Chapter Seven

Adam

After the partially disastrous dinner with her family, it’s easy to half forget most of the lies we told for the sake of smoothing things over. But I can’t let go of the fact that we don’t know enough about each other, that our web of lies will catch up with us eventually and spell trouble.

I can’t let that happen.

“Just three more sets,” I coax.

Genevieve flops back on my bed and pounds the mattress with her fists. “No!”

“Gen, please. Two more,” I bargain.

“Fine,” she snarls, popping back up. “You know, I got a C minus on my last trig quiz, and I still can’t remember the names of all your Aunt Haneen’s kids.”

“And grandkids,” I remind her. “My cousin Shahar just had her third.”

Thanks, Sha. Your freakish fertility means that every time I go home I get reminded of how I’m slacking when it comes to my career and starting that big Jewish family.

“Your cousin has kids already?” Gen asks. “I thought your oldest cousin was twenty-two.”

“No, my oldest cousin is Yael, and she’s thirty-two. But Shahar is only twenty-five. She’s married to a rabbi, so they’re all about expanding the tribe.” I try to make a joke, but Genevieve’s furrowed brow lets me know she didn’t even catch it.

“Okay, wait, Shahar and Yael are sisters?” she says as she tries to peek at the flashcards on the bed.

“No, Shahar and Yael’s mothers are sisters,” I remind her. “Aunt Haneen’s kids are Shahar, Noam, Amit, and Aviya. Aunt Dalia’s kids are—”

“Wait. Wait a minute,” Genevieve says, putting her hand up. She grabs a pad and pen and starts to jot. “Okay. Aunt Haneen has Shahar, Noam…and Ori?”

“No, it’s—”

“Don’t tell me!” she cuts in. She closes her eyes and presses her hand to her forehead. “I’ve got it. You just said it. Aviya!” she exclaims, then shakes her head. “Okay, that’s Haneen’s other girl, but who’s the other boy? Noam and…Yosef?” she guesses, looking at me through one squinted eye.

I grimace.

“Ido?”

“That’s Shahar’s middle son, who’s named after my great-grandfather on my mother’s side.”

I intended for that tidbit to be helpful, but it only serves to fluster Gen even more. The notebook flies past my head and hits the wall behind me. Gen buries her face in her hands to muffle her frustrated scream.

“Gen?” I put down the index cards and hold a hand out, slowly, just touching her shoulder. “It’s Elyakim.”

She opens her fingers so she can see through the spaces between them. “What?”

“Aunt Haneen’s other son is Elyakim. But you were probably confused because we call him Eli. Actually we call him MooMoo—which he hates—and we tried to stop, but we’ve been doing it forever. I could explain, but it’s a long, weird story about the first time he saw a cow in a petting zoo and—never mind. It’s a pointless story.” I wind down, because Gen’s eyes are getting wider and wider the more I talk, and it’s making me pretty nervous.

“Adam, I can’t do this,” she says in a shaky voice.

“Do what?” I do my best to ignore the icy clench of worry in the pit of my stomach when I try to imagine what it is, exactly, that Gen can’t do.

“I will never remember all these lists, all these dates and random facts.” She gestures to my index cards, her eyes welling up instantly. I’ve seen this exact look on her face before, most recently when she was trying to cram for that damn trig quiz she didn’t exactly ace. I was supposed to be helping her, but I’ve been so overwhelmed lately. We’ve needed to move quickly to get ready for this wedding and to absorb all the necessary information about each other’s lives and families. It’s been beyond stressful. “You don’t even have pictures to go along with the names.”

“My aunts have all the family photos,” I explain lamely.

She scoots a little closer on the bed. “You could tell me stories,” she suggests, her mouth finally shaping into something like a smile. “Like the one about MooMoo. I guarantee I won’t forget Aunt Haneen’s other son’s name now. And if I knew the story behind it, and maybe some stories about your other family members—”

“We don’t have time for stories,” I interrupt. I hate the way her face falls, and I know it’s because my tone was too harsh.

How do I explain that my childhood was spent surrounded by family members who loved me even though I resented every one of them? Do I tell her the story of the time all my aunts showed up at my house to beg my father to take me out of the four chugim—extracurricular activities—he signed me up for to keep him out of his hair for the maximum amount of time, and how, though they were acting on my behalf, I screamed at them that they weren’t my mother? Do I tell her the story of how I stuck both hands into Yael’s bat mitzvah cake, which my aunts slaved over, just because I was jealous she was getting such a huge party when no one had remembered my birthday that year? Do I tell Gen about the time when I was in high school and was supposed to pick up Noam from elementary school, but instead I ditched him to go out with some friends and he was hysterical by the time his father went to find him?

