Page 40 of Beauty and the Beach
Three hours later, she officially moves into my house.
Holland
The onlysmokinghotpart of my wedding night is Phoenix’s microwave, when I’m so distracted that I put a metal cup in and start a veritable firework display in there.
I swear loudly and open the door, fanning the inside with my hand and then hunting for an oven mitt to pull the cup out, moving as quietly as I can so that Phoenix won’t hear. He’s been in his study for hours, and that’s where I’d like him to stay.
Because it’s weird, looking at him and knowing that this is our first night as a married couple. It doesn’t matter that we’ve known each other for years or that we don’t get along; it’s still weird, and awkward, and uncomfortable. Phoenix Park and I are legally husband and wife.
Even though I was there when it happened, I still can’t quite believe it. He told me to make myself comfortable when I moved in earlier—a transfer that consisted of me, half my closet, my shoes, and my toiletries—but how am I supposed to make myself at home when he’s here?
He seems just as unsettled as I do. I’ve mainly been hiding in my room since I got here earlier, but the two times we have crossed paths, we just stared at each other for a few seconds, our eyes wide, like we’d briefly forgottenthat we live together.
Flying under the radar seems most appealing right now. So I carry the cup to the kitchen sink, rinse it with a low stream of water, and then load it into the dishwasher with gentle, quiet hands.
We’re going to skip the hot chocolate for the night and move on to the heat pack, which I know won’t make the microwave angry. I stick the heavy rice pack in and turn it on for two minutes and thirty seconds, the tension easing out of my body at the low whirring sound.
I don’t think I broke anything.
“Fourth of July isn’t until next week, Amsterdam,” a voice says from behind me, and I jump, whirling around. “So I’d appreciate it if you didn’t burn my house down.”
It’s him, of course. How did he know? Was my electrical storm really that loud?
“Sorry,” I say, because the sparking microwave is 100 percent my fault. “I wasn’t paying attention.”
“What’s this, then?” he says, jerking his chin at where the heat pack spins round and round on the microwave’s rotating plate.
“A rice heat pack,” I tell him.
“It’s summer,” he says, stepping further into the kitchen. He’s still dressed in black slacks and the black, button-down shirt he wore earlier—to our wedding, my brain pipes up. “Not the dead of winter.”
Heat creeps up my neck and into my cheeks. “I like being warm at night,” I say, sounding more defensive than I need to.
“Could have fooled me.” His dark gaze roams over my pajamas, pink silk shorts and top. Then he meets my gaze again. “Just don’t set any fires, please.”
I nod and look firmly back at the microwave.
The one at Nana Lu’s lets out three shrill, agonized beepswhen it’s done cooking, similar to the sound a smoke detector makes when its batteries are running low, but the only thing I hear from Phoenix’s microwave when my heat pack is done is a pleasant chiming sound;a pleasure doing business with youinstead ofhelp me I’m dying.
I hate leaving Nana Lu’s, but when I move back there after Phoenix inherits, I might invest in a new microwave.
I pull my heat pack out and drape it around my shoulders, shoving aside my embarrassment. I keep my chin up, ignore the feeling of my messy bun on top of my head, and pass by him without a word.
I’ve only made it a few steps out of the kitchen and into the hallway when he speaks.
“Get some good sleep tonight,” he says, sounding tired now. “I’m taking you to meet my grandmother at the hospital tomorrow. Some of the rest of the family will probably be there too. We’ll leave at nine-thirty.”
I turn to face him. “I’m going to bed anyway.” Then, casting my gaze over his clothes, I say, “Do you always wear that? I figured you were probably more casual at home, or at least in the evenings. Do you sleep in a suit? Shower in a tux?”
His eyes glint in the dimly lit hallway as he steps closer to me. “Imagining me in the shower, Amsterdam?” he says, raising one eyebrow.
Thenerve.
“Only when I feel like vomiting,” I say sweetly. Then I turn around and continue on to the room I’m staying in, closing the door behind me.
It’s a nice room, with plush carpet and a king-sized bed whose plain white comforter is poofy enough to swallow me whole. There’s no bathroom attached, but there’s one right across the hall, so that’s fine. I flip the lights off and crawlinto bed with the heat pack still around my neck, curling up on my side.
I’m asleep in minutes.
