Broken is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

A Flirt eBook Original

Copyright © 2014 by Lauren LeDonne

Excerpt from The Real Thing by Cassie Mae copyright © 2014 by Cassie Mae

All rights reserved.

Published in the United States of America by Flirt, an imprint of Random House, a division of Random House LLC, a Penguin Random House Company, New York.

FLIRT is a registered trademark and the FLIRT colophon is a trademark of Random House LLC.

This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming book The Real Thing by Cassie Mae. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.

eBook ISBN 9780553390353

Cover design: Caroline Teagle

Cover photo: Shutterstock

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Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter One: Olivia

Chapter Two: Paul

Chapter Three: Olivia

Chapter Four: Paul

Chapter Five: Olivia

Chapter Six: Paul

Chapter Seven: Olivia

Chapter Eight: Paul

Chapter Nine: Olivia

Chapter Ten: Paul

Chapter Eleven: Olivia

Chapter Twelve: Paul

Chapter Thirteen: Olivia

Chapter Fourteen: Paul

Chapter Fifteen: Olivia

Chapter Sixteen: Paul

Chapter Seventeen: Olivia

Chapter Eighteen: Paul

Chapter Nineteen: Olivia

Chapter Twenty: Paul

Chapter Twenty-One: Olivia

Chapter Twenty-Two: Paul

Chapter Twenty-Three: Olivia

Chapter Twenty-Four: Paul

Chapter Twenty-Five: Olivia

Chapter Twenty-Six: Paul

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Olivia

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Paul

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Olivia

Chapter Thirty: Paul

Chapter Thirty-One: Olivia

Chapter Thirty-Two: Paul

Chapter Thirty-Three: Olivia

Chapter Thirty-Four: Paul

Chapter Thirty-Five: Olivia

Chapter Thirty-Six: Paul

Dedication

Acknowledgments

By Lauren Layne

About the Author

Excerpt from The Real Thing

Chapter One

Olivia

Only in Manhattan would parents throw a dropping-out-of-college party for their daughter. And only on the Upper East Side would people actually show up.

Now, to be fair, the invitations didn’t actually acknowledge the whole dropping-out bit. Nothing so crass as that. I mean, this is New York, after all. People have standards. At least when other people are watching.

See, the twelve-dollars-each invitations spun the whole debacle as a “sending-off celebration for Olivia Elizabeth Middleton.”

Sending-off indeed.

The destination? Bar Harbor, Maine.

The reason? Charitable endeavors.

Ahem. Not exactly. At least they got the location right, although even that’s a bit of a joke. It’s not exactly Rwanda or Haiti or any of the places that Olivia Elizabeth Middleton originally intended to go with the intention of saving the world. But when your parents know someone who knows someone who knows everyone, you’re bound to get hooked up with someone who needs help a little closer to home. So Bar Harbor, Maine, it is.

But the whole do-gooder motivation? Total bullshit. I should know.

See, I’m Olivia Elizabeth Middleton: NYU drop-out and soon-to-be resident of Middle-of-Nowhere.

And let me tell you, my reasons have nothing to do with charity. I’m not that good. Not even close. I certainly don’t deserve a freaking party for the things I’ve done.

But I’m a Middleton. Parties are what we do. At this point, I’m just counting myself lucky I talked my mother out of the Mother Teresa ice sculpture.

I wish I were kidding.

So here I am, dressed in a brand-new Versace cocktail dress, trying to make everyone believe I was bitten by the philanthropic bug just in time to bail on my senior year of college.

The most depressing thing is that everyone seems willing to just go with it. Well done, Liv! So proud of you, Olivia. Lovely inside and out.

Blech.

My best friend, at least, doesn’t seem to be buying it. “Liv, you can’t be serious. I mean, where are you going to get your hair highlighted all the way up in Maine?”

Some deep part of me wants to snap at my oldest friend to stop being so superficial. But the other part of me—the one that’s more familiar—is dying to grab her by the shoulders and give her an Oh-my-God-I-know! shake. Because the truth is, I’ve spent way too much time wondering about how I’m going to keep my honey-blond hair from returning to its natural mud color while in Maine.

Bella Cullinane and I have had the same hairdresser since our mothers decided it was time we become versed in the difference between highlights and lowlights. We were thirteen. But Bella and I were inseparable long before that. She was the cute brunette to my classy blonde all through twelve years of private school. Bella taught me the art of rolling my plaid uniform skirt just enough to be interesting without being obvious, and in return, I was her alibi when she let Todd Akin talk her out of her lavender couture dress on prom night. Even when Bella went off to Fordham and me off to NYU, we made a pact to see each other at least a couple times a month. So far we’ve stuck to it.

And since I dropped my off-to-Maine bomb on her two months ago, she’s been telling me she’ll be my best friend no matter what (the no matter what, of course, being the not-so-minor fact that I won’t be finishing my senior year with that management degree I’ve spent three years chasing).

But deep down, we both know things have changed. Phone calls just aren’t the same as Wednesday wine nights. And even when we do see each other again, we’ll have nothing in common. Bella will be knee-deep in studying for her LSATs and cherry-picking the law school of her choice while I’m shuttling a war vet back and forth to physical therapy and coaxing him to eat split-pea soup, or whatever it is irritable elderly people subsist on.

“I’ll be home for Thanksgiving,” I say by way of response to Bella’s horror over my hair crisis. “I’ll make an appointment then.”

My best friend purses her glossy lips and takes a sip of Taittinger champagne—a tiny one, since champagne has carbs, and Bella lives in constant fear that her hourglass figure will turn lumpy before she can make it down the aisle in a size-2 wedding dress.

“So three-plus months,” she says, giving my hair a once-over. “Your ends might survive it if you don’t flat-iron your hair, but the roots…ugh.”

“Maybe I could just wear a bag over my head,” I say, taking a sip of my own champagne. A bigger sip than Bella’s, because unlike my curvy friend, I’m more of the willowy (read: flat-chested) type, and if my parents’ genetics are any indication, my beanpole figure will probably outlast my teeth.