Do I make up funny stories about the times I lashed out, pouted, or sank into depression because I felt like an inconvenience? Do I even attempt to explain what it was like to be at the mercy of a father who didn’t seem to know how to show any affection after my mother died?

The thing is, my past is full of hard memories, and I’m not proud of the person I was then. I love my family deeply, but I always knew I needed to find my own way. Looking back is hard for me. Going back would be almost impossible. In fact, I’d never even think about making the trip back to Israel unless I had made a success of myself. Unless I could prove that I didn’t grow up to be the selfish, angry, entitled asshole I know my family expected based on all those years of crappy behavior.

“I don’t have a photographic memory like you do,” Gen says, flicking an index card with her finger. “I don’t know anything about these people other than the bare facts.”

“But the only thing you need to know is the bare facts,” I point out. “No immigration interviewer is going to ask you about how my cousin got his family nickname. But they will expect you to know his legal name and how we’re related.”

“Don’t you think it would sound more convincing if I knew real life details?” she presses. “I mean, think about how easy it is for you to remember that Cece is my sweet sister who likes to nerd out at college and Lydia is my driven sister who thinks being a lawyer means she can lord it over all the rest of us. Right? What would it be like if you just had to rote memorize their names and birthdays?”

I rub a hand over my face. “It’s not fair that I get a kind of cheat sheet to learn about your family when I would prefer the flashcard method, and you have nothing but flashcards when you’d prefer social networking. I’m sorry about that, Gen. But short of flying you out to Israel for a weekend so we can do a crash course in face-to-face introductions, this is the best I can do.”

“You’d prefer the flashcard method?” She repeats my words slowly, and there’s this tingle in the underused social area of my frontal lobe.

But I’m too stupid to heed the warning.

“Of course. We have no time to spare. Dinners are nice, but cheat sheets are nicer.”

I smile.

She most definitely doesn’t smile back.

“Is my family that irritating to you?” Her words are so quiet I have to lean in to hear. Alarm bells start to go off.

“No. Of course that’s not what I mean at all,” I stutter. “Your family is really nice.” I sound unconvincing even to my own ears, so I decide to switch tactics before I get myself into any more trouble. “We’re lucky we get to do the social bit with your family, actually. Mine is great, but they’re definitely a little unhinged and kind of suffocating. I mean, it’s a good thing you and I won’t ever actually have to make that trip to Israel I lied about at dinner.”

I can see I’ve said something wrong again. Gen’s face crumples.

“You lied about Israel?” she whispers.

“No! I mean, I lied about taking you to meet my family. You don’t have to do that.” I feel like I’ve somehow lit this entire situation on fire and am running in circles, causing more damage with every word, but I can’t stop. “I wouldn’t drag you to meet them.”

“I’d love to see Israel,” she says, her gray eyes trained on my face.

“Okay. It’s kind of boring there,” I tell her, as the bile sloshes in my gut. She looks unconvinced. “And my father is pretty judgmental. He’s not a ball of laughs to be around. He expects greatness out of me, and if I show up in Israel without having made some huge changes to my current situation, I’ll never hear the end of it.”

“Isn’t getting married a huge change?” she asks, and we both go still. She waits for me to say something, but I just gape like a fish out of water until she gets up off the bed and nods. “I see. Getting married to a certain type of girl probably would be, right? A nice, smart Jewish girl with a ton going for her would be impressive. But getting married to someone like me? An almost dropout with no real motivation? I guess that’s not so impressive.”

She grabs her purse and starts stuffing index cards into her bag by the fistful, tearing and creasing them as she goes.

“Gen, wait, no. I didn’t mean that. Not at all. That’s not what I meant,” I say, frantic in a way I’ve never been before.

“It’s fine. Forget I even said anything,” she snaps, heading to the door. “I’m just stressed from all this…studying. I’ll take this all home and memorize it, and I promise I won’t let you down if we get that interview.” She takes a deep breath. “Good-bye, Adam.”

