Page 150 of Beyond the Stroke

“It’s not personal space,” I admit.

“Oh, really?” His brows, teasing, but knowing.

I trace his collarbone, his shoulder, the curve of his arm.

“It’s physical touch.” My throat bobs as I swallow.

He’s quiet for a moment.

“I know, Wildflower.”

He threads his fingers through mine, holding our hands against his chest where the mermaid and dolphin are painted.

“You do?” I ask, surprised. But I shouldn’t be. Rory sees me.

“You lean into me, even when you act like I’m annoying you. You linger when we hug. And every night, you sleep with your foot touching mine.”

“But I put up the pillow wall.”

“Your foot found a workaround.” He grins. “I’m not mad about it. I like you touching me.”

His words almost undo me. All the moments that used to make me feel like too much—too clingy, too desperate—feel tender now. Safe. The shame I carried from my ex’s words fades under Rory’s hands. The way he draws lazy circles on my skin like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“I’m still trying to believe someone could want all of me,” I whisper.

His hand stills. Then he pulls me in, kissing me softly. “I do.”

It would be so easy to lose myself in him again, but I remember I have something to show him.

Reluctant to leave the safety of his arms, I sit up and tug on his hand. “Come with me. I want to show you something.”

A lazy grin appears on his face. “I’ll follow you anywhere.”

“Stop being such a cheese ball.”

We walk into the bedroom, and I motion toward the newly framed painting now hanging on the wall.

“I figured it deserved a proper frame. And a better resting place than the dresser.”

“It’s perfect.” He smiles, wrapping his warms around me from behind and pressing a kiss to my cheek. “You know your stuff. Thank you for framing it.”

“It was nothing. I saw the frame while I was walking the dogs.” But I can’t help the flutter of pride in my chest when I turn to see his expression. How he looks at the art like it matters. Then, when our eyes connect, likeImatter.

“Did they have a second frame?” he asks.

“I don’t think so. Why?”

“Just a sec.”

He releases me and disappears, only to return a moment later with a package wrapped in brown paper. When he unwraps it, my breath catches.

It’s the Covey that was auctioned off at The Golden Lane Project gala.

“How did you get that?” I ask, stepping closer. I know every brushstroke, but seeing it in Rory’s hands, it feels different.

“I asked Vivi to call in an anonymous bid.”

“Why?” I whisper.

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