Being able to legally drink at my parents’ frequent social gatherings is pretty much the only good thing about getting older. I suspect that’s one of the reasons the drinking age is twenty-one. It’s as though some wise person way back when knew that alcohol would start to get reaaaaally helpful at that point of your life. I’m nearly twenty-two, and God knows I’ve found a drink handy a time or two. Especially in the last year.

I catch a whiff of candy-scented perfume a second before an arm goes around my waist.

“You’ll never guess who dared to show his face,” my friend Andrea murmurs in my ear. “And he brought her.”

Bella and Andrea are giving me that wary, wide-eyed look that everyone gets when Ethan Price and I are in the same room, and before I know it I’m flanked by four of my other friends, all nearly identical in jewel-colored cocktail dresses and designer high heels.

I don’t have to turn around to know that the girl Andrea is so concerned about won’t be matchy-matchy with anyone. Ethan’s new girlfriend has a distinct style that the socially polite set refers to as unique and the total snobs among us would call weird. In my circle, there’s nothing worse than weird.

“What the hell is she wearing?” Sarah asks cattily.

It’s no secret that my friends fall into the snob category, Bella excepted most of the time. Sarah’s the worst of the lot, and not for the first time in my life I wonder why I continue to let her pretend we’re friends.

Knowing that they’ll continue to hover around me like a pack of glamorous guard dogs until I’ve dealt with the newcomers, I sneak a tiny peek over my shoulder at where Ethan and Stephanie stand talking to a mutual family friend.

My heart twists the tiniest bit at the sight of Ethan. In his gray slacks, perfectly tailored white shirt, and Burberry tie, he looks as well groomed and gorgeous as ever. He has the dark blond hair and broad shoulders better suited to Hollywood than the Manhattan business world, but luckily he’s got the brains and the charm to keep his head above water amid the Manhattan sharks.

Then I look at her.

From the sneer on my friends’ faces, I was expecting Stephanie to be wearing torn jeans, a leopard-print catsuit, or something else ridiculous, but the truth is she looks kind of cute. Her dark eye makeup is the perfect complement to her wide blue eyes, and the strapless gray dress would be downright demure if not for the bright orange belt around her tiny waist. She’s paired the whole thing with these beat-up-looking riding boots, which, while not exactly an Upper East Side standard, gives the whole effect of a girl comfortable with herself.

Of course she’s comfortable. She’s hanging on the arm of the boy you thought you were going to marry.

I push the bitchy thought away. I’ve had months to accept that Ethan isn’t coming back. Hell, I was even the one who insisted that he and his new girlfriend be invited to the party. Ethan’s parents and mine have been best friends since we were barely out of diapers. I’m not about to let a little thing like betrayal throw a wrench in that.

“You okay, Liv?” Bella asks softly.

I tear my eyes away from Ethan and Stephanie. “Yeah. Give me a minute, though, ’kay?” I hand her my champagne glass. “And don’t let them attack Stephanie,” I murmur to my best friend.

But escaping is no easy task. I’m stopped at least five times by well-wishers who want to tell me that they always knew I had such a good heart.

Ha.

Finally I’m able to pour myself a glass of my raspberry iced tea to stave off the impending headache and head toward the stairs to escape to my bedroom, just for a couple of minutes.

My mother grabs my arm. “Where are you going?”

I point down at my six-hundred-dollar Jimmy Choo pumps. “Blister. I just want to grab a Band-Aid.”

Mom’s green eyes—the ones everyone is always saying are identical to my own—narrow slightly, but her grip eases on my arm. “Everyone is so proud of you,” she says, looking both relieved and delighted. “Holly Sherwitz said she wouldn’t be surprised to see you win a Nobel Peace Prize someday.”

Inside, I’m cracking up in bitter amusement, but years of training in social appropriateness have me merely lifting my eyebrows. “I hope you told her that was absurd.”

Mom’s smile slips. “It’s not absurd. It’s admirable, what you’re doing. Moving to the middle of nowhere to help out one of our injured veterans?”

“Except it’s not the middle of nowhere, is it? It’s a one-hour plane ride, thanks to your and Dad’s interference.”

Mom doesn’t bother to look guilty. “Olivia, honey. You wouldn’t have lasted a day in El Salvador or wherever it was you were going to go build houses. There are plenty of people right here at home that need help. And we’re so proud of you for doing this.”

I give her a look. “Uh-huh. Is that why you guys didn’t speak to me for a week when I first told you about it?”

“We were in shock,” Mom says, unruffled. “Your father and I had no idea you weren’t happy in business school, and of course we’d always envisioned you taking over the company….”

It’s times like these that I wish my parents were really old money instead of second-generation money. Each of my friends is richer than the next, but most of their families’ wealth goes back to some 1800s railroad or some industry whose income is pretty much self-generating by now. Not in my case.

My grandfather had the whole American-dream syndrome going on and changed his midwestern middle-class destiny, building a highly respected advertising firm instead. Dad’s only built on his father’s success, and the business is fully expected to remain a family affair.

And I’m an only child. No pressure.

“I might still take over the company, Mom. I just need to get away from all this, you know? The only time I leave Manhattan is to go to the Hamptons in the summer or Saint-Tropez in January. I mean, you’ve always said you don’t want me to be one of those girls—”

Mom shakes her head to interrupt me. “I know. Believe me, as much as I play the New York society game, I do want you to know that there’s a big world out there, Olivia. But are you sure you don’t want to stay a little closer to home? There’s a facility out in Queens, and—”

“I’m already committed, Mom,” I say gently. “Mr. Langdon’s already sent a check to cover my travel expenses, and I’m expected next Friday.”

Mom sighs. “Can’t a grown man arrange for his own care? Something’s weird about his father having to do all the planning.”

“You’re the one who connected me with the Langdons in the first place. They’re legit. Plus Paul’s an invalid. If he could arrange for his own care, he probably wouldn’t need care.” I say this as patiently as possible. It’s a clear indication of just how small my mom’s world is, despite her good intentions. She doesn’t know anyone who’s actually gone to war, much less been injured.

Not that I do, for that matter. Park Avenue isn’t exactly swarming with members of the U.S. armed forces.