“Wait.” I put my hands out, grip her by the shoulders, and try to pull her closer, but she won’t budge from her spot by the door. “Nothing I said before came out right. You misinterpreted what I said.”

Her smile is small and tight. “Hey, this is how marriages of conveniences work. I’m not an idiot. I was taken off guard for a second, but it’s fine now. Trust me, the more honest we are with each other, the better. I really need to go study for trig now. And try to remember MooMoo’s real name. Moshe?” she guesses.

“Gen, please let me explain—”

“Ah!” She nods. “Eylakim. See, Adam. I told you I won’t let you down.”

She whirls around and leaves before I can tell her that she never could.

…

A few days later Gen is back at my place. She’s agreed to memorize the information I give her about my family on her own, and I’ve agreed to try not to be such an idiot. No matter how many times Gen assures me I did nothing wrong, I can feel a difference between us, a subtle chilliness from her. I guess I should be okay with that. I wanted to keep it clinical didn’t I?

But if I got exactly what I wanted, why do I feel so shitty?

“So, Marigold is going to do all the flowers.” Genevieve sits cross-legged on my bed, chewing on a pen and holding a notebook in her lap. Her hair hangs, silky and black, down around her shoulders, and I realize how badly I want to kiss her.

I want to rip the pen and notebook out of her hands and kiss her, lie on top of her, peel her clothes off, and keep kissing her until she’s hot and wet and moaning my name.

“Adam? Adam!”

Her voice brings me back from my dirty, hot, sexy daydreams.

Which are, embarrassingly, not all that new. Genevieve caught my attention the first day she strolled into the Jewish student meeting on five-inch heels, and I can’t lie—I’ve devoted a fair amount of shower time to imagining her naked.

Now that might be possible. I don’t know. We’ve discussed sex. Maybe after the wedding, just like nice Jewish couples are supposed to do. At this point it’s probably best to stay as far away from physical intimacy as possible. The last thing we need is more confusion about what this relationship is, exactly.

“I’m sorry, uh, you were saying something about the catering?”

She’s pursing those gorgeous lips at me. It’s clearly a sign of annoyance, but there’s a tiny part of me that wants to interpret it as her asking me to kiss her.

“Yes. The catering. I asked the place that catered Cohen and Maren’s engagement shower if they could offer a discount, and they’re happy to give a ten percent employee discount since you’re technically on their payroll, plus the ten percent family discount. That’s twenty percent off!” Her lips curl up in a self-satisfied smile, and she makes a check on her list with a flick of her wrist.

“Great. Is there anything else you need me to do? I did all the paperwork you asked, and I have the housing application completed and submitted.” She’s still smiling that same gorgeous smile, but it doesn’t trick me the way it did even a couple days ago.

Not since she came into the lab and told me—wearing that same wide smile—that peonies were not possible for her bouquet. She was still smiling when the tears started falling, and the smile only fell from her face once I rushed her into my office. She sobbed so long and hard I was ready to sell my soul to the botany department to get those damn flowers for her, but then she brightened back up and told me it would all be okay. That is was just stress getting her down.

“No.” She unfolds her legs, slides the notebook into her backpack, and stands. “That was everything on the list. As long as you’re okay with my having a few Mexican traditions in our ceremony?”

I swallow hard, not missing the edge in her voice. She’s been touchy since the last time we talked, when she assumed I was saying she somehow wasn’t good enough for me to bring home to my family in Israel. I can’t seem to convince her that I never meant that.

And I don’t feel like explaining to her that I’m the one who’s not good enough to go back to Israel and face them. So I’ve decided to be as easygoing as I can and keep my mouth shut as much as possible. It’s not foolproof, but it’s working fairly well so far.

“Of course.”

She explained about the lazo that will bind our wrists and the thirteen gold coins of “earnest money” I’ll pass to her. Which, frankly, were as foreign to me as the traditional Jewish vows and the whole walking around me three times thing she’d be doing.

I go to temple and all that, but I’d only been to a handful of weddings as an adult, most of them pretty secular. Anyway, I hardly ever paid attention. The vows were just the part I had to sit through before I could hit the bar and flirt with some bridesmaids.

“So…great.” She toys with the straps of her backpack and edges toward the door. “I’ve got class until four. Do you want to, um, get dinner? Or something?”

I stand up close to her and fix one of the twisted straps that’s cutting into her shoulder. “Dinner would be great. Would you like me to pick you up?”

“Sure. Yeah. That works.”

