Page 152 of Beyond the Stroke

“These are all mine.” I swallow thickly. “I painted them.”

I meet his eyes and see the surprise there. But there’s tenderness and adoration, too.

“Summer,” Rory’s voice is soft. “You’re Covey.”

It’s not a question but more him saying it out loud to process.

He moves closer to the paintings lining the floor of the closet and brushes his fingers along the edges.

“Of course you are.”

My heart hammers in my chest. “What does that mean?”

A self-effacing laugh escapes from his lips. “I’ve been quietly obsessed with Covey ever since I found the painting of my house. Not because it was my house, but because of the way it made me feel. Raw and grounded. Like I could breathe a little deeper even when everything else was chaos.” He turns to meet my gaze. “It’s the way I feel when I’m with you.

“It’s obvious now why I had such a strong connection with the painting at the gala. With the Covey artist’s work.” His lips curve into a wide smile. “It’s you.”

I’d thought revealing my secret identity to Rory would be the hardest part, but talking about my art feels even more challenging.

“Your house—this house—was the first one I connected with when I arrived in Coral Cove. I loved how it was charming but not perfect. Right on the beach but not ostentatious. It made me feel welcome.”

Rory sees everything. The vulnerability in my eyes. The way I hold my breath waiting for judgment. And he’s looking at me like my brushstrokes rearranged something in him he didn’t even know was out of place.

“I hope you know this doesn’t change how I see you. It just makes everything make sense.

“Your art is more than a souvenir from a coastal beach town. People love it because it’s real. It’s you in every brushstroke,” he says, his voice low, yet filled with so much sincerity that I feel my chest tighten.

He leans in, brushing his lips against my knuckles, before bringing our hands to his chest, right above his heart. “It’s you. All of you. And I see that now.”

For the first time, it feels good to be known. Not exposed or cornered. Just…seen.

I swallow, my throat tight with emotion. I’ve spent so long hiding parts of myself, letting the world think I was just the carefree girl who lived in a van and painted the world. But Rory doesn’t just see the image I project. He sees the depth behind it. The fears, the longings, the hidden parts I’ve kept locked away. And he doesn’t shy away from any of it.

“I never thought anyone would understand,” I whisper, my voice barely a breath, as if speaking it out loud will make the weight of it all too real.

Rory’s gaze softens, his thumb still gently caressing the tattoo on my wrist. “You don’t have to hide from me, Summer. I’ve always seen more than what’s on the surface.” His smile is soft, almost vulnerable. “You’ve got layers, and I want to know every one of them.”

I feel my breath catch, the weight of his words settling deep inside of me. I know I should say something, but for once, the words feel tangled in my throat. I’m not ready to let him in completely, not yet. But a part of me wants to. Wants him to see it all.

I pull him closer, the fingers of my free hand reaching to tangle in the short hair at the nape of his neck. My lips find his, slow and tentative at first, as though I’m testing the waters of this new, uncharted territory between us.

But he deepens the kiss, his hands tracing up my arms, grounding me, pulling me back into him. And in that moment, I’m not just the girl with the secret. I’m not just the artist or the traveler. I’m the woman who feels seen by the man who’s always been right there, waiting for me to let him in.

When we pull apart, his forehead rests against mine, our breaths mingling. I can’t help but smile, though there’s a faint flutter of uncertainty in my chest. It feels so good to be known, but it also feels a little too big. A little too much.

His voice is soft, almost a whisper. “You’re not just the artist of those paintings, Summer. You’re the masterpiece.”

I laugh quietly, a breathless sound. “You’re laying it on pretty thick, Flipper.”

His lips curl up in a teasing grin, but there’s something deeper there. Something raw. “I mean it. You’ve always been more than just your art, Summer.”

I bite my lip, the words threatening to spill, but I hold them back. I’m not ready to say it yet, not ready to name what’s shifting inside me.

forty-one

. . .

RORY

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