Chapter 40
forty
. . .
SUMMER
Sucking Rory’s cock, seeing how I affect him, and watching him come will forever be burned into my brain. That, as well as how devilishly handsome he looked peering up from between my legs while he fucked me with a paintbrush handle. That moment, and how turned on it made me, will never be forgotten.
But being intimate with Rory had brought up feelings from the past. When I’d reached to touch him, I’d had a moment of hesitation, old insecurities creeping in, but with his reassuring words and sweet kisses, Rory helped me push them aside.
With his arms wrapped around my midsection, he pulls me closer against him. That feels impossible since we’re already sandwiched together on the futon. He’s shirtless, having only pulled his joggers back on while I stole his hoodie.
“New marriage rule.” He presses a kiss to my jaw, his hands exploring beneath the hoodie I’m wearing. “Orgasms, every day.”
“You really think you’re going to find time for that with your schedule?” I tease, nuzzling against his bare shoulder.
But seriously, his schedule is insane.
“I always find time for the things that matter the most to me.”
“Like orgasms?” My lips twitch with amusement.
“Sure, but really anything that has to do with you.” His voice is low and tender. When I glance up to see his face, he’s smiling softly at me. “ My wife .”
My throat tightens, which instinctively makes me want to laugh it off. Say something snarky, but the look in his eyes makes it impossible.
Why does he do this to me?
Why is he making me start to feel things I promised myself I wouldn’t?
I swallow, forcing a grin. “You’re annoyingly good at this fake marriage thing.”
Even as I try to remind us what this is, my heart pounds too fast against my ribs. It’s beating to its own rhythm, completely ignoring my brain’s warnings. To not let Rory’s sweet words blur the lines.
“It’s easy to pretend with you.” He slides a finger along my jaw. “So easy, I don’t have to fake it.”
My fingers, still exploring his chest, unwilling to let go.
“What about you? I think you like being held more than you let on.”
I bite my lip, remembering the night he proposed this marriage of convenience. How I’d shoved him away when he tried to sit beside me in the booth. A reflex I’d honed in my last relationship.
You’re too needy, Summer. I can’t give you attention all the time.
Holding hands? What are we, in middle school?
Maybe I’d want you to touch me more if you weren’t so clingy.
“Remember when you asked what my love language is?”
“Yeah, and you told me it was personal space.”
He slips a warm hand underneath my—his—sweatshirt.
“It’s not personal space,” I admit.
“Oh, really?” His brows, teasing, but knowing.
I trace his collarbone, his shoulder, the curve of his arm.
“It’s physical touch.” My throat bobs as I swallow.
He’s quiet for a moment.
“I know, Wildflower.”
He threads his fingers through mine, holding our hands against his chest where the mermaid and dolphin are painted.
“You do?” I ask, surprised. But I shouldn’t be. Rory sees me.
“You lean into me, even when you act like I’m annoying you. You linger when we hug. And every night, you sleep with your foot touching mine.”
“But I put up the pillow wall.”
“Your foot found a workaround.” He grins. “I’m not mad about it. I like you touching me.”
His words almost undo me. All the moments that used to make me feel like too much—too clingy, too desperate—feel tender now. Safe. The shame I carried from my ex’s words fades under Rory’s hands. The way he draws lazy circles on my skin like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“I’m still trying to believe someone could want all of me,” I whisper.
His hand stills. Then he pulls me in, kissing me softly. “I do.”
It would be so easy to lose myself in him again, but I remember I have something to show him.
Reluctant to leave the safety of his arms, I sit up and tug on his hand. “Come with me. I want to show you something.”
A lazy grin appears on his face. “I’ll follow you anywhere.”
“Stop being such a cheese ball.”
We walk into the bedroom, and I motion toward the newly framed painting now hanging on the wall.
“I figured it deserved a proper frame. And a better resting place than the dresser.”
“It’s perfect.” He smiles, wrapping his warms around me from behind and pressing a kiss to my cheek. “You know your stuff. Thank you for framing it.”
“It was nothing. I saw the frame while I was walking the dogs.” But I can’t help the flutter of pride in my chest when I turn to see his expression. How he looks at the art like it matters. Then, when our eyes connect, like I matter.
“Did they have a second frame?” he asks.
“I don’t think so. Why?”
“Just a sec.”
He releases me and disappears, only to return a moment later with a package wrapped in brown paper. When he unwraps it, my breath catches.
It’s the Covey that was auctioned off at The Golden Lane Project gala.
“How did you get that?” I ask, stepping closer. I know every brushstroke, but seeing it in Rory’s hands, it feels different.
“I asked Vivi to call in an anonymous bid.”
“Why?” I whisper.
“I wanted it.” He gestures toward both paintings. “I’m starting a collection.”
A collection?
I’m about to hyperventilate.
“I can’t explain it, but at the gala, when I saw it, it stirred something inside me. The lone swimmer at golden hour. The colors. The way the paint dried in this 3D effect.” His laugh comes out awestruck. “I guess I fell in love with it. I figured, being an artist, you’d understand it more than anyone.”
Rory wanted the paintings without knowing their connection to me. It makes the flutter of pride surging behind my ribs mean even more. Because it was one thing to find the Covey painting of his beach house and keep it, but to spend twenty-two thousand dollars on the painting at the gala? That was insane.
The pride I’d felt a moment ago has given way to panic.
Rory loves my art, but what if he loves it less if he finds out I painted it? I don’t want to disappoint him.
It may not be logical, but it’s those kinds of thoughts that have kept me painting in the shadows. It’s the remnants of hiding myself to please others. Doubting myself because all the outside voices were louder and quieted my confidence.
