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Oh my God. I killed him. There’s no other explanation.
I don’t mean to go insane on his poor doorbell, but I realize—belatedly, of course—that I’m punching the damn thing as if every ding-donnnng enters me to win the lottery.
“Shit.” I take a step back on his porch and inhale slowly. Then I let a long breath out and start ringing again.
I followed him for two reasons: one, to be sure he really is okay, and two, because I want to see him—in a regular setting, now that that first thrall has worn off a little…I want to know how I’ll react to him. Because being near him in the woods a little bit ago? It made me feel awkward, and embarrassed, and inadequate, and exposed. But that’s so much better than feeling nothing.
How long have I been doing this to myself, I wonder frantically. Letting myself get so walled off, I didn’t even remember what it’s like to feel turned on by a hot guy. I, who spent a year surrounded by the most beautiful of men. When did I forget that feeling: the heart-in-your-throat, fire-in-your-tummy sensation of simple physical desire? Sure, I have a healthy amount of private workouts with my LELO but…I shake my head and punch the bell again. LELO is not a person.
When I hear nothing on the other side of the door, I walk down the porch steps, into the bed of azalea bushes nestled up against the stone base of the house. With a guilty glance left and right, I lift a small, quartz stone and turn it over. Yep—the key’s still here. I have my own at home, from when I used to check on this place for the Haywoods, but of course, my key isn’t on me.
As I climb back up, I swear the day seems brighter. The birds seem louder, the wind feels cooler. If this is what happens after just being near someone who gets my blood pumping, what would happen if—
I shake my head and slide the key into the lock.
No. Just no. Can’t go there.
I’ve never been able to handle getting my hopes up. I’m so excitable by nature…it’s just too much. Which is one of the reasons why what happened after my accident was so difficult to bear.
Hot neighbor guy is probably at the urgent care, I tell myself as I turn the doorknob. I’m such a drama llama. He’s not dead.
Nope. Not dead at all.
I step fully inside the house and look around the kitchen and the epically large living room. It looks the same in here as it did last time. High-end rustic. Comfortable and cozy.
Mrs. Haywood died in last fall, on a weekend I was visiting my mom in Memphis. Mr. Haywood didn’t want anyone at the house the day or two after—in fact, the door was locked and the lights were off—and after that, he jetted back to New York. I heard he’d put the home for sale a short time later, through the teeny Gatlinburg grapevine. So the last time I was here was over a year ago.
I hold my breath as my eyes scan the open space. Not a single mote of lint seems out of place, making me wonder if he’s living here yet.
“Hello?”
I take another small step forward and train my gaze on the left side of the open space, where one set of stairs tilts downward and another flight curves elegantly upward to the third level.
He’s probably not here. Guilt churns in me. I should have followed right behind him, rather than pace around the woods for half an hour being nervous and uncertain.
Just when I’m about to turn and go, I hear a creak above me.
Could he upstairs? I can’t just go up there…can I? What if he’s gone to get patched up and he comes back?
I have a good excuse, I guess.
I walk quietly into the kitchen. It’s wrong to snoop in other people’s things, but I tell myself this will help me discern whether he’s living here. If the refrigerator is empty, there will be no reason to go traipsing around on the third level.
I pull the door open and— Red Bull. Yikes. That’s a lot of Red Bull in there. Meaning—he must be living here? Or needs a lot of caffeine while he hunts on his new acreage? I make a face. Red Bull is so gross. The refrigerator also harbors a few apples, some apple jelly, a carton of eggs, and a jug of orange juice.
Okay—so maybe he is living here. I’m a super snooper. An interloper. Not just any interloper. One who kicked him in the head and made him bleed. I squeeze my eyes shut. I should go now.
But what if he’s upstairs, passed out?
What if?
Didn’t that Facebook executive’s husband die from falling off a treadmill and hitting his head? I think he did.
I blow my breath out. I’m going to do it. Because I know if I don’t, I’ll wonder till I drive myself insane. And really, can I embarrass myself any more than I already have by attacking the man in the first place?
I stride into the living area, which smells like leather and firewood.
“Hello?” I call, more loudly than before.