“Well,” Mom says, taking a deep breath and pushing my long hair over my shoulder affectionately, “it’s lucky he has a pretty girl like you to take care of him.”

I smile wanly. I’ve been hearing this refrain all evening, and it makes me slightly ill. Not only because it’s condescending to the poor guy I’ll be caring for, but because it makes me into some sort of sweet, saintly figure.

Only two other people in this house know the truth about me. My mother isn’t one of them.

“Hurry back down,” Mom says. “The Austens said they hadn’t had a chance to talk to you yet.”

Probably because I’ve been dodging them. Annamarie Austen is the catty kind of gossip I’ve avoided like the plague in recent months, and Jeff Austen stares too long at my chest.

“I’ll be fast,” I say before fleeing up the winding staircase to fetch my imaginary Band-Aid. My feet are far too used to being pinched in high heels to be plagued by blisters. I just want—need—five minutes to myself. A chance to be away from everyone’s misplaced fawning and the crushing pressure in my chest every time I look at Ethan.

But my bedroom isn’t quite the solitary sanctuary I imagined. Far from it.

I jump in surprise, but a part of me isn’t surprised at all to see him in here. Him being the iceberg that destroyed my life. It’s only appropriate that he also be around to watch me sink.

Now there are three people in the house who know the truth about me.

“Michael,” I say, keeping my voice calm. Polite. I’m always polite.

“Liv.”

Michael St. Claire is one of those amiable, good-looking guys who attract friends—and girls—like a magnet. He gets his dark brown hair perfectly styled at a salon that costs just about as much as my own, and his lightly golden skin is the gift of great Italian genes on his mother’s side. He’s been one of my best friends for as long as I can remember.

The Middletons, St. Claires, and Prices have been a tight-knit clique at the top of New York society for over twenty years. My mother and Michael’s mom were best friends in college, and they met Ethan’s mother when they all showed up, little kids in tow, for orientation at the rich-kids preschool.

The occasional dinner party with their respective spouses followed, and by the time I was eight, we were spending more holidays with the St. Claires and Prices than we were with my grandparents.

Our parents’ friendship ensured that Ethan, Michael, and I went to the same prep school, but by the time college came around, the three of us were so tightly entwined with each other’s lives that our joint NYU enrollment had been our own choice. It ensured we could stay close to home and close to each other.

But now?

Now the three of us in the same house feels almost unbearable.

“What are you doing here?”

Michael sets aside the picture of the three of us on Ethan’s parents’ boat the summer after our freshman year of college. “What do you think? I came to ask what the fuck is going on.”

I move toward my vanity to reapply lip gloss so I don’t have to look at him. “I’m sure you saw it on the invitation. I’m going to spend a few months volunteering.”

He moves closer, his golden eyes both skeptical and concerned, as if he has the right to be worried about me.

“You’re running away,” he says in a low voice.

I spin to face him, crossing my arms over my chest and leaning back against the vanity. “Of course I’m running away. Don’t you want to?”

“No,” he says, his voice going hard and angry. “I don’t want to tuck my tail between my legs and scamper off so I don’t have to deal with anything.”

“So what’s your plan then, Michael? You want to keep trying to pretend everything’s like it was? Even my dad knows something’s up, and he’s not exactly Mr. Observant.”

“We don’t need to hide it, Liv.”

“There is no it.”

There’s a flash of pain on his face, and the part of me that used to be best friends with this guy wants to hug the hurt away. But we’re not friends anymore. And the last hug that we shared…I can’t even go there. Not with a hundred people downstairs.

“You need to get out of here,” I say.

“So that’s how it’s going to be? I’m the one that gets kicked out of the group? I get to be the bad guy?”

I want to shout at him that he is the bad guy. I want to blame it all on him. But deep down, I know I can’t.

“I just don’t want to be in the same bedroom as you,” I say through gritted teeth. “That didn’t work out so well for us last time.”

Michael moves even closer, leaning in so his face is just inches from mine. “Yeah? Seems to me that it worked out really well last time.”

I close my eyes to push away the mental image, and when that doesn’t succeed, I reach out and literally push him away. His nearness brings back the very memories that are driving me to my self-imposed exile in the first place.

My push is only strong enough to rock him back on his heels, and his eyes search my face before his features go closed and hard.

He begins to walk away, his expression full of disgust. “I know what this bullshit Maine excursion is really about, Olivia. It won’t give you what you’re looking for.”

My stomach clenches. “You don’t know anything,” I say.

“You’re looking for forgiveness,” he says, turning back in the doorway. “So am I. But it’s not in Bar Harbor, Maine. You’ll come find me when you realize that.”

Our gazes hold for several more seconds, and for a moment I think it might be longing that I feel, but deep down I know it’s only regret. I’ll never be able to give him what he thinks he wants.

But whether or not we’re right for each other, Michael does know me. He knows that the reason I’m fleeing New York has nothing to do with the goodness of my heart and everything to do with the wretchedness of it.

Caring for a war veteran isn’t about philanthropy.

It’s about penance.

Chapter Two

Paul

Those who think 11:14 A.M. is too early in the day to start drinking haven’t met my father.

Hell, those who think any time of day is too early to start drinking haven’t met me.

“Adding alcoholic to our résumé, are we?” Dad asks, glaring at the tumbler of bourbon in my hand with disdain.

I rattle the ice in my glass at him without bothering to move from my slumped position in the leather club chair. It’s an effort, making my body go all careless and don’t-give-a-shit, but I’ve learned it’s a necessity around my father. If he sees the real me—the version of me that’s always thirty seconds away from punching something—he’ll have me locked up. “Relax,” I sneer. “At least there’s an ice cube in there. When I start drinking it neat, then we’ll have a problem.”

My father’s stony expression doesn’t waver. Why would it? It’s been locked in the state of disapproving since the day I told him I was enlisting in the Marines instead of becoming his lackey at the company.

If you’d rather get sand up your ass and your damned head blown off than accept your responsibilities, go right ahead, but don’t expect me to give your cold body a hero’s welcome when it gets shipped home in a wooden box.

