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That’s what one’s twenties are for.
Thankfully, I don’t have time to dwell on this much, as Marcus and I spend nearly every minute of our vacation together, both with my grandparents and on our own. On Friday night, we go to the movies after dinner; the following morning, we return to the beach and stay there until lunch, alternately swimming, strolling along the water, and working on our laptops. During that time, I finish my novella edits and start toying with the opening lines of my super-secret project while Marcus zooms through Excel spreadsheets with what looks like a hundred tabs—financial models from his analysts, he explains.
It’s nice to be working side by side with him, being productive while still enjoying each other’s company. In a way, Kendall was right. As different as we are ambition-wise, we share a respect for deadlines and obligations, viewing work as an important part of our lives rather than something unpleasant to avoid.
After the beach, Marcus invites my grandparents out for lunch at a local Italian place—to thank them for their hospitality, he explains—and as much as it pains me to let him pay for all of us, I keep my wallet in my bag to avoid another lecture from Grandma. I console myself with the promise that I will pay him back, and I further ease my conscience by ordering the cheapest item on the menu.
When the meal is done, all four of us go for a walk in one of the local parks, and I again marvel at how well Marcus is getting along with my family. As we stroll along the Intracoastal, he chats with my grandparents as if he’s known them forever—all the while holding my hand in an unmistakably possessive grip.
Mine, his gesture proclaims to all who look at me. This woman is mine. And in case they don’t get the message, he directs a glare at any male jogger or bicyclist who smiles at me—which many do, since people in this area are quite friendly. He was doing the same thing when we were on the beach, but it was more understandable there, as I was wearing only a bikini. Here, though, I’m dressed in a very basic outfit of a T-shirt and jean shorts, and his unconcealed jealousy is both flattering and ridiculous. He’s acting as if I’m so beautiful he has to beat off other men with a stick, when in reality, he’s the one drawing all the female eyes.
With his tall, hard-muscled body, boldly masculine features, and the air of power that clings to him like an expensive cologne, he’s the kind of man women of all ages dream about—and secretly masturbate to.
My grandmother notices it too, both his possessiveness and the way other women eye him like candy. “I have to say, your boyfriend is completely obsessed with you,” she says as I help her set the table for dinner that evening. “Even while talking to us, he kept watching you like he was afraid someone might steal you. And all his focus was on you. Zero attention to that blond hussy who was all but stripping on the park bench in front of us. The jogger who said hello to you, though…” She lets out a low whistle. “The poor guy’s lucky Marcus didn’t punch him.”
“Grandma, please.” I feel a blush creeping up my face again. “You’re exaggerating.” I’m reasonably certain Marcus wouldn’t punch a guy just for saying hello to me. He’s not that territorial.
Is he?
“No, I’m telling you, sweetheart. What is it you young people say? He has the hots for you? No, that’s not quite right—though he clearly has that too.” Setting down the salt shaker, she winks at me, and I almost die of mortification because there’s only one thing she could be referring to: the sounds coming from our bedroom at night.
I do my best to stay quiet, but Marcus makes it impossible. By the fourth or fifth orgasm, I lose all sense of time and place—and my grandparents must’ve noticed.
Grandma bursts out laughing. “Oh, you should see the look on your face right now. Do you think your grandfather and I haven’t had fun times of our own? I’m happy for you, sweetheart—for both of you. But especially you, as it’s always harder for a woman.”
Oh my God. Kill me now. Like, literally right now. I do not want to picture my grandparents having “fun times”—and I definitely don’t want to discuss my sex life with Marcus with my grandmother. It was one thing for her to have the birds-bees-and-contraceptives talk with me when my period started at age twelve, but this? My orgasmic capacity is not a topic for pre-dinner conversation—even if said capacity has grown tremendously since I met Marcus.
“All right, all right, I will zip it,” Grandma says when I hide my tomato-red face by diligently scrubbing at a barely-there spot on the tablecloth with a wet paper towel. “You can—”
