Page 55 of The Kiss Countdown

Twenty minutes later, I jump when a loud crack splits the air. Heart hammering, I try to imagine where a small explosion may have occurred. Is there a fire department nearby? Who the hell is going to come get me?

Then it happens again, and again, becoming methodical. Careful not to move too quickly and hurt my ankle, I turn to look out the window behind the headboard. What I see is a sight.

Vincent is chopping wood. With heat from the afternoon sun, temperatures must be in the midsixties now. He’s removed his vest, but still wears a black shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. As he brings the axe over his head and down in perfect form, my heart takes off for a whole new reason.

Without hesitation, I take a picture of him and send it off to Gina. I’m not surprised when she instantly replies.

Gina: I think he missed the memo that wood chopping is 100x sexier without a shirt. Or at the very least, plaid. But still, get it, Zaddy!

I roll my eyes at the line of sweat emojis and set my phone down. Now that I’ve sent the message, I feel a bit ridiculous. Gina will never let me live that one down. I’ll never let myself live it down. I am officially out of my mind.

Orit’s a case of cabin fever. That makes more sense. I need to get out of this room. Vincent said we’d go for a ride later, but who knows how many more hours that will be.

There’s a moment of silence from the steady chopping, so I look out the window to determine whether Vincent is done with his chore or taking a short break. There he is, grabbing a stack of chopped wood and walking out of sight to the front of the house.

Mrs. Rogers is outside, placing a pizza in a brick oven, and Brianna is sprawling in one of their many lawn chairs, reading a book. This is my chance.

I move my legs to the edge of the bed and test my ankle. I remember how, as a kid, I used to get jealous whenever a fellow classmate would break an arm or leg, and everyone would sign their cast. I thought they looked so cool and wanted one for myself. Thank God that wish never came to pass. This being injured thing is not it.

I take a deep breath and hoist myself up. After the first few hobbling steps toward the door, it really isn’t that bad. With one shoe on and the afflicted foot and ankle in a sock, I play a grueling game of one-footed hopscotch to make it to the back deck.

Mrs. Rogers and Brianna watch me with twin looks of bemusement, like they can’t believe I’m crazy enough to be hopping through the yard, yet they’re ready to come help ifI fall and bust my ass. But I make it up the three steps to the wooden deck and use the last of my energy to fall into an empty chair. I smile at the ladies in triumph, even Sheba, who lies under Brianna’s chair while regarding me with the saddest of eyes, as if to say sorry.

“Uh-oh,” Brianna says. “Vincent’s not going to be happy to see you out here.”

Vincent and Brianna are five years apart, so I have to imagine he played not only a brotherly role but a fatherly one as well while they were growing up. Maybe the thought of Vincent being upset causes Brianna a bit of trepidation, but not me.

I shrug. “Well, too bad, so sad for him.Hewasn’t the one confined to the guesthouse all day, so he can stay mad.” I see Mrs. Rogers watching me and wince. I need to tone down the snark, lest Mrs. Rogers think her son is with someone intent on causing him stress. “It’s a lovely room, Mrs. Rogers. I just needed some fresh air.”

Mrs. Rogers grins as she takes her seat. “It’s Cheryl, remember? And I’m not bothered in the least that you needed to get out of there. In fact, I’m glad you joined us. We get to chat, and it’ll do Vince some good to realize he can’t make everyone do what he wants.”

Speaking of the man, Vincent comes around the corner of the house. When he sees me posted in my new favorite chair, he stops in his tracks.

Brianna shifts to a more comfortable position in her seat. “Where’s my popcorn?”

“Hush,” Mrs. Rogers says.

Vincent and I are locked in a stare-down. By the set of his jaw and straight line of his brows, I know he isn’t happy to see me out here. But the only way he’ll get me back inside is by hauling me kicking and screaming.

He’d better not try it.

I tense as he stomps my way, stopping to loom inches above me. “You’re supposed to keep that elevated.”

He grabs an empty chair and, far from gently, sets it down in front of me. When he then turns to face me, I straighten, daring him to try to manhandle me in the same manner. But Vincent slowly and deliberately reaches for my right leg and places it on the chair. Gently, he sweeps his hand from my calf to my ankle.

Through my leggings and the tough material of Vincent’s gloves, I can’t feel the heat from his hand. Still, warmth spreads through me as if he’s touched my bare skin, melting away all hostility.

“Did you hurt yourself getting out here?” he asks quietly. Oh Lord, his irises are doing that shining thing again that makes me want to drown in them.

I shake my head and respond in the same low tone. “Not too bad.”

“Let me know when you want to go back inside, and I’ll help you.”

“Okay,” I say, and that’s it. No scoffing or proclaiming how I’m an independent woman who can manage to get back inside the same way I came. I’m hypnotized by his eyes and as docile as a lamb.

“Okay.” He nods once and backs away.

I watch as he gathers more bundles of wood, then glance toward Mrs. Rogers and Brianna once he disappears around the side of the house. It’s evident the two women have been staring at me as long as I was at Vincent. I reach for my necklace. “What?”

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