Page 23 of Beyond the Stroke

I’d love to, but we never discussed how to stop. I drop a foot to the ground, trying to brake just as she and the dogs catch up.

She reaches for me with her free hand, but the dogs yank her backward, and all my momentum redirects…straight toward her.

I twist, trying not to crush the smallest dog directly underfoot. My reaction time off the blocks is second to none, but it doesn’t serve me now. Not with the skateboard, the dogs, and Wildflower all colliding into one chaotic swirl.

And then, it’s too late.

I hear a crunch. I brace for pain in my knee…elbow…wrist, but other than the shock of the fall, I feel nothing.

I glance down to assess the damage.

I’m not hurt.

Because Wildflower broke my fall.

Her left wrist is bent awkwardly and pinned under my shoulder.

Shit.

seven

. . .

SUMMER

My wrist is throbbing. And Rory Shields’ hard, shirtless body is spread over me like avocado on toast.

“Shit. Are you okay?” he asks.

He’d asked the same question when he pulled me from the ocean, but now, as the cause of my peril, his handsome face crumbles with pain.

For how much of a dead weight he was a moment ago, he springs off me, releasing my wrist from where it was trapped between his shoulder and the ground.

“I’m fine.” I start to roll my wrist out hoping the movement will ease the tightness, but the shooting pain causes me to wince.

“You’re not fine.” Rory’s expression tightens, like my pain physically affects him. “We need to get your wrist checked out.”

I pull my wrist away as gingerly as I can despite the thrum of annoyance running through my veins.

“What I meant to say is that I’ll be fine,” I grit out. “I’ll ice it or something.”

He pulls his shirt on and I’m thankful that I no longer have to stare at all those rippling muscles of his. Ignoring every word I just said, he collects the dogs’ leashes, then takes my uninjured hand in his and starts leading us away from the beach.

“Come on. I’ll drive you.”

I’m in denial that anything is wrong with my wrist because that would only add to the growing list of shit things that have happened this past week. I’m starting to wonder if Coral Cove is where I’m meant to be. The other towns I’ve lived haven’t required this much interaction with people. Most notable of all, there’s been no man like Rory with his muscles and perfect smile and good heart.

“Rory, I can’t go to the doctor,” I say, pulling my hand from his. “I don’t have insurance. I can’t afford the ER.”

If anyone knew who my parents were, my statements would be laughable but since they haven’t been a part of my life for years, everything I’m saying is true. I’ve even had to ration my asthma medication to make it stretch.

My words settle between us. I know he heard them, but he’s already gathered my skateboard and backpack, and is walking off with the dogs.

“My Jeep’s this way.”

“Rory,” I call, but he keeps walking.

The only reason I follow is because I can’t let him take the dogs. I need to get them back home.

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