Page 44 of Counting On You

Chapter Ten

Vicky

Iscan my new room.

Clothes are arranged in the closet: check

Bed made: check

Furniture dusted: check

Everything looks in its right place, except for the box in the corner. For the life of me, I just can’t open it to retrieve its contents. It’s too much of a reminder that I’m a patient in this place, and my mind just refuses to accept it.

Sylvie was right about one thing.

My initial fears that I’d be kicked out on the first day were unreasonable.

I spent the day in knots, waiting for the call to come. When nothing happened—no letter of transfer, no complaint filed against me—I checked in with the therapist on the following morning. She acted like nothing happened.

Except for the odd glance she threw at me whenever I mentioned Bruce, she kept most remarks to herself, and we focused on my feelings and childhood, which was fine.

I didn’t really want to talk about Bruce, and she didn’t seem very keen on it, either.

I’ve been here for five days, during which I’ve only attended the morning sessions with my therapist. I’m too afraid of others’ judgment and am not ready for a group meeting.

Luckily, it’s not mandatory.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re avoiding me.” A deep voice startles me.

I turn around and find Kade standing next to my bed.

My breath catches in my throat and heat shoots up my neck, as if he’s just caught me doing something naughty.

Which is ridiculous.

I frown, ready to spit fire at him for bursting into my room uninvited. And yet all I can think about is—

Wow, he looks hot.

Dressed in a black shirt and jeans that hang low on his hips, with his dark hair falling into his face, he looks sexy, but with a dangerous touch.

Yes, I’ve been trying to avoid him—successfully so. There’s something about this man that makes me want to hide from him. He’s too full of himself, too rash, and maybe I do find him attractive just a little bit, even though he really isn’t my type.

I thought I could go on like this for as long as we’re forced to live together.

Fat chance.

“I’ve been hanging out with a friend,” I reply, my voice a bit too breathy.

Which is only partly the truth. While I’m seeing Sylvie every day after the morning session, I like to spend my afternoons reading in the rehab’s own library rather than seek out all the creative arts or sports activities on offer.

“You’re a Jane Austen fan,” Kade says and picks up the book arranged on my pillow. It’s a little thing my mom gave me, the edges almost falling apart. I still remember the first day my mom read it to me. I was five and into fairytales and even harbored the stupid dream of marrying a prince.

“Don’t touch my things.” I snatch the book out of his hands and press it against my heart.

“You didn’t strike me as the literary kind.”

“Well, I am. Not that it’s any of your business.” I frown at his choice of words. I should be insulted, but for some reason, I’m not quite.

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