Page 29 of Jane Deyre
Erasing that memory, I hammer the first hook into the wall.Tap, tap, tap, tap. I watch the reed-thin brass nail disappear into the plaster. Easy peasy. With the other, I do the same.Tap, tap, tap...
Footsteps... then a voice.
“Jane...”
I hear myself shriek. White-hot pain radiates through me.
The hammer falls from my hand with a bang.
A sudden wave of dizziness crashes over me. Stars cluster behind my eyelids.
I’m about to pass out.
CHAPTER 17
Jane
Iknow that powerless, eerie feeling of fainting. It’s some kind of purgatory between consciousness and unconsciousness, a collection of dots behind your eyes that grows denser with each nauseated breath. Until the world fades to black.
“Jane, are you okay?”
Those words. I heard them earlier today. Except this time I can’t reply to them. I can’t get my voice box to work. My knees buckle and I feel myself slide to the floor like a limp strand of spaghetti.
The next thing I know I’m lying on my bed, my eyes fluttering, light seeping into them. With two hard blinks, I pry them open. One more blink and Ward Rochester’s face fills my vision. He’s looming over me. Concern etched deep on his heart-stopping features.
“Jane, are you okay?” he repeats.
I nod weakly. To be honest, I’m not sure. There’s a nauseous feeling in my chest and my left middle finger is throbbing. The two seem connected.
“What happened?” I manage.
He helps me sit up. “You fainted.”
“Oh.” Collecting myself, I meet his gaze. “Mr. Rochester, what are you doing here?”
He glances down at a brown paper bag next to the bed.
“I brought you a bottle of wine. I thought you might need some after today’s shopping excursion. To unwind.”
“Thanks,” I murmur. I thought he bought it for himself, never giving it a second thought after he hauled it with the rest of our Target purchases into the main house. “You startled me.”
“I’m sorry. I should have knocked. But the front door was unlocked.”
“Yeah, the door doesn’t lock and I don’t have a key.”
“Well, make sure you take care of that.”
I nod, the pain in my finger radiating though my body and clouding my thinking. I feel my hand trembling and look down. His gaze follows mine. It’s hard to miss my gory middle finger. The cuticle is torn and it’s bleeding like crazy.
“Jesus. You’ve hurt yourself.”
I flash a small pained smile. A single tear slides down my cheek. The second one today. “Yeah, I hammered my finger.”
He brushes away the tear with a fingertip. The second time today his digit has grazed my flesh. “What were you hammering?”
“I wanted to hang my vision board.”
“Vision board?”