Limits (17 page)

Cohen, Maren, Deo, Whit, Cece, and Enzo crowd into our doorway and living room.

“Let me carry you over the threshold!” Deo yells. Whit is in his arms, screaming and laughing as she pounds on his chest.

“You only do that when it’s
your
house, idiot,” she says, but she kisses him anyway.

Damn it. I didn’t carry Gen over the threshold. Maybe she’s not into old fashioned crap like that? I look at her, and she has her eyes trained on Whit and Deo. The look on her face makes jealousy flare up in me. I wish she never told me Deo had been her crush since childhood. I wish he wasn’t so damn romantic without even seeming like he was trying. I wish I had thought to carry her—my wife—over the damn threshold. 

“Holy shit, this place is small as hell,” Enzo says, smiling a cocky smile as he runs his finger along a dusty windowsill and shakes his head. “Will you both fit?”

“Shut up.” Cece smacks his arm. “It’s their first place. It’s going to be amazing, so stop being an asshole about it, Enzo. Whit, Maren, Gen, come with me. We’re running to Target and Lowes. You have those gift cards, baby sister?”

Genevieve nods, looking at me like she’s asking permission.

For what?

“It’s your place, too, Gennie! You and Adam both need things. Like lamps. And sheets. And curtains. And laundry baskets.” Cece rolls her eyes and shakes her head. “No one had time for gifts, but that was actually cool, because now you get to pick up everything you need right from the store instead of finding room for ten blenders and a few Foreman grills. But we need to go!”

Cohen jerks a thumb towards the living room/dining room window, and I see a Rodriguez moving truck parked outside. “I got the load of furniture Mom and Dad gave you guys. Though I’m not sure it will all fit in here.”

“Did they go with the king bed?” Maren asks, putting her arm around Cohen’s waist and kissing his neck like it’s no big thing.

Funny how Genevieve and I are the newlyweds in the room, but the couples who’ve been here half the time have gotten twice as much action.

Gen goes to the car and grabs her purse, then runs back in to pull me aside for a minute. “Um, what do you like?” she asks.

“Like?” I have no clue what she’s asking.

“You know. Colors? Patterns? Do you like modern? Or are you more traditional?” Her eyebrows furrow low over her eyes, and she looks so adorably worried, it throws me for a second.

“My dorm room had a navy blue comforter and one poster of Einstein. I’m not really good with decorating and stuff.” I drop my voice. “But I like you. I like how you think, and I like how your mind works. So you get what you like, and I’ll just be happy I didn’t have to go to the store with four strong, scary women.”

She stands on her toes and presses her lips to mine, slowly, letting the kiss linger. My blood runs hot, like an acid continuously burning under my skin. The room recedes fast, and I put a hand on the small of her back, tugging her closer, ready to forget—

“So, about the store?” Cece’s loud voice breaks the spell, and I pull back to see three guys and Cece glaring at me like I’m the big bad wolf and I’ve got Red in my arms.

I want to say,
I’m her husband, damnit. I’ll kiss her when and how I please.

But there’s tempting fate, and then there’s just asking for a world class
beat down. I make due with the knowledge that, when everyone else leaves, it will just be me and Genevieve, alone together. All night.

As fast as the territorial race of testosterone pulsed through me, it fizzles away, replaced by a nervousness I shouldn’t feel. I’m not a virgin. Neither is she. We know each other. We like each other. I can’t look at her without imagining a million things I shouldn’t be thinking, even if I am married to her.

“You okay man?” Enzo asks like he hopes the answer is ‘no.’ “You look a little pale.”

We all watch the girls leave, then six cold, calculated male eyes turn back on me. “I’m cool,” I say just as a bead of sweat runs off my forehead and down my face. “I’m ready to get all moved in.”

Cohen and Enzo stalk over to me, with Deo flanking the rear.

