Page 85 of The Sweetness of Life

You know he’s watching.

Don’t break.

That interview was exactly twenty-four hours after he left me at the cottage, and being in the same room, that close to him was complete and utter torture. I couldn’t wait for it to be over.

Over.

This is over. It was a fling. Time to go home.

Home . . .

It’s funny how quickly I started to feel at home here in northern Georgia with Zach, his friends, and his winery. It isn’t a place I’ve ever seen myself, but I was becoming more open to the possibility that maybe we were starting something worthy of pursuing. Then again, he wanted me to feel that way, so who knows what life here is really like.

The gravel under my heels causes me to wobble. I should have known better by now than to wear these shoes, but I’ll be damned if I don’t walk out of here at least looking like I got the last word in.

I make it to my car without incident, and as soon as I’m tucked inside with the door locked, I kick off my shoes and start the engine. Any shoe lover, such as myself, will tell you the fastest way to ruin a pair of heels is to drive in them. With the angle of the gas pedal, the fabric of the heel will rip, plastic will scuff, wood will scratch, and worst of all, it could break—just like my heart.

It hurts more today than I thought it would. The shock and adrenaline has worn off, and it has left my heart feeling as if it’s been run under a meat tenderizer. I’m sore, I ache, and I feel like I’ve been flattened. I ache for what I thought I meant to him and for what he meant to me. I fell for him, hard.

Under all the hurt, I’m angry. I’m angry at him and at myself. How did I let this happen to me? I know better.

Risking one more glance, my eyes flicker up to where I left him standing—only he isn’t standing. He’s on his knees with one hand on the ground, the other on his neck, and his face is screwed up in pain.

What in the world . . . ?

Watching him, his arm collapses and his head hits the dirt. Unbridled fear shocks me as he rolls to his side, and with shaking hands, I open the door and jump out.

“Zach!”

He doesn’t acknowledge me; he just continues panting with dust flying around his face.

I don’t remember moving, nor do I feel the bite of the gravel under my feet or my knees as I land on the ground next to him.

“What’s happening! Talk to me!” I push on his shoulder.

He shifts to his back and I’m assaulted by panic-filled blue eyes.

“I can’t breathe,” he barely gets out, clutching at his chest.

His entire face is flushed red and has started to swell. The skin around his eyes, his lips, and his tongue . . .

Oh God.

The bee sting.

Jumping to my feet, I start running for the manor, screaming.

“Kyle! Michelle! Anyone! HELP!”

My heart is racing. I know I should stay calm, but I can’t. He can’t breathe and I feel like I can’t either. Anxiety is sucking up all of my air and none of it is reaching my lungs.

Kyle meets me in the foyer, rushing straight toward me, and although there are other people behind him, all I see is him. Tears flood my eyes and Kyle’s go wild as he grabs me.

“What, what’s wrong!”

“Zach.” I point out the door. “Bee sting,” I say quickly, hoping it makes him move faster.

He immediately drops his hands and runs into the tasting room. Michelle bursts past me and out the front door. I follow her as she pulls out her phone and dials 911.