She’s so close I can smell the strawberry gum she popped in her mouth the minute she got to my room. The wrapper is still on my desk, and I love that there’s a tiny trace of her left in my room, even if it is just a stupid wrapper.

“I’ll make reservations.”

I want to take her somewhere nice for dinner, somewhere fancy. I’m going to drain my savings anyway, so what’s one more excellent dinner? Luckily, Genevieve always dresses up, and today is no exception, so I can take her somewhere a little more upscale than our usual In-N-Out Burger dates and she won’t feel underdressed.

“You look great,” I say.

“Oh.” She glances down at the dress she’s wearing, which is kind of purple. It’s a really pretty color on her. I should tell her that, but I feel stupid enough for my last blurted compliment. “Thank you. Thanks.”

She leans in, and I do too, but I wind up kissing her cheek and she gives me an awkward hug.

It’s so painful that I think we’re both relieved when she walks away from my room.

“Damn it, damn it, damn it,” I mutter, banging my head against the doorframe of my room. What the hell am I doing? This is the girl who’s going to be my wife in a few short days, and things are getting more awkward by the second. At least when we were hanging out before, there was some nice sexual tension that led to flirting. Now it’s like every word in our conversations trips and tangles, and we can’t even figure out how to say good-bye.

This isn’t my idea of a good beginning for a marriage, even a sham one, and it sure as hell isn’t what Genevieve deserves.

I half wish I had a big list of things to worry about for this wedding, like Genevieve does. I think it’s probably the one reason she hasn’t come to her senses and cut me loose. She doesn’t have a second to form that thought. Luckily, even though my only duty, officially, is making sure my suit is clean, I have a full afternoon of worries ahead of me. I start by pulling two of my older microscopes off the shelf and heading to the pawnshop.

They aren’t worth a ton, but the pawn guy I deal with when things get slim knows the market for geekery is a good one in this area. I walk out with enough to finally go out and get a respectable ring for Genevieve. It’s past time I put a ring on her finger.

The scientist in me wants to get her a moissanite ring. What’s the point of a diamond ring, aesthetically? It’s supposed to shine, sparkle, and wow people with its brilliance. The problem is that diamonds aren’t really the most stunning gems. The flaws in natural diamonds are numerous, and the harvesting methods aren’t ethical. The fact that moissanite is made in a lab actually appeals to me. More control, more quality, a great product made by science.

But scientist aside, I know that Genevieve will not think that way. I look through the cases at three different jewelers’ stores, but I don’t see a damn thing that will work. The thing is, I don’t know what I’m looking for. I just know it’s not what I’m seeing.

Something brings me to a little hippie-looking shop on the outskirts of town. I recognize the name from Genevieve’s wedding list. It’s Deo’s mother’s shop, where we’re getting flowers. I know Genevieve is close to her, though I cringe to think that it’s probably because she spent years imagining the woman as her future mother-in-law. I’m running out of time quickly, and I need help, so I swallow my pride and go in.

The shop is filled with the smell of spices and the soft metallic ringing of bells. A woman with long, wavy hair looks up and smiles, then narrows her eyes and points at me.

“Welcome. Why do I feel like I know you?” She wrinkles her nose, and I feel suddenly, strangely…at home.

“Maybe from Cohen and Maren’s engagement party?” I offer. “I carried—”

“The knishes!” Her smile has the same bend as her son’s, but with more mischief and less cockiness. “They were to die for.” She hops off her stool and comes around the little counter in bare feet. “And now we’re going to be practically family.”

I have no idea why my marrying the little sister of her son’s best friend makes me and her “family,” but there’s something about the way she holds her arms out that makes me feel like a dickhead for even considering not going in for a hug.

“I’m a hugger.” She shrugs and waves me over.

This is strange. Very strange. But I let her wrap her thin arms around me, and I hug the mother of the guy my fiancée might still be in love with.

And it feels…damn good, actually.

She pulls back and her grin is contagious. “Adam, is it?” I nod. “I’m Marigold.”

“Nice to meet you.” I pull my arms back and stick my hands in my pockets, but there’s this whole tingle of general goodness coursing through me, and I’m hopeful Marigold can give me some direction about the ring. “I actually hoped you could help me. Maybe.”

She trains her eyes on me, looking instantly concerned.

“Anything I can do, I’m happy to help.”