“Look, man,” Enzo says between gritted teeth. “You seem nice enough, I guess. But something about this whole scheme doesn’t sit right. I don’t know why Gen had to marry you so quick. She swears she’s not pregnant. I’m gonna say this one time. You lay a finger on her, you make her cry, you
look at her
the wrong way, and you’ll be getting shipped back to Israel in a fucking body bag. Got me, bro?”

Cohen and Deo snarl for emphasis. I grit my teeth back.

“I would never hurt a hair on Genevieve’s head. I’m her husband. It’s my place to protect her, provide for her. I don’t take that lightly.” I stand straighter and bristle.

“Provide?” Cohen looks around with one eyebrow raised and every flaw in the dismal room intensifies. “You’re off to a great start. Let’s get moving before the girls get back and scream at us for slacking.”

I feel like I just got roughed up by the neighborhood bullies and called out by my rabbi all at once. The guys were nice enough when I was just Genevieve’s tutor/fiancé. Now that I’m officially one of the family, things have changed. And I’d be more pissed, except I can’t shake the feeling that maybe this is exactly what I deserve. Maybe I should have talked to myself like they just talked to me before I trapped Genevieve in this piss poor excuse for an apartment while I scramble to make my degree into something that matters.

I walk out to the truck and accept the fact that I’m going to be lifting more than the other guys. Every time a piece of furniture gets dropped on a toe, it’s one of mine. Every time there’s a bulky piece to lift or a crappy position to be in, I’m the one who deals with it. Which is fine by me. It’s not much, but I’ll do what I can to prove I’m not just some asshole who stole their little sister away for his own dickish reasons.

Even if that’s exactly what I am.

The furniture is high end, so nice it makes this dingy place look even worse. The girls make it home as we finish putting the bed together. Nothing’s ever looked as inviting as the cushy mattress Genevieve’s parents gave us, but every time I so much as look at the bed, every male in the room glowers like they all know the thoughts going through my head.

Which isn’t much of a stretch. From the way Enzo snuck off with his date at the wedding to the way Cohen and Deo are around Maren and Whit, I have no doubt that whatever they imagine is going on in my head is probably ten times raunchier than anything I could possibly be thinking of.

“We’re here! We’re here! Grab a paint roller and a tarp!” Cece is marching in, telling her brothers to go get drop cloths and cover the furniture.

“Painting?” Enzo moans. “We carried all this shit in. How ‘bout a break?”

Cece shoves a bag at him. “Tacos from Los Cincos Puntos. You can thank me by painting that damn wall while you eat.”

“Unbelievable,” Enzo mutters, but that’s the end of his tirade. After that he stuffs a taco in his mouth and snatches a paint roller from a pile on the floor.

Genevieve dashes through the door, completely hidden by a huge mound of bags, and flies into my arms. I take the bags from her, kiss her softly, then pull away. “Wow. That’s a ton of stuff.”

“Um, that’s, like, a quarter of what we bought.” She shrugs when I give her a nervous look. “I got kind of carried away. And we do need a ton of stuff. Right?”

I nod. “Yeah. Look, I’m not sure if we’re allowed to paint in here.”

She rolls her eyes and shakes me back and forth by the shirt collar. “Your PhD program could take another
year
to finish, and then what if they offer you a full time position? We may be here for a while, and I’m not about to live in a dingy white place. Plus, I read the housing guide they gave us. It’s fine as long as you paint it back to white when you leave.” She pulls my face down and kisses me. “Don’t you like color?”

I look up and see that “color” means red. Bright, in-your-face, deep red. “Red?” I say, my eyes squinting at the color blistering the walls. “Don’t you think that might make the room look small?”

She stiffens, coming down flat on her feet. “I thought you said you would be fine with what I picked.”

“I just never thought you were getting paint. I thought, you know, throw pillows and stuff.” I take her by the shoulders. “It’s just really bold. That’s all.”

She looks around, and I notice Cohen and Enzo staring at us over their tacos, eyes narrowed. Her voice drops. “You know what, Adam? It
is
bold. So is your wife.” She grabs a paintbrush from one of the million bags on the floor and presses it in my hand. “I guess next time you should come to the store if you’re going to hate what I buy. Or, you know, name a color when I ask.”

