Page 28 of Beyond the Stroke

I glance down at my wrist.Wildflower, for your tattoo, he’d said.

I shake the thought loose and walk into work.

eight

. . .

RORY

I hated having to rush off to practice and leave Summer, but the second I finish my last set, I head for the locker room to quickly shower and change.

Summer.

Throughout practice, her name had been a chant in my head.

I like calling her Wildflower, but Summer suits her perfectly.

When I text Winnie to ask about Summer, she tells me she dropped her off at The Salty Pirate Café a few hours ago. It might be a long shot, but since I’ve got nothing else to go on, it’s where I’m going to start.

That’s how I find myself outside the blue wooden building that houses one of Coral Cove’s most iconic restaurants. I pull open the door to find the dinner crowd already in full swing. The protein shake I grabbed on my way out of the aquatic center was enough to hold me over, but the smell of fresh fish is enticing and after Coach put us through a rigorous workout, I could stuff my face right now.

“Hey, Rory. You need a table?” Mae asks from the host stand upon my approach.

It’s a small town, and there are perks to being known. Like getting a table at the most popular restaurant during the dinner rush.

“Hi, Mae. I’m looking for someone.” I glance toward the dining area. “Blonde hair. Blue eyes. Freckle under her left eye and a small scar on her chin.” Mae blinks at me, and I realize I should find less obsessive ways to describe Summer’s face. “She looks like an angel, but is feisty as hell. I think she was here earlier so she might have already left.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a swish of a blonde ponytail.

Summer.

“Found her.” I point in Summer’s direction.

“Oh, Summer.” She nods, then glances down at the map of tables. “She’s working out on the patio this evening. Would you like to sit in her section?”

That’s when I see the plates in her hands. The heavy ceramic pottery-style plates full of crab cakes, shrimp and grits, beef brisket, and my favorite, seafood pot pie.

The realization hits. Summer’s a waitress here.

But her wrist is hurt and Winnie had told her to rest it.

My left knee would tell you I’m not always one for following my athletic trainer’s orders but eventually injury catches up to you if you don’t take care of yourself.

My stomach growls at the sight of that seafood pot pie. But I ignore the bottomless pit that is my stomach, pulling my attention from the delicious food back to Summer and her arms full of plates. She makes her way through the sea of tables, sidestepping to let a patron pass. A tight smile on her face, I can see her fingers gripping the plate tighter and the wince that follows.

I catch up with her just before she reaches the door to the patio.

“Summer,” I call, “what are you doing?” Realizing as the question leaves my mouth that it’s not the most intelligent. It’s obvious what she’s doing.

Her eyes narrow. “I’m working.”

“Yeah, but you shouldn’t be.” I grab the two plates weighing down her injured wrist.

“What the hell?” she hisses, reaching for the plates. “Give me back the plates. I need to serve this table.”

“So, lead the way.” I motion with the plates in my hands for her to lead me to the table, but she doesn’t move.

Her eyes flare with annoyance. I can see that she doesn’t like my approach, but I can’t sit back and watch her work in pain.

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