled, scientist husband.

  “Come on me, babe,” he begs.

  I run my hands under his shirt, pressing against the tight muscles. And then he grabs my face and kisses me, his tongue entwined with mine, and I groan into his mouth, my body shuddering just a few seconds before he grabs me tight around the waist and goes rigid against me. I fall forward, half dressed, half buried in the sand, completely spent and slick over him.

  It takes a few long seconds for our breathing to regulate. Adam sits me up and rights my dress, puts the jacket snugly around me, and moves me, gently, so he can button and zip his jeans.

  “Ready to head home?” he asks, gathering me in his arms.

  “Mmm. Can we stay here for a few more minutes?” I hear how tired I am, the way the words slur out. He has work to do. I should let him take me home, but I feel so wild and so intimately bound to him here.

  “Of course.” His voice comes out softly.

  I don’t know how long I lie in his arms, the sound of the ocean lulling me into a deep sleep. The last thing I remember is Adam carrying me into bed and spooning his body around mine before we fall into a deep, perfect sleep.

  Chapter Twelve

  Genevieve

  The morning after our sex on the beach—huh, I guess that bartender had me pegged after all—I expect to wake up to this intense connectivity, like maybe after being together in such an intimate way, it would click for Adam how much he means to me.

  How hard I’m really falling for him. And maybe, just maybe, he’ll realize that he’s falling for me a little, too. That I’m not just the girl he makes love to on the beach—I’m the girl he brings home to his father. The girl who’s more than neat facts written on a stack of index cards. I’m real, I’m here, I’m waiting for him to realize this has turned into something more than we ever expected.

  Sadly, it’s not to be. I wake up to an empty bed and the rush of the shower.

  When Adam finally steps into the room, his hair damp, a towel tied around his narrow waist, I feel a surge of feminine possession. Mine.

  Does he ever feel that way when he sees me? Will he ever feel that kind of possessiveness outside the bedroom?

  I decide I’m going to be as honest as I can. I’ll let him know how I feel about him and hope he reciprocates.

  “Mmm. I couldn’t have wound up with a sexier husband if I got you from a mail-order-husband catalog,” I say, stretching luxuriously. “Come to bed with me.”

  My heart sinks when I realize his smile is absent. “Hey, I appreciate the fact that you feel so free to use me sexually, but I have to work, too.”

  I know it’s a joke. Clearly it’s a joke, just like a thousand jokes we’ve made before. But his tone stings.

  “You know, it’s not just the sex that makes me l—” I catch myself. I’m not sure how he feels about us, but I know throwing around “love” isn’t something either one of us is ready for. “Like you so much. I mean… I know this was all for convenience, but I guess I get how arranged marriage has worked for people for so many centuries. I mean Fiddler on the Roof doesn’t seem so crazy to me anymore.”

  He furrows his brows when he smiles at me, sliding his arms into his crisp button up. “Good?”

  “I just…you know, I guess I felt so down on romance and all that, and now I feel more hopeful,” I hint.

  He widens his eyes like he gets it, but the tight smile he throws my way as he buttons each button isn’t exactly the look of revelation I’d hoped for.

  “I’m happy,” he says, coming over to me and cupping my chin in his hand. “I’m glad you’re realizing that Deo wasn’t your one chance at love. I know you’re going to find the person you’re meant to spend your life with.”

  “Adam, I—”

  But I stop short of telling him you’re the one, because what if he flat out rejects me? Not with any cruel intention, because Adam isn’t capable of that. What if he lets me know he’s more than happy to have hot sex with me for a while before we part as friends, like we originally agreed? Isn’t our entire setup kind of every guy’s dream? Why the hell would he trade a marriage of convenience with all the benefits of a temporary, flirty hookup for the ball-and-chain realities of being married to a girl who’s going nowhere fast?

  But, no, I’ve seen the way he looks at me. I’ve sensed the things he wanted to say but didn’t…

  Or am I making this something it’s not?

  “Did you need something?” he asks, his eyes filled with such concern, it makes my heart ache.

  “I—”

  I have so much I want to say, but I decide showing Adam makes more sense. Words are easy, cheap. My husband is a scientist. He responds to proof, to tangibles. Proclamations about feelings don’t mean a thing. He needs evidence, and I plan to show him irrefutable proof that we’re meant to be together.

  What better way to do than to let him see what a perfect, devoted wife I can be?

  “Nothing. Have a great day,” I say, pulling my knees up to my chest and giving my backpack a guilty look.

  “I’ll be late today,” he apologizes. “Probably an hour or two after you’re done with your last class. I promise these crazy hours won’t last forever.” He leans down and brushes a soft kiss on my lips. “Have a great day, Gen.”

  I watch him leave the room, and I know exactly what I’m going to do with my day.

  After slaving over cookbooks, I set the tomato fritters and garbanzo bean salad onto the tiny dining table and then turn my attention back to the chicken. I peek inside the oven, and it’s still cooking nicely, bubbling in its own juices and flecked with herbs. The marinade that I brushed on it over and over again for hours today fills our apartment with the smell of dijon mustard, oregano, and thyme. I also lugged our laundry down to the complex’s laundry facilities and had everything washed, dried, and folded before noon. This feels way more productive than attempting to muddle through my chapter questions on quantum mechanics.