My chest tightens and I realize I’m not breathing.
When I finally attempt to suck in a breath, it’s shallow and I end up coughing.
“Summer, what—" Rory starts.
As the wheezing starts, I rush into the bathroom and pull open the drawer to grab my inhaler. Rory’s right behind me. A soothing presence as I take a deep inhale of my medication. With the inhaler piece between my lips, I glance up at him to find his eyes full of concern.
Once I’ve taken my medication, Rory lifts me up onto the counter. With his hands on either side of my thighs, he gives me enough space to breathe, but stays close enough to keep a watchful eye.
“That’s it,” he coaxes, his eyes scanning over my face and chest. “Deep breaths.”
I focus on his chest, how calmly it rises and falls.
We stay in this position for a while, until my breathing has evened out.
His hands lift to cup my face, then he lowers his head down until our foreheads press together.
“Talk to me, Summer. Please.”
“I forgot to take my medication earlier. I was busy and I guess I got too worked up. I’m sorry.”
He pulls back to study me.
“You don’t have to be sorry, but I do need you to be honest with me.”
I nod my head.
“Did me buying the Covey painting upset you? I think your art is brilliant. The swimmer painting you’re working on is priceless to me. Me liking the Covey paintings doesn’t mean I’m not obsessed with your art as well.”
But am I ready to reveal myself to Rory?
Haven’t I already?
One more deep breath and I shift Rory backwards so I can get off the counter. Taking his hand in mine, I lead him back into my art studio.
He doesn’t say anything as I move toward the closet.
Then, I open the door and pull him inside.
And for the first time in a long time, I don’t hold my breath.
Behind me Rory is silent, taking it all in. Maybe he doesn’t know what I’m showing him. Or maybe he does and is too shocked for words.
“These are all mine.” I swallow thickly. “I painted them.”
I meet his eyes and see the surprise there. But there’s tenderness and adoration, too.
“Summer,” Rory’s voice is soft. “You’re Covey.”
It’s not a question but more him saying it out loud to process.
He moves closer to the paintings lining the floor of the closet and brushes his fingers along the edges.
“Of course you are.”
My heart hammers in my chest. “What does that mean?”
A self-effacing laugh escapes from his lips. “I’ve been quietly obsessed with Covey ever since I found the painting of my house. Not because it was my house, but because of the way it made me feel. Raw and grounded. Like I could breathe a little deeper even when everything else was chaos.” He turns to meet my gaze. “It’s the way I feel when I’m with you.
“It’s obvious now why I had such a strong connection with the painting at the gala. With the Covey artist’s work.” His lips curve into a wide smile. “It’s you.”
I’d thought revealing my secret identity to Rory would be the hardest part, but talking about my art feels even more challenging.
“Your house—this house—was the first one I connected with when I arrived in Coral Cove. I loved how it was charming but not perfect. Right on the beach but not ostentatious. It made me feel welcome.”
Rory sees everything. The vulnerability in my eyes. The way I hold my breath waiting for judgment. And he’s looking at me like my brushstrokes rearranged something in him he didn’t even know was out of place.
“I hope you know this doesn’t change how I see you. It just makes everything make sense.
“Your art is more than a souvenir from a coastal beach town. People love it because it’s real. It’s you in every brushstroke,” he says, his voice low, yet filled with so much sincerity that I feel my chest tighten.
He leans in, brushing his lips against my knuckles, before bringing our hands to his chest, right above his heart. “It’s you. All of you. And I see that now.”
For the first time, it feels good to be known. Not exposed or cornered. Just…seen.
I swallow, my throat tight with emotion. I’ve spent so long hiding parts of myself, letting the world think I was just the carefree girl who lived in a van and painted the world. But Rory doesn’t just see the image I project. He sees the depth behind it. The fears, the longings, the hidden parts I’ve kept locked away. And he doesn’t shy away from any of it.
“I never thought anyone would understand,” I whisper, my voice barely a breath, as if speaking it out loud will make the weight of it all too real.
Rory’s gaze softens, his thumb still gently caressing the tattoo on my wrist. “You don’t have to hide from me, Summer. I’ve always seen more than what’s on the surface.” His smile is soft, almost vulnerable. “You’ve got layers, and I want to know every one of them.”
I feel my breath catch, the weight of his words settling deep inside of me. I know I should say something, but for once, the words feel tangled in my throat. I’m not ready to let him in completely, not yet. But a part of me wants to. Wants him to see it all.
I pull him closer, the fingers of my free hand reaching to tangle in the short hair at the nape of his neck. My lips find his, slow and tentative at first, as though I’m testing the waters of this new, uncharted territory between us.
But he deepens the kiss, his hands tracing up my arms, grounding me, pulling me back into him. And in that moment, I’m not just the girl with the secret. I’m not just the artist or the traveler. I’m the woman who feels seen by the man who’s always been right there, waiting for me to let him in.
When we pull apart, his forehead rests against mine, our breaths mingling. I can’t help but smile, though there’s a faint flutter of uncertainty in my chest. It feels so good to be known, but it also feels a little too big. A little too much.
His voice is soft, almost a whisper. “You’re not just the artist of those paintings, Summer. You’re the masterpiece.”
I laugh quietly, a breathless sound. “You’re laying it on pretty thick, Flipper.”
His lips curl up in a teasing grin, but there’s something deeper there. Something raw. “I mean it. You’ve always been more than just your art, Summer.”
I bite my lip, the words threatening to spill, but I hold them back. I’m not ready to say it yet, not ready to name what’s shifting inside me.