Cohen saunters over. I’m sure our conversation was quiet enough that he didn’t hear, but the smirk on his face lets me know he probably got the gist based on the plummeting temperature in my corner. He thrusts a paper bag at me.

“Sorry man. Only vegetarian tacos left.” He snickers as he walks away and I wonder if my night can get any shittier.

Then I remember my wife and I will be sharing a bed. In our new place. Alone.

I glare at the paintbrush and vegetarian tacos, wondering what the hell I got myself into.

I grit my teeth through the next few hours of painting, picture hanging, furniture setup, and general cleaning. I try not to show how pissed I am when Genevieve’s brothers push me to the side, over and over again, so they can take over  jobs I’m perfectly capable of doing.

I can handle a damn drill.

I use more complicated tools in the lab every single day. They’re pretending they need to step in because they want me to feel like a useless asshole. And it seems like Genevieve looks up and right at me every time I get condescended to by them.

I should point out that the new blinds didn’t fit the window because Cohen didn’t bother to top mount the brackets. I should mention that the dining room table legs were screwed on backwards by Enzo, who was too busy telling me how to use the stud finder I was already using with no problem to realize what he was doing wrong.

But I don’t, because I’m desperate to keep the peace with Genevieve. The hours tick by so slowly, I’m positive time is actually moving backward. But, finally, the last tile is scrubbed, the last floorboard is wiped down, the last dish is put away, and our guests have all filed out.

Genevieve and I are left standing in our own place, which has been totally transformed.

And I’m happy about it. She deserves an amazing place to live in.

I just wanted to be the one who hung the blinds for her, who put the table together. I wanted to be one who made this place a home for her.

“It looks great in here,” I say, shoving my hands in my pockets.

“Are you being sarcastic?” She drops onto the brown leather loveseat we could have never afforded on our own. She leans her head back and closes her eyes. “Because I’m too tired to figure out what you’re pouting about now.”

“I’m not being sarcastic at all.” I’m trying hard as hell to choose my words slowly, not say anything that will be an
igniter to this whole crazy situation. “And I have no clue why you’d think I’m pouting.”

“You’ve been in a shitty mood since everyone showed up to help. Look, I’m sorry about the red paint—”

“Stop,” I say, sitting on the edge of the walnut coffee table that probably costs half my tuition for the year. “The red looks fine. I don’t want to fight about paint. Or some look you think I have on my face. Because I’m nothing but grateful for your family’s help tonight.” I reach out and put one hand on her knee.

It’s a little weird to see Genevieve in cut-off shorts and a tank top. She’s usually very dressed up, but I love this low-key look on her. It’s beyond sexy, and I’ve had to resist the urge to drag her into our room and show her just how much I like it a couple dozen times tonight.

“You didn’t seem like it,” she says, still looking up at the ceiling.

I stand up and head to the bathroom, getting the Eros lotion Marigold gave me out of the cabinet. She’s still staring at the ceiling when I come back to the living room.

I pull her foot onto my lap, and she jerks her head up, but I ignore the look of shock on her face and act like I’m doing the most natural thing in the world.

“I’m sorry. Maybe I’m just tired. It’s been a long few days.” Her foot is ridiculously small. I pour some lotion on my palms, and the heady, spicy aroma fills the apartment. I run my thumbs along her arches, and she bites her bottom lip and lets out a strangled moan. “Good?”

“So...damn...Adam,” she gasps as I rub harder, watching her face contort as she pushes her foot harder into my hands.

I rub until she’s gone slack on the couch. Then I grab the other foot, and she squirms back on the cushions and slowly slides back down until she’s half hanging off the edge. I rub until she sits up, looking at me like she wants to say something.

“Are you—”

I start to ask a question. But I don’t remember what, because she’s suddenly straddling my lap, her arms around my neck, her body pressed soft against me, her mouth fierce on mine.