“It’s, um…it’s embarrassing because, I really care about Genevieve. And I want to…m-m-marry her. But we did things in a little bit of an unorthodox way. I guess. What I’m trying to say is that I have no ring. And didn’t actually ask her to marry me. Not the way I wanted to. I have money for a ring, but I’ve been to a few places and nothing looked right.”

“That’s because her ring is right here,” Marigold says calmly, going behind the counter.

She pulls out a small velvet pad with jewelry on it and sets it on the glass top. I stare in confusion.

“Wait. Genevieve picked out an engagement ring already?” I ask, totally puzzled as I step forward and look at the ring Marigold holds out.

As soon as I see it, there’s no doubt in my mind. It’s Genevieve’s.

The entire ring is a contradiction. The setting is sleek and modern, but there are soft flourishes and engravings in the metal. There is a large, round purple stone that glistens and shines. It’s a subtle, watery color that makes me think of Genevieve’s eyes when she’s the happiest, and the velvety gray of her irises seems to soften. Its sparkles are intensified by a circle of what looks like diamonds.

“Genevieve didn’t pick this. It picked her. Am I right?” Marigold asks, dropping it into my palm. “The girl who designs these…” She clutches her hands to her heart and shakes her head. “She’s going to be so famous someday. The eye she has for design gives me chills. I bought a few of her pieces when I was in San Francisco, and I asked if I could sell some in the store. This batch came in a week ago. It’s funny, because everyone admires this ring, and asks about it, but no one’s bought it yet. Like they all knew it wasn’t meant for them.”

“Er, sure,” I say uncertainly. I flip the tag on the ring. It’s priced at exactly what I got from the pawnshop for my microscopes. Down to the dollar. Weird. So weird. “This is the price?” I ask, just to be sure I’m not going insane and seeing things.

“Weird, right?” Marigold’s smile makes me feel like she can see inside my head and knows exactly why I’m feeling like this is a little freaky. “The designer forgot to add the tax in. I do it upfront, so that’s the total, with tax. It helps both of us for record keeping.”

“Ah,” I say, pulling out my wallet. “I’m so glad I stopped by.”

“Of course,” she says, taking my money and leaning her arms on the glass. “Adam, can I ask you something?”

“Sure.” I let her take the ring and put it in a small wooden box that she drops in a paper bag.

“What do you see when you look at Genevieve?” She rings up the purchase and writes out a receipt for me, like she’s just asked what the traffic is like or how the weather is.

Instead of stumbling over what I want to say, I find it comes out with surprising ease.

“I see Genevieve as someone who’s incredibly strong, but who has this sweet, sensitive side to her, too. I see someone who doesn’t give herself enough credit. She has amazing potential. I hope I can help her develop that more. I see someone who’s fighting hard—with herself, and her goals, and everything around her. And I see her coming out on top, because she never gives up.”

“I love that.” She hands me the receipt and holds my hand tight. “You deserve her. I know her well and love her like the daughter I never had. And I don’t say this lightly. You absolutely deserve her, Adam.”

Those words rip the air from my lungs, make my knees feel like they’re about to buckle, make my heart beat like mad. I nod, thank her, walk to the door. But I stop before I leave and ask her a nonsensical but amazing question right back.

“What do you see when you see Genevieve?”

She slides the velvet pad back into the display case, takes something out of a drawer, and tosses it my way. I catch a small glass bottle marked “Eros Balm.”

“I see you. And that makes me very happy.” She winks. “Use that wisely. It’s supposed to be a strong aphrodisiac. Try it out and come tell me if it helped you do the feather bed jig. I’m always looking for good customer reviews of new products!”

“Uh, sure.” I rush out of the store, feeling a little shell-shocked. Did that sweet woman seriously just ask me to test out some sexual lubricant and report back to her with the results?

I make it back to my dorm in time to shower and change, and I check the box a thousand times, just to make sure it’s really there. I really bought a ring. I’m really asking Genevieve to commit to me, to this crazy scheme.

Tonight.

By the time I pick her up from class, I feel buzzed and edgy. I had wanted to go to dinner first, but on such short notice it was impossible to get a reservation until later. Now I’m relieved. There’s no way I would have been able to eat with the ring burning a damn hole in my pocket. I drive straight to where I want to go, and she stops her monologue about the girl sitting across from her in British Lit who was painting her toenails during lecture, and looks around.