Ah, that’s my dad. Always one step away from begging me to toss a baseball around or go fishing together. When he’s not telling me to follow my dreams, of course.

It gives me a modicum of satisfaction to know that he was only half right. The sand up my ass definitely happened. But I didn’t get my head blown off.

It was my leg.

Well, actually, that’s melodramatic. My leg is still attached. But for as much use as I get out of it, the damned thing might as well have been blown to bits. Just like everything else good in my life.

The anger of it all threatens to choke me. It’s been two years since I got back from Afghanistan, and the anger isn’t fading. If anything, it’s gotten worse.

But there will be tomorrow and every day after for self-pity. Now I focus all of my attention on figuring out what my father’s current game is. It’s not every day that the illustrious Harry Langdon makes the trek up to Bar Harbor, Maine, to visit his only son.

If I’ve learned anything in the past two years besides how to be myself, it’s how to accurately predict what these little visits will entail.

No warning call first. Check.

No greeting beyond a half-second glance at my left leg to see if it’s magically quarterback-worthy again. It never is. Check.

Avoidance of looking at my face. Check.

Passive-aggressive comment about my drinking. Check.

Which meant that next up on the agenda would be…

“Beth called me,” he says. “Says the latest one didn’t even last two weeks.”

Ah. So that’s why he’s here.

I give a rueful shake of my head and glance down at my whiskey. “Poor Beth. It must wear on her that her little care-for-the-meek underlings don’t have the stamina to make it out here in the wilderness.”

“It’s not—” Dad breaks off and raps his knuckle sharply against the ancient wooden desk in irritation. He doesn’t yell. Harry Langdon never yells. “It’s not the wilderness, for God’s sake. It’s a nine-bedroom château with two separate guest houses, a gym, and a stable.”

I hear the censure in his voice. I understand it, even. From where he stands, I’m a spoiled brat. But it’s easier to let him think that I’m a pampered pansy than to let him see the truth…which is that I wouldn’t care if the whole place went up in flames. That I hope I go up in flames with it.

Because if my dad finds out how truly dead I am inside, he won’t be satisfied with sending the token caretakers my way. He’ll have me committed to some crazy-person facility where I’ll have to drink out of paper cups and use plastic silverware.

I let my face slip into its default sneer. “Well,” I say, lazily climbing to my feet and hobbling over to the sideboard for more bourbon, “perhaps this Gretchen—or was it Gwendolyn?—wasn’t the equine-appreciating type. And besides, she had the voice of a hyena. She’d scare the horses.”

“It’s not the horses that scared her,” my father says, his knuckle hitting the desk harder this time. “It’s you. You ran her off, just like you ran off the seven people before her.”

Eight, actually. But I’m not about to correct him. Not when he’s in sanctimonious lecture mode.

“So how many is it going to take, Harry?” I ask, dropping another ice cube into my drink, bracing my hip against the sideboard, and turning to face him.

“Don’t call me that. I’m your father—show some respect.”

“Mr. Langdon,” I say, bending forward slightly, but keeping the bow small enough to be insulting. “How many?” I ask again. “How many babysitters have to come all the way out here only to scamper away when they find out I don’t need anyone to wipe drool off my face or read me a bedtime story?”

“Damn it, Paul—”

“Ten?” I interrupt. “Fifteen? I mean, you could keep them coming indefinitely, but eventually you’re going to run out of available caregivers, right?”

He continues to rap his knuckle softly against the wood, but he’s no longer glaring at me. He’s looking out the window, where the harbor’s just barely visible through the trees in the late-morning light.

I guess it’s a pretty enough sight, but I prefer the view in the late afternoon, when the sun’s just disappearing. Mostly because it means the day’s over. At least until it all begins again. And it always does. Begin again, I mean. No matter how much I may wish otherwise.

“I hire them to help you,” he says, this time hitting the desk with a full palm.

I take a large sip of the whiskey, letting it burn my throat. The shit of it is, I think the old man really does think he’s helping. He thinks that having some overweight, overperfumed wannabe nurse hovering around will somehow erase everything that happened. I just don’t know how to get it through his head that there are some things that can’t be fixed and can’t be erased. My leg, for instance. And my face.

And definitely not all the things that went fifty ways of fucked-up inside my head while I was in that godforsaken sandbox on the other side of the world.

“Dad,” I say, my voice a little rough, “I’m fine.”

He pins me with a stare, his eyes the same pale blue I see in the mirror. Back when I looked in the mirror, anyway.

“You’re not fine, Paul,” he replies. “You can barely walk. You don’t leave this house unless forced to. All you do is read and mope—”

“Brood. I prefer brood. More manly than mope!”

“Damn it, don’t be cute! You lost the right to be cute after you—”

“After I what?” I push myself upright, careful to keep all of my weight on my right leg so I don’t lean to one side. Or worse, wobble. “At what point did I lose the right to be cute? Was it after this?” I point to my leg. “Nah, that wasn’t it. Then it must be this.” I point to my face and am oddly satisfied when he looks away.

“It’s not about your leg or your face,” he says gruffly. “It’s how they came to be that way that you need to deal with. And you know it.”

I do know it.

I just don’t believe for one damned second that an outsider coming in here and trying to coax me into the gym to do lame-ass physical therapy exercises or asking me every five minutes if I’ve eaten is going to fix anything.

“Lindy is here,” I grumble.

“Lindy is here as a housekeeper. She’s here to wash the sheets and make sure the glasses are clean for the alcohol you drink all day long, not to ensure you don’t do something idiotic. And before you start, I’m not asking Mick to do that either. He’s a chauffeur.”

“Yeah, he seems to be staying real busy with that, what with your bimonthly visits.”

“He’s not here for my benefit, he’s here for yours.”

I move back toward my leather chair, too tired of this conversation to even try to hide the limp. “Well, if that’s the case, get rid of him. I have nowhere to go. You know, there are worse things I could be doing than staying out of your hair and staying out of the public eye. Do you really want all of your colleagues and country club friends in Boston to see me?”

“You’re the one who exiled yourself up here. Not me.”

