Chapter 20
twenty
. . .
SUMMER
After our courthouse wedding, we made the mistake of eating at The Salty Pirate, where Darcy spent the whole time making over-the-top gushy faces at me. Alice ended up covering for me and even though Rory tried to pay, Mick and Alice insisted our meal was on the house.
After lunch, Rory helped me get my van prepped to move to his house. He’d had Charlie drive his Jeep back to his place so he could drive with me in the van. This morning, I packed a suitcase for his house, which feels odd considering my van will be parked in his garage.
It occurs to me now that I have no idea where Rory lives.
It’s one thing I forgot to ask about in the whirlwind that was us getting married. Now that we’re on the way, I’m anxious to see where I’ll be living during this fake marriage. With anticipation, my right thumb and index fingers rotate the wedding band Rory put on my left hand earlier. My thumb glides over the facets that hold each tiny diamond. I love the simplicity of the band while the small glittering diamonds give it a touch of glamour. I can’t deny it’s a beautiful ring, but I am still not sure how I feel about wearing it. I knew Rory and I were joking about the quarter machine rings, but that doesn’t mean he needed to spend thousands of dollars on a ring for a marriage that won’t outlive his swimming career.
I lift my gaze from the ring to watch as he makes a left on Driftwood Drive, then at the end of the alleyway, which is a dead end for beach access, he comes to a stop.
“This is it.” He motions out the passenger window to the back of a gray house. I can’t see the house yet, only the garage that’s attached to it, but it’s clear from the location that he’s got beach front access.
“You live on the beach?” I ask, hugging Edgar to my chest.
“Yeah. It’s an investment property I bought years ago with my first big sponsorship deal.”
I nod as he opens the garage door with his phone, then pulls my van into the spot next to his Jeep.
“We’re home.” He gives me a huge grin, and scratches Edgar behind the ear. “Should I carry you over the threshold?”
I shake my head, and give him a wry smirk. “That’s not necessary.”
He shrugs, aiming that sincere, playful grin of his me. “If you wanted me to, I would.”
It’s words like those that make me question if I’ve made a terrible mistake. If this arrangement with Rory is dangerous. He’s too sweet. Too unguarded and accommodating. Also, in the rush to get married, we didn’t talk about any of the things that couples should talk about.
“No.” I wave him off, reminding myself that we don’t need to do any of those traditions because none of this is real.
That kiss sure was, my brain chimes in to remind me for the millionth time since it happened.
I’d be lying if I said I’d never thought about kissing Rory. Or stared at his lips once or twice when he wasn’t looking. But I’d never planned to act on it. Now I have to live with the knowledge that Rory is a phenomenal kisser and there’s nothing I want more than to kiss my fake husband again, but I can’t and I won’t .
You can’t change other people; you can only change the way you react to them. That’s what my therapist always told me.
Since I can’t stop Rory from being sweet, thoughtful, and gorgeous , I’ll have to change the way I react to him. No more melting body or flutters of my reproductive organs.
I need to set a precedent. Rory and I are all business. And it starts the moment I walk into his house.
Rory grabs my bag from the van and makes his way toward the door.
Chivalry alert! I slam the van door shut and setting Edgar down on the garage floor, rush to catch up with him.
“I can carry my own bag,” I say, hot on his heels.
“I got it.” He turns to smile at me and that one curve of his lips nearly knocks me on my ass.
Rory keeps moving forward, but determined to keep things on an even playing field, I reach for the handle of my bag and yank.
Except that wasn’t the handle, it was the zipper, and my pull on it has the entire side of the worn leather bag gaping open. My belongings, which I had hurriedly packed this morning, are now spilling out the side.
No neat and tidy packing cubes for this girl. Just loose items stuffed in a bag. A pair of socks, a notebook, my toiletry bag, and oh that’s right, my trusty pickle vibrator that I’ve nicknamed Big Dill.
Any hope of stuffing Big Dill back into my bag unnoticed is foiled when I see he’s covered in sand. Sand and silicone aren’t a good combo. But that’s what you get from the garage floor of a house located on the beach. So, I do what must be done and wrap one hand around Big Dill, then vigorously move it up and down the length to dust the sand off him.
I turn to find Rory watching me, that curious grin of his splashed across his face.
