Page 31 of Beyond the Stroke

Summer directs the dishes in my hands to each person, then picks up the water carafe to fill up their water glasses. I’ll have to add refilling water glasses to my list of duties.

“Can I get you anything else right now?” Summer asks.

“Do you mind terribly if we get a picture with you?” The woman directs her question to me, beaming flirtatiously, while her sons attempt to hide behind their phones.

“Not at all.”

The woman hands Summer her phone, while I get into position in the middle of the group. Right when Summer snaps the photo, the woman drops her hand and squeezes my ass.

Summer hands the phone back and abruptly leaves the table.

“Enjoy your food. We’ll check back soon,” I offer before departing to follow Summer through the dining area, and through the kitchen doors.

“Who the hell—” the man behind the cook station starts to bellow, but he stops midsentence. “Rory.” He claps me on the back. “What are you doing in my kitchen?”

“Hey, Mick. I’m helping Summer out.”

“Just for today,” Summer quickly chimes in. “And he’s only carrying plates.” She holds up her wrist.

“Did you fall off that skateboard?” Mick asks. “I keep telling her it’s a dangerous form of transportation.”

Summer holds my gaze, her brows lifting in question.You going to tell him, or am I?

But behind us a pink-haired waitress clears her throat, shifting the group’s attention, allowing me to dodge that question.

Summer turns in her direction. “Oh, yeah. Rory, this is Darcy. Darcy, Rory.”

“I heard you saved our girl from a shark.”

Summer groans. “There was no shark. How does this story keep getting twisted?”

“Because it sounds cooler with a shark.” Darcy’s pink ponytail swishes as she tilts her head to inspect me. “Nice to finally put a face to the name, Rory Shields.”

“Has she been talking about me?” I wink in Summer’s direction, catching a glimpse of the outrage on her face before returning to my conversation with Darcy.

“Nonstop. Can’t get a word in.”

“Order up!” Mick calls.

Darcy grabs the plates from the counter. “Gotta run.”

When my eyes land back on Summer, she’s glaring at me.

“I can’t believe you showed up here.”

“How else was I supposed to contact you? I don’t have your phone number or address. Winnie wouldn’t give it to me. You know, HIPAA laws and all that.”

“Did you ever think there’s a reason you don’t have that information?”

“Because you didn’t have a chance to give it to me?” I offer half-jokingly, knowing it’s not the case when the woman wouldn’t even tell me her name.

“You could carry plates tonight, but I know a thing or two about injuries and if you don’t take care to rest them, they get worse or flare up when you don’t have help. So, if you let me help you tonight, I won’t bother you about it again.”

She contemplates this for a moment, before relenting. “Fine.”

Over the next few hours, Summer lets me be her shadow around the restaurant. Carrying plates, busing tables, and often, talking with the patrons.

“You’re too nice to people.” She comments.

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