“Exactly! So quit trying to coax every nanny and nurse in Boston to take care of me.”

“Fine,” he says, his head nodding once.

I open my mouth to argue before his word sets in. “Wait. Really? So you’re done trying to—”

He holds up a finger, and his eyes go stone-cold, and I realize abruptly that I’m no longer dealing with Harry Langdon the father figure. This is Harry Langdon the hotel magnate. The man who’s been described by Forbes as hard-hearted and relentless.

My father was forty-seven when I was born, which put him in his mid-sixties when I was in high school, but nobody ever made the mistake of thinking he was my grandfather. Partially because everyone knew him. And everybody who knew him knew that he’d married a woman twenty-two years his junior, knocked her up, and then divorced her before I was potty-trained. But mostly they never mistook him for a grandfather because he’s never looked like an old man. He’s always had the power and energy of men half his age.

But sometime in the past couple of years his age has started to show in the stoop of his shoulders, the sag of the skin under his chin, and the bags under his eyes. The man beneath the failing body hasn’t softened, though. I can see it in the hard set to his mouth and the ice in his eyes.

Instinctively I brace myself for what’s to come. He and I have been playing the same game for a while now. He sends a dumpy caregiver my way; I snarl and throw things and curse until she leaves. Repeat.

After the first round, I got a pissed-off email from him. The second woman I ran off warranted a phone call. By the fourth, my father had actually visited, issued a couple of warnings, and left the same day.

Then the fifth caregiver showed up—a man that time—and I ran him off too. I got an email and a phone call after that one.

And so it went. It’s nothing but a ridiculous game we play, all so he can pretend that he gives a shit.

This time, however, I sense a change in the rules, and I brace for it. It’s taken twenty-four years, but I’ve finally started to figure my dad out. Instinct tells me he’s about to switch tactics.

I take another sip of my drink—a big one—and slump farther into the chair, letting him know that no matter what he throws at me, nothing will change. Nothing can change.

“You get one more shot,” he says.

I don’t bother to disguise my snort. I was expecting better from him. “Isn’t that what you told me last time? And the time before?”

He moves faster than I thought a seventy-one-year-old could and snatches the whiskey out of my hand. I glance up in surprise. The amber liquid’s all over his hand and on the rug, but he doesn’t seem to register it, because he’s too busy looking at me like he hates me.

Bring it on. I hate me too.

“I mean it, Paul. This is your last chance to show me that you have any desire to continue with your life. Any desire at all to get your agility back, to learn to cope with your physical changes. I understand why you wanted to hide at first, but it’s been over two years. You’re done. You get six more months to get your shit together.”

“Or what?” I ask, pushing myself to my feet and loving that the injury hasn’t taken away the fact that I’m still a few inches taller than him.

“Or you’re out.”

I blink. “What do you mean, I’m out?”

“Out of this house.”

“But I live here,” I say, not quite understanding where he’s going with this.

“Yeah? You paying the mortgage? Or the utilities? Did you build the gym exactly as the physical therapist specified, or was that me?”

I grind my teeth through my dad’s sarcasm. It was my dad’s idea to move me into a luxury home, not mine, and it shows how little he knows me. If he thinks kicking me out of the cushy mansion would mean anything to me, he’s dead wrong.

He’s got an expectant look on his face, as though he thinks I’ll go along with his little plan so I can sit here in opulence and drink overpriced booze.

I feel a little surge of satisfaction that he’s about to be disappointed.

“Fine,” I say, deliberately letting my tone go careless. “I’ll move out.”

He blinks a little in surprise. “To where?”

“I’ll figure it out.”

And I will. I don’t have much money to my name. I know that. But between the disability compensation I get as a veteran and my smallish savings account, I can get a little cabin somewhere.

My dad’s eyes narrow. “What about groceries? Clothes? Essentials?”

I shrug. “I don’t need gourmet shit and designer clothes.”

My eyes catch on the label of expensive whiskey on the sideboard, but I don’t feel even the smallest pang of regret that it’ll soon be out of my budget. I’m in it for the numbness, not the taste. Cheap booze will do the trick just as well.

“And your precious books?” he sneers. “All those first editions you’re so proud of?”

I fix my eyes on the bookshelf across the room. He’s got his wing-tip shoe on my Achilles’ heel and he knows it.

My father is ridiculously wealthy, and the allowance he sends me each month is ridiculously generous. I don’t spend a penny of it on myself. Except for the books. After what happened over there, it’s easy to tell myself that I’ve earned the right to sit and brood with overpriced books.

But the thought of losing my book collection isn’t what has my heart pounding in my chest. I don’t need the books. But I do need my dad’s money, at least until I come into the trust fund from my mom’s side when I turn twenty-five.

The thought of continuing to take his monthly allowance, knowing that he thinks it all goes toward books and video games, makes me nauseous. I’d like nothing more than to tell him where he can shove those checks.

But the money’s not for me.

So I’ll continue to take it. Even if that makes me nothing more than a mooching cripple in his eyes.

“What do you want?” I ask gruffly, refusing to meet his eyes. It feels cowardly, but hey, I’ve gotten pretty good at cowardly.

He blows out a long breath. “I want you to try, Paul. I want you to at least try to come back to the living.”

“I mean with the next nurse you’re sending up here,” I say, cutting him off. “What do I have to do so you don’t throw your pathetic son out on the street to become yet another begging veteran?”

The word veteran hangs between us, and for a second I think he might relent, because if my Achilles’ heel is my dependency on him, his Achilles’ heel is my sacrifice for this country.

But the man’s stubbornness has only increased with age, and instead of backing off, he turns toward the desk, dropping the whiskey glass with enough force so that the liquid sloshes over the sides and onto the wood. It’s an uncharacteristically careless gesture.

“Six months,” he says. “You cooperate with this woman for six months. You do as she asks, when she asks it. She tells you to get to the gym, you get to the gym. She tells you to eat fucking broccoli, you eat fucking broccoli. She wants you to wear a tux for dinner, you’ll do that too. I’ll speak with this woman every Sunday, and if you’ve so much as looked at her funny, this all goes away.”