“Is that?—”
“Yes, Flipper. It’s my vibrator.”
His lips quirk. “It’s a pickle.”
“I like pickles, remember?”
“I can see that.”
I stop the jerking motion I was using to sweep the sand off Big Dill and swipe my hand against my leg to release the excess sand.
Rory takes the vibrator from my hand and examines it. He clicks it on and pushes the settings button, switching it between the different types of pulses. I’m cool as a cucumber watching Rory explore the toy I use to masturbate with. Yup, I refuse to acknowledge the way my pulse thrums at the sight of his long fingers handling Big Dill because it’s totally normal to have my new fake husband examining my vibrator.
“Shouldn’t it be bigger?” he asks, with focused concentration on my pickle vibrator.
Rory’s hands make Big Dill look more like a little gherkin. But that’s fine because where I’m concerned Big Dill’s specialty isn’t penetration, it’s clitoral stimulation.
“Trust me. Big Dill gets the job done.”
“Big Dill?” Rory’s smile widens and his eyes crinkle with amusement, like they know all my secrets. “Summer…that’s?—”
I refuse to be embarrassed. Big Dill is hilarious, and makes me happy, in more ways than one.
My ex never treated my pleasure like it mattered. I refuse to let my fake husband do the same.
“It’s what?” I snap, a little too sharply. Old wounds rise to the surface before I can stop them.
My relationship with Tripp left me feeling unwanted. Undesirable.
With him, intimacy was always on his terms. I felt like a toy—something he could use—but never truly seen. Most of my attempts to show affection were brushed off, met with irritation, or outright rejection. At first, I blamed bad timing. Then, I learned he controlled everything, and I internalized the idea that his needs mattered more than mine.
His ties to my parents only made it worse. They wanted it to work, so if it wasn’t, clearly I was the problem. I had to fix it. But you can’t fix a one-sided relationship.
I know I’m not undesirable but the safest way to avoid repeating that pain is to keep my guard up. Keep my needs private. Take care of myself. With the help of Big Dill, of course.
“It’s normal.” I mutter. “I have needs. You have needs. Everyone has needs. Ugh, why am I even explaining this to you?”
Rory shakes his head, a soft smile playing on his lips.
Those full, firm lips.
Focus, Summer.
“You don’t have to explain,” he says. “I get it. Self-care is important.”
It takes a moment for me to comprehend his words. To hear that he understands me and he’s not making fun of me. I’m used to everything I do causing a fight, because with my ex, it did.
But Rory isn’t fighting with me. In fact, the way he’s looking at me with equal parts curiosity and amusement, and a smoldering look that’s so fucking hot I think my body is going to burst into flames is confusing me.
As I stare up at Rory’s handsome face, I start to question my ‘no sex’ rule. My brain does me a solid and reminds me: Hey, remember? You’re bad at intimacy. And sex.
Right.
Tripp told us so.
Tripp’s an idiot.
Well, both things can be true.
But also, I have no other experience to disprove him. And I don’t want to make a fool of myself with Rory, so yeah, self-care it is.
I shake off the vivid mental image of Rory pressing me against the wall and dropping to his knees before it can finish playing out.
“That’s right, I don’t,” I say, a little too firmly.
“And if you hadn’t cut me off,” Rory adds, “I was about to say that I think Big Dill is hot. And sexy. And fucking hilarious.”
He casually brushes the rest of the fallen items off and places them back in my bag, as if we’re not standing in a storm of innuendo and tension. I clumsily wedge Big Dill between some clothes like I’m trying to hide a crime scene, and Rory zips the bag closed like a gentleman.
After all the erotic visuals dancing in my head, I’m ready to dive under a cold shower to cool down.
Rory reaches for the door handle, but then stops and turns back toward me.
“Welcome home, Wildflower,” he says, “I hope you and Big Dill will be very happy here. And Edgar, of course.”
Those blue eyes twinkle with mischief. It’s my favorite thing about them.
Dangerous, I remind myself.
But we agreed to the rules.
This is a marriage of convenience—nothing physical.
Just stick with Big Dill, he’ll take care of it.
Inside, Rory walks me through the mudroom and laundry area, then into the living room. When I catch the view from the sliding door in the dining room, something stirs in me. It’s like I’ve been here before.