“Are we at the Getty?” she asks.

I jog to her car door and pull it open, offering her my hand so she can step out.

“Yes.” I pull her toward the elevators, paying for parking before we get on one.

“Adam, what are we doing here? Why are we going to the Getty? I thought we were going to grab dinner?” She tilts her head and looks at me, her brows pressed low. “You’re wearing a tie. You didn’t have class this afternoon. You’re wearing a tie for me.”

Her eyes flutter down and she shakes her head, like she’s putting puzzle pieces together, one by one. She snaps her neck up and her mouth hangs open, about to say something that will ruin the (admittedly lame) plans I tried to make. I shake my head, wanting to say something, anything. Maybe it’s the look on my face, but she puts on a neutral expression, and we walk to the tram in silence.

“It’s gorgeous here.” She squints out the window into the sunset. “The last time I was here, Cece took me. She was coming to hear some architect who was speaking, and I just wandered the grounds forever. It’s one of those afternoons I remember with all this very specific detail.”

“Are you and Cece close?” I ask to make conversation.

Sometimes this all feels so rushed, meeting her family, learning about them all—I’m afraid to ask anything because I’m afraid to add in anything that will hinder me from keeping the bare bones of the facts straight. Flashcards would be so much simpler for me. Adding an emotional, human element to facts just muddles things as far as I’m concerned.

But I do want to know everything about her eventually, and I’m willing to try it on her terms.

“She and I are really close, but I think that may be a Cece thing, you know?”

She tilts her head and smiles, and I nod even though siblings are something I have less than zero knowledge about. I’m not very close to my cousins, and I left my few tight friends back in Israel. I’ve kind of been a loner my entire life.

“Cece is that sibling who’s so laid back, so funny and sweet and comforting. She’s one of those people who, when you spend time with them, make you feel like you’re the most important person in their life. But she has that knack with everyone. I think all four of us might love her best. Even Lydia!”

“Lydia seems wound pretty tightly,” I observe.

Genevieve’s mouth pulls into a frown. “She’s under a lot of pressure at work,” she says, defending her sister. “I know she can come off as harsh, but she puts so much on herself, and it makes her keyed up. I swear, she’s got a really good heart.”

“Of course.”

I realize that I probably shouldn’t talk about Genevieve’s family unless I have something neutral or nice to say. As chaotic as the Rodriguez family seems, I get that they’re fiercely loyal to each other. I admire that. It may be an entirely alien concept to me, but I still recognize that it’s an incredible thing.

The train ascends the hill then stops smoothly. The doors open and Genevieve steps out like she has a destination in mind. Which is fine by me. I figured I’d just pick a pretty spot, get my courage up, and ask. But I’m happy to follow Genevieve’s lead. We walk down the gravel path, leaving the colossal white travertine museum behind us and entering the sprawling gardens.

“It always makes me think of a place Lewis Carroll would have designed.” I brush the back of my palm against the back of hers, and tug her hand into mine.

She stops on a little bridge that overlooks a koi pond. “I agree. It’s like a place that makes believing in magic seem totally logical.”

I don’t say anything, because it’s disconcerting to have someone take the words directly from my brain and speak them out loud.

We keep walking, admiring the grasses and sculpted topiaries, the flowers and trees, the fountains and the formations. We finally come to a small arbor with sweet white blossoms all over it. “I love this place,” she says. “It seems like the perfect place to—”

And I think I might be taking the words directly from her brain in that moment.

Which is why I slide my hand along her cheek and kiss her, mid-sentence.

My lips meet hers, and there’s a blip of a second where she goes stiff and doesn’t kiss me back. But I’m nothing if not determined. I press my mouth against hers with more pressure, moving my other hand up along her jaw. I rub my thumbs along her cheekbones and knot my fingers in her silky hair.

She whimpers and wraps her arms around my neck, her mouth parting slowly. My tongue traces the seam of her lips, and when she opens wider, I lick against her mouth. My brain, so often compartmentalized and controlled, short-circuits at the taste of her. The way she tastes makes me think of the way the air smells before a thunderstorm. It’s exciting, and I want to taste further, see if I can pick up traces of it on her skin.

Every single inch of her skin.

“Adam,” she sighs when she pulls away.

There are people milling around, but no one on this length of path. I don’t know how long that will last, and I don’t want to waste the coiled energy that’s unfurling through me after that kiss. So I drop to one knee.

