Page 43 of Beyond the Stroke

“This is called getting to know each other.”

“Really? Because it feels like you going through my stuff. Should I come to your house and rummage through your personal things?”

My lips twitch at her proposal. “I did extend the invitation last night.”

“Hmm,” she murmurs, as if she’s not exactly sure how to respond.

While I’m an open book and wouldn’t mind if she came to my house and looked through my stuff, Summer is not the same. She doesn’t like talking about herself.

At that moment, Walter yanks the van door open, a shiny new set of keys dangling from his hand. “Miss Summer, you’re all set.”

Summer accepts the keys, and Walter packs up his tools then gives me a nod before he leaves. He’ll send me the invoice later.

With Walter gone, Summer and I sit in silence for a moment. We both watch Edgar get up, take a drink from his bowl, then settle back in for another snooze.

“Thank you for calling the locksmith, and for everything last night.”

“You’re welcome.”

Summer reaches in her purse and pulls a wad of cash out. Her tips from last night.

“How much was the lock?”

I shake my head. “I’m not taking your money.”

“Rory, you have to.”

“No,” I stand, “I don’t.”

“Fine.” She stuffs the money back in her wallet. “I’ll call Walter and pay him directly.”

I shake my head. “Not happening, Wildflower.”

Her eyes flare, at my unwillingness to let her pay for the lock, or at the nickname, maybe both.

“You’re so fucking stubborn.”

She crosses her arms and juts out her chin, giving me the most cock-stirring look of defiance. The urge to push her up against the counter and explore that obstinate mouth of hers is strong.

I take a step closer.

“Look who’s talking.”

Her eyes narrow at me, but it’s the way she sucks in a shuddering breath that tells me she’s not used to anyone pushing back. To wanting to challenge her, break through this wall she’s got up.

It also makes me wonder how often her asthma is triggered.

“How’s your breathing been? Since the other day when you had the attack?”

“Good. Nothing to worry about. I’m fine.”

Her response rolls off her tongue, her features never wavering.

My watch buzzes with a schedule notification. I don’t have to check it to know what it says. My weekly schedule is engrained.

I’ve got a meeting with my nutritionist in twenty minutes, followed by race footage analysis, then practice, so I can’t stand here and argue with her all day, no matter how much I want to.

“I have to go. I’ve got an appointment.”

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