Page 142 of Beyond the Stroke

I turn to find him standing in the doorway. Edgar is excitedly bouncing at his feet, so Rory picks him up and cuddles him close so Edgar can lick his face.

“Hey, buddy. I missed you, too.”

While Rory’s smiling down at the giddy pug, I take a moment to appreciate how good he looks. He’s dressed in black joggers and a gray hoodie. To top it all off, he’s wearing his blue Carolina Current hat backwards. Those tufts of hair that stick out from beneath his hat are my weakness.

Among other things.

I’d just finished cleaning up for the day.

I’ve been using the walk-in closet as storage for my canvases; using a fan to keep airflow and reduce humidity to help my paintings dry.

Earlier, I’d taken my easel out onto the deck and painted the beach as the sun set. Afterward, I’d turned my attention to the swimmer piece I’m working on.

The swimmer is mid-stroke, rising out of the water as seen from the end of the lane. It’s exactly the way I’d seen Rory that day at practice right before Winnie drove me home from the aquatic center after examining my wrist.

The painting is nothing like the beachscape Coveys I’ve done, and while I’m still working to get the right proportions and shading on his body, it’s been a fun challenge.

Rory sets Edgar down on the floor, his easygoing smile fading into hunger at the sight of me.

“Is that what you paint in?” he asks, voice hoarse.

“Yeah.” My eyes drop down to the worn in, olive green canvas overalls. “When I’m in the house.”

“You expect me to function with you looking like that?”

“Like what?” I ask, eyes narrowing.

I’d been wearing my bikini earlier, but took it off when I slipped into my overalls and neglected to put anything onunderneath. I attempt to adjust the top part of my overalls to cover the side boob I know I’m sporting.

“Like a damn fantasy.” He steps closer, and my body hums in response to his proximity, making me even more aware that I’m not wearing anything underneath these overalls. “Paint-splattered. Messy hair and glasses. And practically falling out of these overalls.”

“I know. I’m a mess. I should go shower.”

He shakes his head, a knowing smirk on his face. “Later.”

It’s a command. Like he’s got a plan and while me showering is on the agenda, it’s not what’s happening now.

“Can I see what you’ve been working on?” Rory asks, moving toward the easel where the painting is.

My entire body tenses. It’s a familiar sensation I’ve come to associate with the thought of showing someone my art.

But I fight against it. Because it’s a step I want to take.

Showing someone my art. No, not someone.Rory.

I move to lift the cover off the swimmer painting, then step back.

Fidgeting with my hands in silence, I watch him take it in.

He blinks. Then turns to me and smiles.

“Summer, this painting is incredible. Your work is incredible. And I’m not just saying that because I’m happy you have a thing for swimmers.”

I laugh at his joke, but really my heart swells with his kind words.

He moves closer toward the canvas. “The detail work on this. You’re extremely talented. I can’t believe you almost gave this up.”

“Thank you. That means a lot.” I move to stand next to him. “I’m working on getting the right shading. I’m used to working with water in my paintings, but the way his face reflects in the pool is different than anything I’ve done before.”

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