With Edgar on my heels, I slide the door open and step outside. The moment my feet touch the path, I know exactly where we are. It’s one of my favorite spots to bring the dogs.
From here I can see the dock where Cal sits every day. I rush down the path to the beach, heart pounding. When I turn around and see the house—it hits me.
It’s the gray beach cottage with the yellow door.
The one I fell in love with that first week in Coral Cove.
The one I’ve sketched and painted over and over.
“Summer? You good?” Rory calls.
“I’m fine. Just looking at the water.” Which makes no sense because my back is to the ocean, but Rory doesn’t call me on it.
“You want the rest of the tour?” he asks, scooping Edgar into his arms.
“Sure.”
I follow him in a daze back into the house.
I can’t believe he lives here.
I can’t believe I live here now.
“It’s not a big house,” he says as we walk through the kitchen and dining area. “But I had it updated a few years ago, and it’s home now.”
I nod, taking in the white oak floors, stone countertops, and soft beachy paint colors.
The space is modern, but warm. Thoughtful.
In the living room, there’s an oversized sectional and a pair of deep linen armchairs facing a big screen television. A gaming system is tucked in the console; a Victrola vintage record player sits on top.
Floating shelves line the wall near the TV. Mystery novels and sports biographies make up most of his collection, with a chunk of sea glass serving as a book end.
While Rory being in my van had felt overwhelming, he seems to relish in my exploration of his things, watching me peruse his space with an easy smile.
It hits me. He probably renovated this place with Daphne.
As if he reads my mind, Rory says, “Whitney helped. She’s got a good eye. She thought about majoring in architecture and design but her swim schedule made it impossible.”
“She did a great job.” I nod, relief flooding through me that I can enjoy the space without feeling like I’m in his ex-girlfriend’s house.
“I cleared this area so you can put some of your plants here.” He motions to an empty shelf in a sunny corner of the dining room.
“You did?” I ask, surprise lifting my brows.
“Yeah, you can’t leave them in your van. They won’t get any sunlight.”
I know he’s right, but I hadn’t expected him to anticipate the need and have the space ready for me.
“Thanks.”
He nods, motioning me down the hallway.
“This is the primary bedroom.”
He flips on the light to reveal a bedroom painted in a soft gray. A huge Bird of Paradise plant in the corner adds the perfect amount of greenery.
A cozy chair with a rustic floor lamp sits in the corner. On a dark wood dresser rests one of my paintings.
My gaze snaps back to the painting. No, not just one of my paintings. The painting . The one of this very beach house that I’d thought about not giving up, but ultimately decided to part with.
“Where’d you get that painting?” I ask, pointing toward the dresser.
“I found it. It’s one of those Coveys everyone has been talking about.”
His eyes search mine, and I do my best to keep any emotion off my face.
“You know, the anonymous artist that leaves paintings around town for people to find?”
“Yeah.”
“I was surprised to find a painting at all, let alone one of my house.”
I swallow hard, emotion rising. “That’s wild.”
“I heard he mostly paints beachscapes so this was the first painting of a structure.”
“He?” I question, my defenses rising. “Why do you think the artist is a ‘he’?”
Rory shrugs. “I guess I hadn’t thought about it. I just said ‘he’ out of habit.” He chuckles. “Going forward, I will refer to the anonymous Covey artist as ‘they.’”
“Hmm.” I set the painting back on his dresser. “You should frame it. Something simple. A tray frame in coarse-ground wood would look nice.”
Rory moves to stand beside me, and I’m suddenly aware of the heat from his body. His fingers brush mine as he takes the painting from me.
“I have no idea what you just said. You’ll have to help me remember that.” He smiles, and suddenly the air between us is thick.
I clear my throat loudly. “Okay, so you said this place has two bedrooms?”
Rory sets the painting back down on the dresser, and I follow him across the hallway. He opens the door to the room, revealing a smaller bedroom.
But there’s no bed inside it.
Instead, there’s a large easel in front of the window facing the beach. There’s also a small work table, a supply organizer with drawers, and a couple shelves for storing canvases.
“What is this?” I ask, the shock evident in my voice.
“Your studio.”
My head whips around to look at Rory. Does he know?