  My heart picks up its pace when I hear the doorknob twist and Adam walk in.

  “Hey,” I call, glancing over my shoulder and welcoming him home with a big smile.

  There’s this way he looks when he gets back from a long day of work at the labs—his dark hair sticks up in odd directions because he runs his hands through it when he’s worried, and his clothes are a little sloppy from rolling his sleeves up and untucking his shirt so he can get his hands dirty with his experiments.

  The best days are when there’s a light in his eyes, like things are working according to his master plan and the yeasts are all doing whatever it is he wants them to do.

  I haven’t seen that shine in over two weeks, and I’m worried about how drawn and tired he’s looked lately.

  “Hey yourself.” His voice is weighted. Tired. I know I can help make that go away. It’s something I love doing for him. I feel like that’s one of my main jobs as his wife. “Is everything okay?”

  He sets his bag down and tosses his keys into the catchall on the counter.

  “Everything’s great with me, but how was your day?”

  I double check the saucepans and fiddle with the heat. I’m happy in our little place, but I wish we had a better stove. This one is electric with cheap coil burners, and the heat elements are temperamental.

  Nothing can piss me off faster than burning a sauce I worked for hours to get perfect.

  “Good,” he says slowly. But his eyes are narrowed and his mouth is flat. It’s a far less sexy, much more serious look than the one he had for me last night. “And you
’re sure you’re okay?”

  I toss the potholder onto the counter and turn to face him, my hand positioned firmly on my hip.

  “Of course, I’m okay. Obviously something’s bothering you. What’s going on?”

  Adam exhales sharply.

  “You weren’t at school today, Genevieve. You missed a pop quiz.”

  Shit. “Well, I’ll see if I can make it up.” I give him the sexy smile that’s been a quick cure-all for any time we’re gearing up to argue, but it doesn’t even faze him.

  He shakes his head and squeezes his thumb and forefinger on the bridge of his nose.

  “You can’t make up quizzes, Gen.”

  I shrug, feeling the muscles in my shoulders constrict. “Okay, well, I’ll see if I can get some extra credit or something. It’s not a big deal. It was one day, Adam.”

  “You’re right, but it reflects badly if you’re skipping class, then showing up asking for extra—”

  “Oh, you mean it reflects badly on you?”

  “No, it looks bad for the both of us, Genevieve. I don’t want my colleagues feeling like they need to give you special treatment because of our…relationship.”

  “You mean our marriage?”

  Adam sighs and runs his fingers through his hair. “Yes, Genevieve, our marriage.”

  “Well, they don’t need to do me any favors. And you need to settle down. Did you even notice I got all of this done today?” I motion around the spotless apartment.

  Every surface has been dusted and wiped down with some pine cleaner. That, combined with the amazing smells coming from the kitchen and the light cotton dress I put on with Adam in mind—since he claims he likes it so much better when I’m dressed down—should have been a clear recipe for total marital harmony, no question.

  I thought for sure Adam’s arrival home this afternoon would be the beginning of a satisfying night, just the two of us totally focused on how amazing it feels when we’re together. I thought this would be clear evidence of how perfect we are together.

  My imagination dreamt up something that was clearly worlds different from our reality—our perfect night is quickly avalanching into our first real argument.

  “The place looks great, Gen. But I don’t want you skipping school to do all of this.”

  I look around our home, frustrated that he doesn’t register the amount of work that goes into caring for all this. Maybe he thinks because it’s so tiny, it’s easy to take care of? If so, that’s a total misconception on his part, because its size makes it more of a challenge to keep things neat and tidy.

  I guess it never occurred to him because he doesn’t have to worry about any of it—because I don’t ask him for help. I know he needs to focus on his research right now, and I’m happy to pick up the slack in other areas.

  How much more proof does he need to realize that I make him my priority?

  “But we have a home to upkeep, and a life together, Adam. I wanted to make things nice for you. Easier for you. Trust me, you’d be upset if you came home to a mess and no food. You’re taking it for granted because this is always the way it is when you come in.”

  I yank at my apron ties, suddenly feeling like an idiot because I thought I was such a badass domestic goddess, such a kickass wife.

  “But what about school? You’re just not going to go so that you can stay home and clean house?”

  His voice is weighted with disappointment, and I’m instantly deflated. I thought I was finally figuring out how not to screw everything up. Apparently I’m just figuring out new ways to do it.

  My next words snap out with a barbed edge. “Maybe. I don’t know. I thought you’d like it.”

  He holds his hand out like he’s asking me to listen, to understand, but his words sound pretty damn arrogant to my ears.

  “This is not what I signed up for, Genevieve. I wanted to give this life with you a shot because I thought we could make it work together, that we had common goals. I don’t want a housewife with no ambition of her own. I want you to want more for yourself than just cleaning baseboards and baking challah. I’d be much happier grabbing a burger on the way home and knowing that you were here studying than…this…”

  My temper flares.

  This?

  Okay, so it’s not science, so it’s not schoolwork. It’s fucking life! More specifically, it’s our life, and I don’t appreciate the way he’s brushing it off like it isn’t important.