Maybe she knew. Maybe she figured it out the same second she noticed my tie in the parking garage. But she presses her fingers to her lips like she’s completely shocked. Whether or not she’s faking it, I appreciate that look. It gives me the loophole I need to push my courage through and take the box out.

“Genevieve. I don’t deserve someone as smart and funny and beautiful as you are. I know that. I also know that, although you keep insisting this is a decision that benefits us both, I’m getting the better end of this bargain. You deserve nothing but happiness and love—even though I realize what we’re doing isn’t permanent, I want you to know that I’ll devote myself to living up to the honor of being your temporary husband. Will you agree to be bonded with me?”

I open the box and she gasps, her eyes so wide I can see the spike of every eyelash.

“Is that for me?” she gasps from behind her hand.

I shift on my knee, pretty sure a piece of gravel is dislocating my knee cap. I don’t give a damn. I just want to hear her answer. “Yes. I know this marriage is for convenience, but it’s still the two of us committing ourselves, as friends. There’s no one in this world I’d rather be bonded with than you, Genevieve. Whether you say yes or no to me, it’s yours. But it would make me so damn happy if you’d say yes.”

“Yes. Yes, of course, yes!” Her voice jumps on the back of a shaky laugh.

I stand and pull her left hand to me. I feel like Marigold is leaned over some herbs in her store right now, chuckling like a white witch, because the ring slides on and fits Genevieve’s finger perfectly, like it was made for her.

I’m tempted to ask if she’s seen this ring before, but she holds her hand out in front of her and squeals. “Adam! It’s gorgeous! This ring is absolutely perfect. Where did you find it?” Before I can answer, she takes a picture of it and then pulls me over, kisses me hard on the mouth, and positions her camera out for a shot. “It’s not official ’til it’s online, right?”

“Yes,” I agree, because she’s happy and smiling, and she said “yes” when I was so damn scared she’d come to her senses and say “hell no.” No reason to tell her I don’t do social media or that I think it’s a stupid waste of time. If it’s important to her, I’ll white lie my way to happiness tonight. “Do you want to walk around some more? We have reservations tonight, but they’re not for a while yet. I hope you like steak.”

“Who doesn’t like steak?” She takes my hand and threads our fingers together. The ring turns on her finger and digs sharply into mine, but she’s so happy, I keep my mouth shut.

I realize there are a lot of things I never would have seen myself doing, but I’m more than happy to do them for Genevieve now.

Like ignoring minor pain on my end to enjoy major happiness on hers.

Or splitting a huge order of mashed potatoes—which I think are bland and have the consistency of wallpaper paste—just so I can watch her enjoy them.

Or getting up in front of a restaurant full of people and slow dancing to Ray Charles’s “Come Rain or Come Shine” because it was her parents’ wedding song.

When we get back to the car, Gen is giddy with excitement.

“I guess when you met me, it was just one of those things,” she croons, and every drop of blood exits my head. I press her against my car, my body tight to hers, my hands splayed on either side of her hips. I watch her eyes go wide with raw need. For me.

Or for the me she thinks she knows. The only me I can show her right now, because there’s only so much that’s safe.

It’s either cold, hard facts or fiery sexiness. The middle, the “just right” place, is off-limits.

“Are you happy?” I ask, not sure exactly why.

Will she tell me the truth? What can I do to change things if she isn’t happy?

“I’m with you, aren’t I?” She nibbles her bottom lip.

A brisk pride erupts in me at hearing that. I beat it back down, because hope like that is worse than dangerous—it’s destructive. I can’t make this into what it isn’t.

“Being with me isn’t any kind of recipe for happiness, and you know that.” I dip my head low, bury my nose in her hair, and take a deep breath. The way she smells makes me dizzy with want.

“It is, Adam,” she says, her hands coming up and working through my hair. “I know I ragged on you for your flashcards and rules, but then you do something like this. Something a thousand times more romantic than you had to, just because.” She drags her hands down so her palms are pressed to the sides of my face and her thumbs brush over my cheekbones.

“You know why the flashcards are important though, right?” I press, not sure if I’m treading where I shouldn’t dare.

She sighs. I regret pushing her.

“I know you think you’re doing this right, but there’s so much more to what we want…to what we have together than you could ever fit on a stack of three by five cards.” She tugs my face closer. “You can know where and when I was born down to the inch and the minute. But do you know what it feels like to kiss me just after you put a gorgeous ring on my finger?” she teases, her voice a sexy purr.

