Page 169 of Beyond the Stroke

I swallow hard. He’s right. I didn’t ask questions. I just shut the door and walked away.

“I’m sorry for not being there when you needed me most.”

“Thanks.” He leans back, his shoulders relaxing a little. “I’m sorry too. And I want to fix this. If we can.”

“Yeah, me, too.”

Connor smiles. “So…we’re good?”

“We’re on our way.” I pause. “But trust isn’t something I just hand out. You’ve got to earn it back.”

“That’s fair. I will.”

I stand, ready to head back and pack, the weight between us finally easing. But then I remember the way Connor and Whitney were together in the hallway earlier, and I turn back.

“One thing, though.”

Connor looks up from his phone.

I cross my arms. “Whitney. She’s off-limits.”

Connor blinks. “Rory, it’s not?—”

“You don’t have to explain,” I cut in, my voice calm but firm. “I saw the hug. And maybe it was just that. But if it’s more, or you’re thinking it might be…don’t go there.”

Connor’s jaw tightens. He doesn’t argue, but I can see the flicker of hesitation. The conflict in his eyes.

“I believe you want to be better.” I say quietly. “But if you’re really serious, then make sure the next thing you go after isn’t something that could burn everything down again.”

Connor nods. Slowly. But he nods.

“Got it.”

I nod back. “You did good today. The anchor leg—smooth as hell.”

A faint smile tugs at his mouth. “Thanks.”

With things settled between me and Connor, I just want to get home to Coral Cove, and to Summer.

forty-eight

. . .

SUMMER

I’m just putting the finishing touches on the table setting when I hear the door to the garage click shut. I turn to find Rory standing in the doorway, dressed in a Carolina Current t-shirt and gray joggers, the ends of his golden wavy hair peeking out from underneath his backwards hat.

He might as well be in a tuxedo for how devastatingly good he looks.

He’s only been gone four days; I need to chill. But chill is the last thing I’m capable of.

We’ve been texting all weekend, but it hasn’t eased the ache of missing him. Even knowing the Current won the meet and Rory medaled doesn’t compare to having him here.

I hadn’t wanted to bother him while he was focused on swimming, so I’d texted him after his events, hoping to plant a seed for the necessary but uncomfortable conversation we need to have.

Now that he’s here, I’m struggling to remember everything I need to say.

With a weighted gaze that never leaves mine, he gently sets his duffel bag on the floor, then slowly moves toward me.

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