Page 176 of Beyond the Stroke

“You’re ridiculous,” she says softly.

“I’m yours.”

“Good,” she whispers. “Because I’m yours, too.”

epilogue

. . .

SUMMER

“You know I don’t like surprises.”

Rory squeezes my thigh in a comforting gesture. “You’re going to like this one. I promise.”

“Promises, promises,” I sing from the passenger seat as Rory drives us toward an unknown destination. When I say unknown, I mean it. He not only refused to tell me; he asked me to wear a blindfold. It’s technically an eye mask, but still.

We got back from his swim meet in Sacramento last night, and after a breakfast shift at the café this morning, I’m running on fumes.

“If you don’t love it, I promise I’ll never surprise you again.”

My lips twitch. “Your confidence is admirable.”

I wish I could see him right now. Watching him from the driver’s seat is one of my favorite things. It’s his profile, I think. That and the way he sings to himself or chuckles at prank calls on his favorite radio station before catching me staring and throwing me a wink.

My husband.

Still can’t believe we got real married for a fake relationship.

Except now, we’re in love.

And marriage isn’t what it was when we thought we were doing each other a favor.

I told myself I’d never get married. That love was too fragile, too breakable. I’d seen what it did to my parents. How vows turned to silence, then to distance, and eventually to nothing. I didn’t want to follow that same crumbling path.

But Rory makes it feel different. Solid. Like love could actually be a safe place, not a ticking clock.

The car slows and stops. I hear Rory climb out, then my door opens.

“Okay, careful.” He helps me out and holds both my hands, guiding me forward.

We step inside a building, and he says, “All right. You can take it off.”

I lift the eye mask and blink against the light.

After being in the dark, the first thing I notice is the bright white walls. They’re blinding at first, but then I notice the paintings.

My paintings.

But not recent ones. They’re Coveys.

The anonymous works I left around Coral Cove over the past few months are now hanging in perfect, deliberate arrangement across a warehouse gallery space.

“How?” I ask. My brain stutters, trying to piece it together.

“The social media page was a good start,” Rory says, “but then I had some help.”

A woman in a black blazer, cropped jeans, and heels walks over.

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