Page 136 of Beyond the Stroke

Summer

How was practice?

Brutal. I think I left a piece of my soul in lane four.

I’m on break now. You want to meet up for a late breakfast?

Summer

Yes! I’m starving.

See you in a few.

Summer walks into the open-air diner in a bright pink sundress with the breeze tossing strands of her wavy blonde hair around her face. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to the feeling I get when she walks in a room. The quiver of delirious contentment I get when our eyes meet. The way my brain slows its usually chaotic pace.

That’s her.

After last night, I’m even more excited to see her. To bask in the new stage of our relationship. I don’t know exactly what that stage is, but I know I want to go deeper with Summer. I want it all.

I stand to greet her, wrapping my arms around her upper back to pull her close to me.

“Hi.” I smile at her like a school boy with a crush.

“Hi.” She smiles back, her arms wrapping underneath my arms until her hands reach my shoulders.

With a quick kiss to her temple, I release her. I know part of Summer’s issue with her ex was him showing her off in public but not wanting her in private, so that makes me uncertain on where she is with PDA. Like if eating her pussy last night means I can hold her hand in public now.

Instead of taking the seat across from me, she sits down on the bench next to me.

“One orgasm and we’re sitting on the same side of the table?” I tease, remembering how she told me we would never be a couple who sits on the same side of the table at restaurants.

She lifts a brow. “Please. I’m just avoiding the sun glare.”

I thought I was on the sunnier side but maybe the sun shifted. I glance across the table at the shady side I’d reserved for her. Still plenty of shade.

“Do you want me to move to the other side?” I ask as she peruses the menu.

Under the table, her knee brushes against mine.

“No.”

The waiter stops by to take our order. I don’t recognize him, so he must be new here. His nametag reads Justin.

“Steak and eggs, please.” Summer closes her menu.

“How would you like the steak cooked?” he asks.

“Medium rare.”

He nods, hesitantly scanning the digital menu before pressing a button.

“And the eggs?”

“Over easy, please,” Summer replies.

Another frantic perusal of the screen to find the selection.

He collects Summer’s menu and tucks it beneath his ordering device, then looks at me.

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