“Rory.”
He shrugs. “Call it a wedding gift.”
“For our fake wedding?”
“The wedding was real. The marriage is fake.”
“You know what I mean.”
I don’t know what this room used to be, but it definitely wasn’t an art studio.
“Why did you do this?” I ask, still in shock.
“I want you to be happy here. You said painting makes you happy.”
He motions to the opposite corner of the room.
“My cold plunge is still in here, so I’ll need to use it from time to time.”
As thrilled as I am to finally have a dedicated space to paint, I’m just as nervous Rory might find out I’m the Covey artist. The anonymity has given me more confidence in my art. It’s allowed me to put my art out in the world without being tied to it and risk the kind of judgment I received in the past.
“Wait. There’s only one bed in your house?” My head whips back in his direction. “So where am I supposed to sleep?”
He motions across the hall. “With me.”
The idea of sleeping next to my husband shouldn’t be surprising, but it still throws me.
“Rory…”
“We slept together in your van.”
“That was different.”
“How?” he asks.
“Because now we’re married.”
He laughs and I kind of hate how good it sounds.
This would be a no-brainer for a regular married couple, but our arrangement is not typical and I don’t want to lose sight of that.
Scratch that. I’m terrified to lose sight of that.
I have no doubt that Rory is perfect husband material, but I’m not the wife for him. Not long term anyway. I have too much baggage. Too many insecurities to be a good partner.
He sets my suitcase down by the closet before opening it to show me where extra linens are kept.
“And look.” He pulls open the small drawer in the bedside table. “The perfect spot for Big Dill.”
“Thanks,” I reply flatly, fighting a smile.
But then the mental image of me lying on Rory’s bed, pleasuring myself with Big Dill emerges and I break out in a sweat.
My eyes lock with Rory’s and I swear he’s thinking the same thing.
For a moment, we stand there staring at each other. The air between us hums with unspoken possibilities.
“Okay, thanks for the tour.” I turn and nearly trip over Edgar.
Clearly, he doesn’t have any issues with our new home. He’s on the rug at the foot of Rory’s bed, legs up in the air, rolling around on his back.
“He found a comfy spot,” Rory says, dropping down to rub Edgar’s belly.
Seeing Edgar stretched out on the floor fills me with joy. That little guy has my heart and I can’t imagine not having him by my side.
I lower down next to Rory to give Edgar some love.
“Hey,” Rory says softly, his finger lifting my chin until I meet his gaze. “I want you to be comfortable here. It’s your home now, too.”
Rory’s fingers slide along my jaw. It’s the same way he cupped my face at the courthouse when he kissed me. I could so easily lean into his touch, drop my lips to his and see where this attraction takes us, but I won’t.
Remember the rules.
I pull back and Rory drops his hand.
A moment later, he stands, then grabs a duffel bag from his closet and starts tossing items inside. He looks up to find me watching him.
“I’ve got a pool workout, then relay practice.”
“Oh. Right. Of course.”
Mentally, I shoo away the rush of disappointment. It’s not like I thought we’d be spending the day together. This marriage is for convenience and we’re still going to live our separate lives.
“I’m sorry I have to rush out when you just got here.”
“It’s fine. That’s the whole point of this, right?” I cross my arms over my chest and shrug nonchalantly. “You don’t have to tell me where you’re going. You don’t even have to say goodbye when you leave.”
I busy myself by dusting a piece of lint off his comforter.
“Summer?”
He draws my attention back to him just in time for me to see him throw his duffel over his shoulder before leaning in close. His proximity has me pinned to the dresser behind me, my heart racing at the thrill of him in my space.
“Yeah?” The word slips out breathless.
“I’ll never leave without saying goodbye.” There’s sincerity in his smile, but the heat in his eyes is what makes my stomach flip.
“Sure.” I clear my throat. “Whatever you want to do.”
“I’ll let you get unpacked.”
“Okay.” I nod, offering a limp wave as he turns. “Bye.”
Once he’s gone, I can finally breathe normally.
I flop onto the bed and bury my face in his comforter.
He smells like fresh linen and salt water, with a hint of oak. Clean. Crisp. Masculine.
And devastatingly arousing.
Big Dill is definitely going to have his work cut out for him.