  “You sure don’t mind me acting like a wife in other ways,” I accuse. My throat tightens and burns with the tears I refuse to let fall. I will not cry my way through this argument.

  He reaches his hands out to hold me, but I brush them off. He follows me across the kitchen, standing behind me at the stove as I snap every burner off and slam the oven door open, yanking out the chicken.

  “Gen, it’s not like that. Don’t—”

  I whirl around, almost in his arms, but the closeness feels infuriating instead of calming. I push him back and grip the counter with both hands, trying to stabilize myself.

  “I don’t understand you, Adam. You say you want us both to be happy in this relationship. So why are you trying to ruin things? I cooked all of this because I wanted to make you happy. I want to spend time with you and talk and eat. You can’t grow marriage in a damn petri dish in your lab! You need to invest time and energy into it. You need to come home, and the home has to be…it has to be a place worth coming back to!”

  “Okay.” He blinks a few times, like he’s trying to process what I just said, but he doesn’t look convinced. In fact he looks mostly confused.

  “I just wanted you to be happy.” The words come out wispy, and so tragic I’m embarrassed for myself.

  “I am happy. I really am, Genevieve. I never thought I’d be this lucky, to be with someone like you. I just want you to put school first.” Adam moves toward me again, and this time his hand catches my waist and pulls me so close that my nose is buried in his chest. I inhale the smell of him and can’t help but soften a little. “We’re doing good. I just… I don’t want to lose that. I don’t want us to have nothing to talk about because you just gave up on everything you had going for yourself. For me.”

  I hook my finger under his collar, flipping the edge out and flattening the crease with the flat of my palm.

  “Okay. I just don’t know if school is exactly what I want. I don’t think I’m cut out for it. I barely enjoy it. This, cooking and feeling useful… I dig that.”

  Adam sucks in a breath through his teeth that sounds like a hiss, and I pull away from him.

  “What?” I demand, and he acts like he can hide what he feels. Like I can’t read the way he crushes his teeth together and grinds them back and forth. He’s aggravated, no matter what he says.

  “I just… Never mind.”

  Frustrated as I might be at him for feeling angry or disappointed, I cannot—cannot—deal with his giving up. Not caring. I’d rather fight than walk away any day, and I need to know that, no matter how differently we feel about things, Adam thinks sticking it out is essential to our relationship, too.

  I grab him by the arm and try to force him to look at me, but he avoids my eyes. I contort my neck, attempting to twist at an angle that will make him face me, and when I succeed, his eyes are burning.

  Good.

  “No. Not never mind. Tell me what’s wrong.”

  “I… Dammit, Genevieve! One of the things I love most about this country is that you can do absolutely anything you want. And I want you to do what makes you happy. But being a housewife? Come on. Is that really what you want? You want to throw away your classes and all you’ve learned to cook me dinner?”

  I dig my fingers into his arm then loosen my hand completely. “Oh, I see.”

  He stares out the window at the scrubby yard we haven’t put any effort into yet.

  “I want you to grow as a person, I want you to—”

  I fold the dishtowel on the edge of the sink in an attempt to contro
l my shaking hands. “You want me to fuck you, and also make sure I’m smart enough for you to take out in public,” I say, my voice stretched thin.

  He stares at me, his face a mask of confusion. “No, that’s not it at all. I didn’t say that.”

  I’ve lost the ability to control my shaking hands and my wild voice, and I don’t give a damn. I unleash it all on him, let him know that I see through this entire “I want you to do better for yourself” thing. I know exactly what Adam is saying and why.

  “You didn’t have to. It’s written all over your face. Five years from now, when you’re a famous scientist, you’d be embarrassed to take me to your colleagues’ houses and have them ask what I do. You don’t want to tell them that I make the best carnitas and give the best head. No, that’s not impressive enough. You need to make sure you can brag that I understand quantum physics, and string theory and whatever other bullshit—”

  The knock on the door interrupts my yelling, and stops my index finger—which is about to slam into Adam’s chest—mid-poke.

  “I’ll get it.”

  He levels me with another look of sheer disappointment, straightens his posture, and walks toward the door. I grip onto the counter to steady myself, the rage-filled blood pounding in my ears.

  “Hey, come on in,” Adam says, his voice flat but polite.

  He steps aside and Whit walks through the door looking like she just stepped out of a 1960s Mod ad. Her hair is parted deeply across her face and then pulled back into a neat nub of a ponytail. Her eye makeup is smoky and her lips—pursed in their signature pout—are highlighted with a tiny bit of gloss. Whit is like a chameleon. Every time I see her, she looks different. Except for that mouth, which naturally droops into a frown—unless Deo is anywhere in the vicinity. They really are perfect for each other.

  “Am I interrupting something? I should have called, but it’s on the way home from work so I took a chance… Sorry?” Whit’s words are low, almost embarrassed.

  “You’re fine, Whit,” I say and wave her over to the kitchen table.

  “You’re sure?” She takes a few cautious steps toward me. “Wow, it smells amazing. Genevieve. Did you make all of this? Greek is my favorite, but—”