Page 116 of Beyond the Stroke

“Get some sleep.”

She nods, her eyes closing, and I click off the light before settling under the covers on my side.

Now that Summer is home next to me, I can sleep.

thirty

. . .

SUMMER

When I wake up, my mouth is dry and my head feels like someone shook it like a snow globe. Delighting in thrashing it about just to see tiny pieces of white plastic flutter to the bottom.

Slowly, my eyes open to find I’m sprawled horizontally across my bed.

Scratch that. Rory’s bed. It’s technically his and I’m just crashing in it.

His California King is the size of a small island, yet I managed to take up the entire thing last night.

Either I shifted into this position after he left, or he never slept here at all. I’m not certain because it takes me a moment to piece together everything that happened last night.

Ladies’ night. Too many drinks.

Bumping my knee and Rory leaning against the kitchen counter, shirtless and smiling.

The details of it all are fuzzy. I don’t remember exactly what I said, but from the way my heart starts racing with hangxiety—the anxiety of being hung over due to uncertainty of one’sactions from the night before—I’ve got an inkling it was more than I’d ever planned on divulging.

My fingertips trace over my dry, puffy lips and I get the vague sense that they were used for more than just spilling secrets.

My stomach clenches as the memory crashes in.

Oh god. I kissed Rory.

I close my eyes and recall the moment his lips were pressed to mine. My tongue exploring his mouth as I held him to me, my limbs wrapped around his body like I was holding on for dear life.

And it was even better than I’d remembered from the courthouse. And the kiss I’d been thinking about at the bar all night.

Damn it. And damn that tequila.

“Morning, Wildflower.”

My heart leaps to my throat as I whip my head up to find Rory leaning against the doorframe to the bathroom.

Keeping my aching head in mind, I slowly lift to a seated position on the bed and turn to face him.

I hadn’t heard him but it’s clear he just got out of the shower. His hair is damp and his naked torso is brilliantly displayed with only a white cotton towel wrapped low on his waist. My eyes take in every inch of his bare skin. And there are lots of inches.

Rory’s standing there shirtless, looking like a fucking thirst trap and it sends a spike of irritation into my blood. If he wasn’t so damn gorgeous and flaunting himself all the time then I wouldn’t have the very complicated issue of wanting him.

When my gaze finally reaches Rory’s, he pins me with an infuriatingly knowing look in his eyes.

I’m so screwed.

“How are you feeling this morning?” he asks.

“Good.” It’s a stretch but telling him I’m anxious makes the situation even more difficult. “How was practice?”

“Hard, but it felt good to push myself.”

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