“Break it down for me,” I say through my clenched jaw. “If I misbehave, I’m homeless?”

His eyes close for a half second. “I’m saying that after this, you’re on your own. You want to give up on life, you do it on your own dime.”

My chest tightens, and for a second I think it’s anger and feel like I might punch the man for not understanding. Did he ever have to watch a little boy’s stunned expression as his mother gets blown to kingdom come? Or see a skinny dog lose a leg to an IUD? Did he ever have a knife to his face, or see bodies so mutilated mothers wouldn’t recognize their own son or daughter?

I snarl and push the thoughts away. All of them.

This isn’t about me. This isn’t about my dad. And it’s sure as fuck not about some stupid, useless caretaker who thinks my entire world will be fixed by eating chicken noodle soup.

This is about a woman who lost her high school sweetheart. It’s about a little girl who has cancer instead of a daddy. Talk about getting the short end of the fucking stick.

I don’t need my dad’s money.

But Alex’s family does.

“So if I make it through the six months acting like a good boy, the checks keep coming?”

He meets my eyes, and for the first time today he doesn’t look angry or disgusted. He looks sad. “Yes. The checks will keep coming.”

I inhale a long breath through my nose. The situation is beyond shitty, and for the thousandth time I rack my brain for ways to provide for the Skinners without my dad’s money. If it was just a matter of putting food on their table and Christmas presents under their tree, maybe whatever low-paying job an injured war vet could get would be enough.

But Lily’s cancer treatments require big money. Money Harry Langdon has.

“Three months,” I say. “I play this woman’s stupid games for three months, not six.”

He holds my gaze for several seconds as we silently test each other’s resolve, and to my surprise I win this round, because he nods. “Three months.”

And then, as though everything is settled and he didn’t take what pathetic life I have left and piss all over it, he moves toward the door. “Mick will drive me back to the airport. I’ll see you….”

His words trail off, and I brace both hands on the desk, staring out at the water. “Yeah. I’ll see you.”

My father hesitates in the doorway, and I turn around.

“Hey,” I say, stopping him before he disappears for the next month, or three months, or however long he can make it until the guilt compels him to look at me again. “This woman coming tomorrow. What if I do my best to cooperate but she’s like the rest and can’t handle…Maine?”

We both know I don’t mean Maine. The problem is that it takes more than a hefty paycheck to expect a woman to spend every single day looking at my ravaged face and bad temper for three months. The problem isn’t Maine. The problem is me.

“What if she leaves before the three months are up?” I press, thinking of Lily’s sad eyes and Amanda’s haunted ones.

My father is silent for several seconds. “Well…see that she doesn’t.”

Chapter Three

Olivia

The flight from New York to Portland, Maine, is shorter than I would have liked.

I was hoping that by the time I stepped off the plane, I’d have my thoughts together. That I’d have pep-talked myself into a You can do this! mind-set.

The reality is something more akin to acute nausea, but it’s too late to turn back.

Harry Langdon’s last email told me to look for a sign with my name on it. Simple enough. I grew up in the land of personal drivers. In other words, I know how to find my name among a sea of waiting chauffeurs at baggage claim.

As I move through the airport I mentally correct myself. This time it won’t be a chauffeur—it’ll be a flannel-wearing fisherman from small-town Maine.

Except I’m wrong about that. There are only two people standing with signs in the baggage claim area, and as promised, one of the signs has my name on it. But the man holding it is no flannel-wearing, rough-around-the-edges concerned father who left society to care for his injured son. Instead, there’s a stately-looking man wearing a black uniform, complete with one of those little chauffeur hats.

Maybe I’m not so far away from home after all.

I’m surprised by the fancy treatment. But lucky for them, I speak Rich People.

“Ms. Middleton,” he says with a nod as I approach. “Is there more luggage to attend to?”

“Just this,” I say, gesturing at my small rolling suitcase and carry-on. “The rest is being shipped directly to the Langdons’.”

“Very good.” He holds out a hand for the rolling bag. “Shall we?”

Put at ease by the familiarity of this whole routine, I follow him out of the tiny airport, not missing the way the women’s eyes linger on my Tory Burch flats and the men’s on my ass. I didn’t know what was the appropriate attire for a home care aide in New England, so I opted for formfitting black slacks and a pink cashmere sweater. Looking at the sleek Lincoln Town Car, I’m glad I changed out of the jeans I was wearing earlier. To think I was worried about my sweater picking up dirt smudges from a dingy pickup truck. The most I have to worry about in this car is whether to turn on the air-conditioning.

He puts my bag in the trunk and opens the rear door for me before settling behind the wheel. I’m a little weirded out by the treatment, since I am, after all, a paid servant now, but I follow his lead.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

The driver’s eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror. “Mick.”

“I’m Olivia,” I say, giving what I hope is a You-can-relax-around-me smile. Maybe this guy will fill in some of the gaps as to who the Langdons are and what exactly is expected of me.

“I know,” he says, his eyes smiling just a bit. At least he’s not a total stiff.

“So are you…?” The Langdons’ personal driver? A one-time hire in an effort to impress me?

He continues to look at me in the mirror, raising his eyebrows when I don’t finish my question.

“Are you from Maine?” I ask, chickening out.

“Born and raised,” he says after a pause as he checks his mirror and pulls into traffic.

“Portland?” I say. It’s the only city in Maine I know. Besides Bar Harbor, of which I know nothing other than it’s where I’ll be spending the next three months. Longer if I pass the Langdons’ test and get offered an extension. Although by that point, I hope to have figured out what the hell to do with my life. I hope by then I’ll feel less damaged.

“Skowhegan,” Mick replies.

I nod as though I know where the heck that is. Mick seems to be a man of few words, but at least he’s answering my questions.

“Always been a chauffeur?” I ask, mentally crossing my fingers that I don’t offend him.

The corners of his mouth turn up in a kind way. “Is that what you call us in New York?”

I smile sheepishly. “Well, I always call Richard Richard. But when referring to someone else’s driver, I guess we call them, well…a driver?”

“That’s what I call me too,” he says with a wink.

