Page 114 of Beyond the Stroke

All those reminders, but my silly, alcohol-soaked brain doesn’t care.

You need to care, or this is going to hurt a lot more than a bruised knee.

twenty-nine

. . .

RORY

Summer is seated on the kitchen counter wearing an oversized t-shirt that saysI Can’t Make Everyone Happy, I’m Not a Taco. Her bare legs spilling over the marble edge where they dangle against the cabinets below.

“Nice shirt,” I say, handing her the water and two ibuprofen I already grabbed from the bathroom cabinet before lifting the ice pack she’s got settled onto her knee to examine her bruise.

“Wish I could say the same to you.” She gives me a wry smile, her eyes dropping to my abs before making a slow perusal upward.

I’ve never seen her tipsy before, and this version of Summer is dangerous. One minute she’s giggling and stroking my chest, the next she’s glowering at me.

“You’re a problem, Rory.”

I raise a brow, amused. “Oh, yeah? What’d I do this time?”

“You walk around all tall and gorgeous and stupidly nice, and you think it’s no big deal, but it is a big deal! Do you even know what it’s like having to live with you?”

“Just to be clear, you’re mad at me for existing?”

“Yes!” she snaps, pointing at me. “Because I did not sign up for my fake husband to be so—so?—”

“I mean, technically, you did sign up for it.”

Summer groans, dragging a hand down her face. It’s clear, she’s not appreciating my teasing tone.

“I mean, what’s it like walking around like this all the time?” she asks.

“Like what?” I ask, curious where this is going.

“Your abs, Flipper. Your ridiculously fit swimmer’s body. The wholething.”

I swear her eyes drop past the waistband of my shorts.

That’s interesting.

I can’t help the wide grin that pulls across my face. “So, you’ve been looking.”

She makes a face that I’ve never seen before. It’s a combination of annoyed and relaxed. Like she’s bothered by my appearance but also at peace with it.

“I’ve been forced to look. It’s all right there.” She motions to me.

“And if I put a shirt on, you’ll be totally fine? No distractions. No problems.”

“It would help,” she murmurs. “But there’s still your face.”

“What’s wrong with my face?” I run a hand along my jaw, looking for the issue.

“Nothing. That’s the problem.”

I shake my head, holding in a laugh. “You’re going to have to be more specific. If I don’t know the problem, how can I fix it?”

“There’s nothing to fix. That’s the problem, Flipper. You’re gorgeous. Your smile is perfect. And that dimple is obnoxious. It’s always winking at me. Also, those eyes of yours are too mesmerizing.” She drops her head back against the glass cabinet.

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