Limits (13 page)

“I think—and forgive me for saying so—but I think you should give your sister a little more credit. She’s stronger and way more capable than you think,” I say. He stares at me, all traces of that attempted smile gone. “It was good talking to you, Cohen. I’m sure I’ll be seeing you around a lot more. I think it’s time Genevieve and I took off though.”

We shake hands, and he definitely tries to bring the pain. When we’re done attempting to crush each other’s fingers, I go to find Genevieve.

On the drive home, she’s smiling and talking about how well it went. And it did. Better than we could have expected, even. But something was off, something unexpected.

It wasn’t just the word
fiancée
being said out loud.

When Cohen approached me, it all clicked into place, and I realized that Genevieve was right. Her family barely knows her. They have no idea what this girl is capable of doing with her life, how incredible she is.

They don’t have a clue about even a fraction of the remarkable things that make Genevieve so damn amazing. And that make me so proud to call her my fiancée.

After the partially disastrous dinner at her family’s, things roll along so quickly, it’s easy to half forget most of the lies we told for the sake of smoothing things over. But we’re getting invited over more and more often, and Genevieve’s bare hand is becoming more conspicuous. I need to put a ring on it. And fast.

“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 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 my office on five-inch heels for our tutoring session, and I can’t lie: I’ve devoted a fair amount of shower time to imagining her naked.

But I never thought I had a shot with her. A girl as gorgeous and smart as Genevieve could have her pick of guys, and I doubted I’d make any short lists. And now I’d somehow made the final list.

I’m actually the only name on the final list.

And I should be thrilled.

But it all feels like a sham I don’t deserve.

“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 this 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 when 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.

“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?”

“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 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 in at 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 dates, and she won’t feel underdressed. “You look great.”

“Oh.” She glances down at the dress she’s wearing, 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, 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 doorway 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, 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 all I have to worry about 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 pawn shop.

They aren’t worth a ton, but the pawn guy I deal with when things get slim knows the market for geeks is a good one in this area. I walk out with enough to get a respectable ring for Genevieve.

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 from. 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 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.

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 pocket, 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 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 a small velvet pad with jewelry on it out 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 look at 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, watered color that makes me think of the way Genevieve’s eyes look when she’s happiest and the velvety gray of her irises seems to soften. Its sparkles are intensified by a ring 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 pawn shop for my microscopes. Down to the dollar. “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 asking what the traffic is like or how the weather is.

Instead of stumbling over what I want to say, 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 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.”