Page 42 of Beyond the Stroke

Not while she was upset and crying, but later, in the middle of the night when her ass had nestled itself against my crotch and every nerve ending in my body sprang to life. I would have had to be dead for my body not to respond to the feel of Summer pressed up against me.

She pours some oat milk from the refrigerator into her coffee then reaches for a mug from the small cupboard above the sink and dumps the coffee mixture from the to-go cup into it.

She catches me staring and narrows her eyes. “What?”

“Not a fan of paper cups?” I ask.

She shrugs. “I like drinking from a real mug.”

Summer’s secretive nature makes catching a glimpse of something simple, like how she takes her coffee, feel like discovering buried treasure.

Even now when she’s staring at me like I’m a problem to be dealt with, her attention on me ignites a ripple of heat that expands throughout my chest.

I remind myself that not only am I avoiding Daphne because I don’t want to get back together with her, but I’m steering clear of any commitments outside of swimming. When I was younger, there was leeway for distractions without suffering the consequences, but injury and the miles on my body now requirecomplete focus. Now, I need to be one hundred and fifty percent focused on my training program.

It’s what I told myself when my watch alarm buzzed at four-thirty this morning interrupting a cramped, yet peaceful slumber. I’d done a few of my physical therapy stretches while I waited for Walter to arrive, then rushed home to grab my gear and was in the weight room by five-thirty.

It had been a leg day, which I used to love, but now I’m cautious about my knee. Even with a reduced weight program, my legs are killing me. I drop onto the bench that serves as a couch, picking up one of the pillows there to move it aside to make room for my sizable frame. That’s when I notice it’s in the shape of a pickle.

Beneath my fingers, it’s pleasantly soft, so I give it a squeeze. Under my hands, the pillow’s plush material shrinks down before expanding upon my release. “This is cute. I didn’t realize the pickle thing extends to décor.” I sniff the air. “Wait a minute. Does it smell?—”

“Like a pickle? Yes.” She takes it from my hands and sets it back in its place beside me on the cushioned bench. “My best friend, Scarlett, gave it to me.”

It’s the first piece of information that Summer has willingly offered about herself since I met her.

“And Scarlett is a childhood friend?” I prompt.

“We met in college our freshman year. Both reluctant legacy pledges for Delta Zeta at UT.”

“Texas?” I inquire.

“Tennessee,” she clarifies.

“You didn’t want to be in a sorority?” I ask.

“Do I seem like someone who would fit into a sorority?”

I scan her from head to toe. With her bed head and clear-rimmed glasses, and those threadbare cotton sleep shorts exposing her long, tan legs, she’s gorgeous and mysterious.Honestly, Summer doesn’t seem like the sorority type, but only because she doesn’t fit the mold people expect her to. She appears to be someone who refuses to be boxed in.

“Um—"

“Never mind. Don’t answer that.”

“So, you and Scarlett didn’t pledge?”

“Oh, we pledged. It was that or break our mom’s hearts. In my case, lose my spending stipend.”

“Did you get in?”

She nods. “Yeah, unfortunately.”

“I went to UC-Berkeley. No fraternity for me. Swimming was my life. Still is.”

That’s when I see the box of art supplies on the shelf above the window by her dining nook. It’s tucked away, almost hidden, but the streaks of dried paint along the side make it more noticeable.

“Are you an artist?” I ask, reaching for the box to get a better look.

Not answering my question, Summer snatches the wooden box out of my hands and places it back on the shelf. “I think we’re done with whatever this is.”

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