Page 174 of Beyond the Stroke

“Victory snack time.”

I’m halfway to my first bite when Summer appears in front of me, face suddenly serious.

“Don’t worry, this won’t ruin my dinner,” I say, motioning to the sugar-laden snack cake. “I’ll still eat all of mine and probably half of yours.”

“It’s not that.” She swallows. “We need to talk.”

Shit.Thetalk.

For a moment, I’d forgotten about her text from earlier.

I lower the snack cake and set it on the counter.

Her gaze flicks to it before meeting mine.

“My parents own that company.”

“What company?”

She nods to the snack cake beside me. “Little Sunshine Cakes.”

I blink, trying to make sense of it. My eyes land on the yellow box with the sun logo. I think back to the little girl that used to be on it. Blonde hair. Blue eyes.

It clicks.

That was Summer.

I stare at her, stunned.

Her family owns the company I’ve been obsessed with since I was a kid. The same family who didn’t support her art. Who tried to marry her off to some asshole for business gain. The same people who have money—but left her without health insurance, without the meds she needed—because she wouldn’t play by their rules.

And I’ve been scarfing down their snack cakes this whole time, telling her how much I love them. That must’ve stung. Or at the very least, made her hesitate to tell me more about them.

Anger surges in my chest.

I walk to the pantry, pull out the rest of the boxes and toss them in the trash.

When I look up, Summer’s staring at me, eyes wide. “You don’t have to throw them out!”

“I’m not eating another damn thing that came from the people who made you feel like less.” My jaw tightens. “You’re worth more than that.”

I’m not mad at her. I’m furious at them. I’ve never met her family, but anyone who made my wife question her worth doesn’t deserve a place in our life.

She presses her lips together and nods. “Well at least recycle the boxes.”

I know she’s trying to create some levity, but I’m still too fired up to laugh.

“Why did you keep buying them for me?” I ask.

She shrugs. “Because you love them and they make you happy.”

“I loveyou.” I reach for her. “You make me happy.”

“Rory,” she exhales, emotion welling in her eyes.

It’s the truth. One that’s been sitting on my tongue for weeks. Maybe since the day I met her.

“You make me happier than any snack cake ever could. And that’s saying a lot because those little guys are filled with like twelve kinds of chemically engineered joy.”

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