Page 21 of Enemies to Lobsters
I nod. That’s do-able. The corners of my mouth turn up thinking about the rowboat, though. Is he serious? I can’t picture myself rowing to shore for anything. Maybe an emergency donut, or a whoopie pie. Being geographically close to Marlow’s whoopie pies won’t be good for me, so having to row across the ocean for one won’t be a bad thing. While I’m thinking about Marlow’s whoopie pies, a little voice whispers in the back of my mind:You’re home.
No, I’m not. I’m keeping a practically haunted lighthouse with a man who hates my guts. My home is in New York. I need to focus on the present, though. “I’ll be up and out before you need to get ready. I don’t want this to be uncomfortable for you—more than it already is, anyway.”
He smiles. “I appreciate that.”
I’m still wearing my wedding dress. Comfort was never on the table for me. I dry my clammy palms on the white fabric. “We should go over the plan for the renovation.” This is my comfort zone. I can talk about logistics, projects, and problem-solving all day long. But don’t make me think about daily life with Ike.
“We can save the business talk for tomorrow,” he says with an incorrigible smirk. “It’s our wedding night.”
His teasing remark lands like a flashbang in the room. I groan, covering my face. “What is wrong with you?”
He doesn’t bother to hide his amusement. “What? It’s true. I should be feeding you cake. Removing your garter—”
“Ike!” I bellow from behind my hands.
“Why is this stuff so embarrassing for you?”
I drop my hands into my lap. “Because this marriage is a business arrangement,” I say with a glare. “I’m not accustomed to talking about garters in a business meeting.”
“You’re going to all the wrong business meetings, then,” he teases, kicking his sock-covered feet onto the coffee table. I want to push them down. “What’s the garter thing about, anyway?” he asks, mostly to himself.
I slump against the back cushion. “It’s the thing the bride wears on her leg. The groom pulls it off and throws it—”
“I know, but whatisit?” He scratches his short beard. “Why is that something we do as civilized people?”
I’ve never wondered about that. Thoughts of weddings make me tense, so I tend to avoid them in general. Now Stevie’s voice is in my head, demanding that I relax. While I think about garters I let myself sink deeper into the couch. My grandmother has excellent taste in furniture, at least. This thing is cozy. I cross my ankles, propping my feet on the coffee table not far from Ike’s. I am the picture of relaxation. I’m not thinking at all about the smell of his manipulative cologne.
“Garters are meant to hold up socks,” I state awkwardly, and with no follow up.Yes. Great work, Diana. You aresorelaxed.
While I’m dying inside over my off-handed garter factoid, Ike slides his phone out of his pocket and taps something into the screen. “Okay, here we go. Google says it comes from a Medieval superstition that said taking a piece of the bride’s clothing was good luck—” His eyes go wide and he puts his phone face down on his leg. “I’ll let you Google it.” He clears his throat, shifting in his seat.
My instincts make me tighten my hands against my thighs, like Ike is going to reach under my dress at any moment to remove my nonexistent garter. The mental image makes the room feel hot. I feel his eyes on me.
“I’m not going for your garter, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“I’m not,” I say, even as my hands tighten.
“Liar.”
A burst of embarrassed laughter escapes before I can stop it. I will my fingers to relax against my leg. I need to calm down. Safety parameters would help. “Maybe we ought to have some boundaries in place, though, since this marriage is anything but traditional.”
Ike yawns. “Okay. Shoot.”
“You want me to start?” I recross my ankles on the coffee table while I think. “Okay, number one. This is a business agreement more than a traditional marriage. Professional conduct would be my preference.”
“I love when you talk dirty.”
“Ike.” The man makes my blood boil.
“Sorry, sorry.” His crooked grin does not match the words coming out of his mouth. “Continue.”
I sigh, exasperated. “Comments like that are going to make this harder than it needs to be.”
“Last one. I promise.” He puts a hand on my shoulder that I think is meant to reassure me, but he yanks it away quickly. “What other boundaries would you like to have in place?”
“Uh, that one. A physical boundary.” I don't want to elaborate. This should be self-explanatory.
“What do you mean?” His tone is way too innocent, and his puppy dog eyes aren’t fooling me.
