Chapter 32
thirty-two
. . .
SUMMER
Darcy forced me to come to Charleston. I made the mistake of mentioning it in passing at work and she immediately volunteered to cover my shifts. Then, she proceeded to send out a group text to Winnie, Cora, Whitney, and Vivi and she had my dog-walking shifts covered in less than twenty minutes. She’s dangerous.
After Rory’s morning practice, and my walk with the dogs, we dropped Edgar off at Winnie’s and Whitney’s house, then drove down to Charleston. We checked into the condo where we’re staying, then Rory had a few meetings before we grabbed lunch.
After lunch, we walked down King Street, checking out the shops there before we drove out to the warehouse where his Hydra-Fuel sports drink campaign shoot is taking place.
I glance at my watch, checking the time.
“You got a hot date?” Rory jokes, walking over shirtless and in a pair of athletic shorts.
“If I did, would you be jealous?” I tease.
He brushes a loose hair out of my face. “Jealous? Nah. I’d just feel bad for the guy when he realizes you’re obsessed with your husband.”
“Obsessed?” I laugh. “That’s a stretch.”
We haven’t mentioned the conversation we had in the kitchen yesterday and I’m hoping Rory is going to just let it go.
“There’s an exhibit at a gallery I wanted to see. It closes at six.”
“Then I’ll make this quick, so we can go.”
“It’s okay if we miss it.”
“Trust me, I’m a professional. We’ll make it.”
“Time to get lubed up.” Vanessa, the photographer’s assistant, appears with a bottle of oil in her hand. She looks between me and Rory, then hands me the bottle of oil. “I’ll let your wife do the job.” She winks before rushing off.
“I thought oil and water don’t mix,” I say, staring at the bottle of oil in my hand.
“I’m not getting in the water, but they want me to glisten.” He smirks before his eyes drop to the bottle in my hands, and his smile morphs into one of sincerity. “If you don’t want to, I can tell Vanessa?—”
“It’s okay. I can do it,” I rush out, knowing it might seem odd if I’m his wife and I refuse to oil him up.
I squeeze out the oil, then place my hands against his back. I’m starting there because it’s far less intimidating than his front with his washboard abs and those magical V muscles.
“They only gave you one bottle?” I ask, sliding my hand down the back of his sculpted arm. “Have they seen how much surface area needs to be covered?”
He rolls his shoulders back and groans.
“This okay?” I ask,
“More than okay. My gorgeous wife is rubbing me down with oil. What’s not to like?” He shoots me a wink over his shoulder.
“You’re enjoying this too much.”
I make my way around to the front of his body.
“Every fucking second.” Rory winks. “Don’t forget the abs. The abs are very important.”
I make a show of squeezing more oil out and slathering it on him, my oil-covered hands slipping over his carved muscles.
Beneath my palms, Rory’s muscles contract. The deep, sloping lines on his lower abdomen are dangerously captivating. When my fingertips dip just beneath the waistband of his shorts, his stomach quivers. It’s a fascinating movement, one I’m dying to see again but the area is already fully covered, so I move upward, determined to finish the job without embarrassing myself.
When my hands move over his chest, Rory makes his pectoral muscles dance, one side, then the other. I look up to find him smirking at me.
It’s that lighthearted smirk of his that makes me forget to be intimidated, and has me reaching up and lightly pinching one of his nipples between my fingers.
As I tease over his pebbled nipple, a gravelly groan rises out of Rory’s throat, startling me. The sound isn’t playful or teasing, it’s feral, like a wild animal rattling around in its cage. Just like the night I put my hands in his hair, it’s like no sound I’ve heard before, so I immediately second-guess myself, and start to pull my hand back.
“Sorry, I shouldn’t have?—"
Rory quickly covers my hand with his, holding me to his warm, slick skin. When he lifts my chin with the finger of his other hand, the passion in his eyes has me weak in the knees.
“Don’t be sorry, Wildflower.” The thumb of his hand holding mine grazes the tattoo on my wrist. “I like your hands on me.”
There’s a beat of silence between us. Me recovering from the embarrassment while Rory looks at me like I’m made of glass and could shatter at any moment.
“Okay, Flipper. You’re a greased eel now.” I pat the center of his chest as to not be near either nipple.
The brand manager appears beside us. “We’re ready for you.” She gives me a towel to wipe my hands on. “There’s a restroom in the hallway to wash up.”
As I follow the brand manager’s directions toward the restroom, I feel Rory’s gaze lingering on me. Like a touch between my shoulder blades. A sizzling heat I can’t ignore.
Inside the restroom, I close the door behind me and lean against the sink, my chest rising and falling too fast for what was technically just a massage.
Except it wasn’t just a massage.
Not when his skin was so warm under my palms.
Not when his body reacted to my touch like that.
Not when he looked at me like I was something he craved.
My hands still smell like the coconut-vanilla oil. I lift them to my face like a lunatic and breathe in, remembering the exact way his stomach quivered when I skimmed just under the waistband of his shorts. The way his nipple pebbled beneath my touch. The way he groaned, not in amusement, but with hunger.
And then the way he looked at me. Not like he was teasing. Not like he was waiting for me to pull away. But like he was holding himself back. For me.
The ache I’ve been ignoring sharpens low in my belly, and I press my thighs together as I grip the edge of the sink.
He likes my hands on him.
He wants more.
And god help me, I do, too.
Rory was right. He is a professional, breezing through the shoot with charm and ease. Even the poses where he needed to look serious, he had no trouble pulling off an intense stare that made my stomach flip.
He showered to get the oil off, then we headed to Chalmers Street for the art exhibit I want to see.
The gallery is housed in a historic building on the cobblestone street, its brick facade softened by the climbing ivy and adorned with wrought-iron accents. Large, arched windows allow passersby to catch a glimpse of the art inside. A black and gold sign hangs above the door, reading “Lowcountry Collective.”
It’s the type of gallery I’ve longed to see my art displayed in.
Inside, the gallery itself is sleek and minimalist. High ceilings with skylights flooding the room with natural light, while hardwood floors and white walls are a neutral canvas for the art on exhibit.
As we walk through the small gallery, seeing the art on display is a mixed feeling. I love looking at art. Studying it and seeing how other artists bring their visions to life, but the feeling that I’ll never get to this point has my stomach tying itself in anxious knots. My fingers itch for a pencil or a brush, even as that old whisper of doubt slides in… you’re not good enough.
Rory’s hand brushes mine as we walk, and I glance over to see him studying the piece in front of us with a thoughtful expression.
“What do you think this one is about?” he asks, tilting his head toward the large canvas layered with chaotic brush strokes of indigo and rust.
I blink at him. “You’re actually trying to interpret it?”
“Of course, I am.” His brow furrows. “I feel like it’s about tension. Like the colors are fighting but also sort of relying on each other to be noticed?”
My jaw drops slightly. “That’s—” I shake my head, stunned. “That’s actually really good.”
Rory shrugs like it’s no big deal, but a little smile tugs at his mouth. “I’ve been trying to see things the way you do. You light up when you talk about art. It makes me want to understand it.”
Something in my chest squeezes tight. I turn back to the painting, pretending to study it again so he doesn’t see the tears welling in my eyes.
When he slips his hand into mine—casual, easy—I let him. Because even though I’m standing in a gallery full of art, none of it makes me feel as seen as the man beside me.