The knot I’ve had in my stomach since boarding the plane at JFK eases slightly. My first encounter with a Maine resident is going well, and if he suspects I’m a total sham at this whole caregiving thing, he’s hiding it well.

“How long is it to Bar Harbor?” I ask, even though I already know. I did my homework. Well, some of it. The more crucial details still elude me.

“About three hours. Longer on a summer weekend, but on a Tuesday at the tail end of the season, we shouldn’t hit any traffic.”

“Season?”

“Summer season,” he says, glancing up. “Maine’s known for being a summer tourist destination.”

I bite my tongue to keep from retorting that of course I know what the season is. It’s practically synonymous with the word Hamptons. What does surprise me is that Maine has one.

Ease up on the snob routine, Olivia.

“So, you make the airport trip often?” I ask, still fishing for information about the Langdons.

For a second he says nothing, and I think I’ve officially crossed the line to prying, but he finally responds. “Not so much. Mr. Langdon doesn’t come up as often as he used to, and Mr. Paul…he doesn’t leave the house much.”

Paul.

My charge. Or patient. Or whatever he is.

I’m dying to ask more questions, but there’s something in Mick’s tone…Tension? Sadness? There’s something, but I don’t want to get off on the wrong foot by misidentifying it.

Instead, I sit back against the cushy leather seats and try to get acquainted with the Maine scenery. I know from my online research that Bar Harbor is on the water, but right now I can’t see anything but trees. For someone who doesn’t often see a tree outside of Central Park, there’s something oddly calming about all of the green.

Well, it’s calming until I allow myself to actually think about what awaits me. Because I have no freaking clue.

It’s weird, but I haven’t put much thought into what I’ll be doing now that I’m here. It’s not like there was a job description. Hell, I didn’t even apply. And if I had, I’m pretty sure a college coed without so much as CPR certification (although I have that now) wouldn’t have been selected as an ideal caregiver for a wounded vet.

Obviously, when Harry Langdon got my name through the friend of a friend of my parents, he wasn’t looking for any kind of trained professional.

So why me?

Of course, it’s a little late to be having these thoughts. I’ve known about this for three months, but in my mind I’ve pretty much been glossing over the reality, the same as I do whenever someone asks what it is I do as a home care specialist: an extra hand for those who need it.

So basically it’s the dictionary definition of vague. But people totally eat it up, and it’s not exactly a lie. Harry Langdon’s email said there was no nursing experience required, just companionship, basic cooking skills, and willingness to relocate to Bar Harbor.

I nailed the lack of nursing experience. I don’t think handing out ice cream bars at St. Jude’s counts. But, surprisingly, I do like to cook. I mean, I’m not destined for my own cooking show or anything, but Mom always insisted on giving our chef the weekends off if they weren’t hosting a party, which means she showed me the basics. Grilled cheese. Scrambled eggs. Chili. Spaghetti.

As for that willingness to relocate? Please. I’d pay them to take me away. My only complaint is that the job isn’t in LA or Seattle or somewhere in a different time zone from everything I’m trying to leave behind. Although, judging from the number of “watch for deer” signs I’ve seen so far, I’m definitely a long way from home.

Basically it all comes down to the fact that one rich dude told another rich dude to find some rich ditz who wouldn’t mind acting as a paid companion.

Not exactly the stuff Nobel Peace Prizes are made of, but I can’t bring myself to care. Whether I got the job because of connections or because of sheer luck (it’s certainly not because of skill), it’s still a ticket out of New York. It’s still an escape.

But all that being said, I don’t know much about my client. I mean, I know Harry Langdon is an elderly businessman with a shit-ton of money. But as for his son? No idea.

Not because I wasn’t curious. Google would have told me what I needed to know in a heartbeat. And God knows, a little research would have been prudent. But honestly? I’ve been scared to death that all it’ll take is one gruesome picture or detailed account of his injuries to have me backing out of the whole thing.

I know it’s a terrible thing to say, but I’m not used to ugly. And from what Mr. Langdon has implied so far, whatever happened to his son was very ugly indeed.

I barely managed to get myself on the plane this morning as it was. The last thing I needed was to know what I was getting into. But now I’m here with no chance of backing out, and keeping my head in the sand is no longer an option.

I can’t stop thinking about how sad Mick’s voice was when he talked about Paul. No, Mr. Paul. Maybe it’s time to figure out exactly what I’m dealing with here.

I pull my cellphone out of my purse, scrolling through the barrage of texts awaiting me.

Mom: Call me as soon as you’re settled. Remember, nobody will think less of you if you decide you want to come home early.

Dad: Olive. Call if you need anything. Proud of you.

Bella: Miss you already. You’re the hottest Florence Nightingale I know.

Andrea: U there yet? my aunt and uncle have a summer home in Vermont if u get creeped out taking care of an old dude and need an escape. xoxoxoxoxo.

The rest, from my friends, are a mixture of support and skepticism that I’ll see this through. I freeze when I get to Michael’s, though: Call me when you quit running. I delete it.

But it’s the last message that really eats at me. Ethan and I haven’t had any contact since I tried—and failed—to get him back a couple of months ago, yet he cares enough to reach out with a simple Good luck, Liv.

I read those three simple words about five times, but I’m unable to find any hidden meaning. That’s the kind of guy Ethan is. He’s simply good.

I didn’t deserve him.

I respond to my parents, letting them know that I’ve arrived safely and that everything’s okay, but don’t reply to anyone else. I don’t even know what I’d say. Although the flight from New York to Maine was only a little over an hour, I already feel completely detached from my old life. The feeling is unsettling, but also freeing. As though maybe I really can start over.

I start to go about my initial task of Googling Paul Langdon, but the coverage is spotty, and before my phone can load the search results, cell service has gone from spotty to nonexistent.

Fantastic.

I put the phone away and lean back in my seat, letting my mind wander. I alternate between worst-case-scenario visions of what lies ahead (just one more thing you can screw up) and Pollyanna pep talks (you’ve got this) for most of the drive, but I sit up a little straighter when I catch sight of water through the trees, and I strain to get a better look.