“No. I don’t.” I dip my mouth down and run my lips over her neck. She leans back, lets her head fall, and exposes even more sensitive skin to my hungry mouth. “But I think it would be good…research.”

She stops short and pulls away. Her eyes, so bright with excitement a few minutes ago, have clouded over. “Is that what this is?”

“Is that what what is?” I ask, my words fumbling stupidly off my tongue.

“You and me,” she says, hands falling to my shoulders before they slide, palms down, along my chest. “What we’re doing. Is it just some kind of weird social experiment you’re conducting?”

“If this is some weird social experiment I managed to pull off, I’m going to have every anthropology and sociology major in the college begging me to mentor them,” I joke. She laughs, but it’s because she’s polite, not because she thinks I’m funny. It seems like she’s disappointed, and that hurts. Nothing in me wants to disappoint her, not for a single second. “Did I say something wrong?”

Her smile is sad. “Not at all. Sometimes I get caught up in the romance of things, and I forget reality. It’s a bad trait. Bound to make me sad. I’m glad you’re here to cure me of that.”

“I don’t want to cure you of anything,” I protest, but she’s not listening.

She’s opening the door. Pushing me into the driver’s seat. Glancing out the window to make sure no one is watching. In one swift motion, she slides onto my lap and pulls the door shut. The interior of the car is silent, and she’s pressed on top of me.

“Do you have index cards for this?” she asks, her voice husky.

I shake my head. “I think this is one of those times it’s better to experience things. The way you like to.”

“Good.” She sits more snugly on my lap, her body pressed against my embarrassingly raging hard-on. “I guess I can teach you something. Now, close your eyes.”

I don’t even consider disobeying. She kisses my eyelids, a place on my body I never imagined as a central hub for erotic excitement. Obviously creativity isn’t my strong suit.

“If the immigration agent asked me what I kissed like, what would you say?” she asks in a breathless whisper.

“They wouldn’t ask that,” I say automatically. When she stops, I amend my answer. “If they did, I’d say I can’t conclude. That I need to conduct research. So much research.”

She brushes her hot lips lightly over mine.

“Do you think knowing my birth weight matters more than knowing what it feels like to have my mouth pressed to yours?” she asks.

I brush back, and that feather-light exchange is enough to make my blood race.

“No,” I answer, because that’s the truth. “But it’s not up to me,” I explain, lamenting the fact that I can feel her body sag with regret when I say the words.

“How about, right now, we pretend this isn’t about our stupid plan?” she suggests, her lips trembling. “How about we pretend this is…real?”

My heart hammers, my palms go slick with sweat, but I don’t answer. Instead I press my mouth to hers, licking at the seam of her lips until she opens willingly, not like she’s acting—like she’s wanting. Like she’s as desperate for this as I am. She moans, and I slide my hands up her back. She gasps, and I deepen the kiss, letting my tongue tangle with hers as she rocks back and forth in an eager rhythm.

“More,” she pleads.

My hands find their way down the neckline of her dress, my index finger brushing under the lace of her bra.

“More!” she cries, and my hands take full possession, tugging at her tits and rolling her nipples between my thumb and forefinger until they bead up.

For me. Because of me.

Before she can utter the word “more” again, I’m at her mouth, kissing deeply enough to force her moans and sighs directly over my tongue. My fingers bite at her, eager to make her cry out those things that let me know we make sense like this.

Being sexual together is the one way we can circumvent the awkward reality of what we’re doing. When I kiss her, when I taste her, I know her in her most basic form. And I’m vulnerable, too. I allow her into a place I wasn’t sure I was ready to let anyone.

Genevieve Rodriguez is making me a better person. She’s making me feel things, do things, want things I never expected to. She’s making me believe in the possibility of more.

It’s exciting and completely, utterly terrifying all at the same time—and I realize I have to pull back. I have to keep the fact that I might be falling for my best friend to myself. She’s making herself vulnerable for me, because she’s loyal to the core. But she’s also nursing a wicked broken heart, and I have to realize that any attention she shows me is just rebound affection.

Being bonded to her means I take care of her until she’s ready to find the person she freely chooses with her heart, not with strings or special circumstances attached. Logically, that person can’t be me.

I refuse to take advantage of the woman I’m falling in love with.