Page 90 of Beyond the Stroke

“Oh, shit. Do you think because Summer’s here now, Tuesday nights aren’t taco night anymore?” Charlie asks.

“Fuck that. I’m eating those tacos and I’m eating them while they’re warm,” Logan growls. Snatching a bag out of Eli’s hand, he walks over to the dining table, dumps the bags’ contents on the table, unwraps a taco and yells, “Let’s feast!”

I’m about to tell Logan to collect his tacos and get the fuck out of my house when Summer clicks off the record player, then disappears down the hallway. She’s my priority, so I follow her into the bedroom.

“I’m sorry about the guys barging in. They’ve always walked in unannounced. They should have knocked.”

“Yeah, that would have been nice.” She drops the blanket on the bed, then reaches in a drawer to pull out her work skirt. Before I can stop myself, my gaze trails down the back of her legs. Those tan, toned legs that already had me off my game at the courthouse.

I drag my eyes away. I need to stop eye-fucking my fake wife.

This isn’t high school, and she’s not some crush I can’t stop staring at. She’s Summer. Independent, untouchable Summer.

And she’s trusting me. The least I can do is pretend I’m not undressing her with my eyes.

“Logan is moodier than I remember him being.”

“Yeah, he gets cranky when he’s hungry.” I motion toward the noise my friends are making in the living room. “I can tell them to go.”

“No, don’t. It’s tradition. You guys had all this going on before I came into the picture and I don’t expect anything to change.”

“But things are different now.” The words fall from my mouth without a thought.

Summer blinks ups at me. “We got married six hours ago. They shouldn’t be. You guys can pretend like I’m not here.”

I keep my focus on her face, ignoring the hot-blooded instinct to drop my gaze to her chest where her nipples are still pebbled beneath her tank top.

“That’s impossible.”

“It shouldn’t be. Isn’t that the goal of our arrangement? To keep your routine?”

I lean against the bathroom doorway, watching her pull her wavy locks into a ponytail. My eyes scan the length of her, stopping at the curve of her ass.

She clears her throat. “I can see you in the mirror.”

“The rules never said anything about not looking at you.”

“Maybe they should.” She turns to face me and now she’s right there.

“I liked seeing you like that.”

“Like what?” She crosses her arms defensively. She thinks I’m talking about her being braless.

“Carefree. Content.”

It was the same version of Summer I saw a few nights ago when she was eating her burger and making little sighs of satisfaction.

I’d mentioned it to her then, and now the same look she gave me that night is sliding over her features. It’s like she thinks she’s in trouble for enjoying life. For being happy.

But while I’d enjoyed her display of joy and contentment, I’d been caught off guard by the possessiveness I’d felt.

“I’ve got to admit, I didn’t like the guys seeing you like that.”

“Why?” she asks, her breath hitching.

“Because you’remy wife.”

“Yourfakewife,” she reminds me.

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