Mick sees my movement. “That’s Frenchman Bay. It’s even prettier on a sunny day.”

I nod, but I actually sort of like that it’s overcast. It seems to suit my mood. The glimpses of water become more and more frequent, and even with the gray skies, it looks like a postcard.

“How much longer?” I ask. My palms are clammy.

“Not long. The Langdon estates are right on the water outside of town.”

Langdon estates? Interesting. There’s rich, and then there’s rich. Now I’m really wishing that my online research on the Langdons had been more thorough.

And when Mick turns onto a tree-lined drive, I’m wishing I’d hired a full-on private investigator because I’m pretty sure the building to my right is an honest-to-God stable.

“How long have you worked for the Langdons?” I ask, now completely confident that Mick is a full-time employee for a wealthy family and not just an occasional luxury.

He doesn’t meet my eyes in the mirror this time. “Long time,” he says finally, his tone terser than it was before.

Got it. No chitchat about our employer.

Then I see the house. Actually, house is a stretch. It’s more like a compound.

There are at least three buildings within easy walking distance of the main house, which rivals the grandest of the Hamptons homes I’ve been to. I’m still gaping when Mick comes around and opens the door for me. The house is neither modern minimalism nor ornate ostentation. The only time I’ve seen anything like it was when my parents and I spent Christmas in the Swiss Alps at a resort chalet. It’s three stories of perfectly maintained wood, gray stone chimneys, and high-peaked roofs.

I can’t help but picture it in the snow, maybe adorned with white lights at Christmas. Not that I’m trying to romanticize the whole thing, but I have to admit…it’s not a bad place to banish oneself.

“Mr. Langdon would prefer you stay in the main house close to Mr. Paul,” Mick says, taking my suitcase out of the trunk. “But if that doesn’t work out, there’s plenty of room in the staff house—the ‘small house,’ as we call it.”

I frown a little at what I think must be a hidden meaning in those words. Why wouldn’t it work out for me to stay in the main house?

I follow Mick through the front door, doing my best not to gape. I’ve been in so many nice homes that I’m generally sort of immune to all the bells and whistles that money can buy, but this is gorgeous in an unfamiliar way. There’s none of the ostentatious snobbery of Park Avenue, nor the trying-too-hard casualness of Hamptons beach homes. Instead it’s sort of this rustic beauty. In place of a marble foyer with a crystal chandelier, there’s a spacious entryway opening to a wide wooden staircase. There’s almost nothing in the way of home decor save for a hunter-green area rug, but that actually kind of works. Too many frills would take away from the natural beauty of the exposed wood.

It definitely feels like a man’s home, and I find myself wishing I’d bothered to look up what happened to Mrs. Langdon. Because while it’s gorgeous in an imposing sort of way, it’s clear that no woman has called this home in a long time. Maybe ever.

I follow Mick into the biggest kitchen I’ve ever seen. The stove in the middle of the room has like eight burners, and the fridge is at least twice the size of ours at home.

Mick is murmuring something to a middle-aged woman whose apron over her jeans and button-down blue shirt identify her as the one responsible for whatever smells so delicious on the stove.

“Ms. Middleton, this is Linda Manning.”

“Olivia, please,” I say with a smile.

“Call me Lindy,” the gray-haired woman says, shaking my hand in a friendly enough manner, although it’s clear that I’m being assessed. “You’re a good deal younger than the rest of them.”

“The rest of…the staff?” I ask, not following.

Mick and Lindy exchange a glance. I’m obviously missing something.

“There’s really not much in the way of staff,” Mick says with a forced smile. “I take care of the driving and estate management. Lindy doubles as cook and housekeeper, although a couple of girls from town come over every week to help with the more extensive cleaning. Scott takes care of the land and the stable.”

“Oh,” I murmur, still confused about what they’re not saying. And stable? Really?

Luckily, Lindy doesn’t seem like the type to be needlessly mysterious. “When I said you were the youngest, I meant you were younger than the other home care aides. I’m used to seeing fuddy-duddy old women or thirtysomething charity workers.” She pauses. “Have you and Mr. Langdon met in person?”

“Not yet,” I say. “But I’m eager to meet him. Is he around?”

Mick and Lindy exchange yet another of those glances, and I narrow my eyes just slightly at the familiarity in the look. Something tells me Mick and Lindy are more than colleagues. I guess that’s a good thing, considering they’re out here in the middle of nowhere all by themselves.

“Mr. Langdon only comes up to Bar Harbor every few months or so,” Lindy replies cautiously. “Did he tell you he’d be here?”

I feel a little stupefied. Every few months? I mean, I knew that he didn’t live here, but I thought he’d at least be here when I arrived to provide specific direction on what’s expected of me.

“I guess he didn’t say so specifically,” I say, trying not to totally freak out on them. “I just assumed…”

“Well, no matter,” Lindy says, giving me a confident smile. “We’ll give you the lay of the land and introduce you to Mr. Paul, and you’ll feel right at home.”

I’m pretty sure Mick mutters something under his breath, but then he’s wheeling my suitcase out of the kitchen, nodding in acknowledgment at Lindy’s instruction that I’m to be put in the Green Room.

“It’s got a fantastic view of the water,” she says, tugging off her apron. “And it’s close to Mr. Paul’s room should he need anything.”

“Where is, um, Mr. Paul?” I ask, following their naming convention even though it feels like something out of another century.

Lindy’s confident expression slips slightly, and for a second I think she wants to warn me about something, but her smile returns. “He spends most mornings in the library reading,” she says, indicating with a nod that I should follow her. “He’s probably there.”

“Isn’t it afternoon?” I ask.

Lindy doesn’t turn around. “He spends the afternoons in there too. And the evenings.”

Yikes.

“Hey, Lindy,” I ask, moving between her and the door of what I assume is the library before she can knock. “What, um…what is it that I’m expected to do? Nobody’s really told me any specifics.”

She purses her lips. “Mr. Langdon didn’t outline any expectations?”

“Oh, sure. He said I’m to encourage his son to get to physical therapy—”

Lindy snorts.

“—and that I’m to ensure he eats regularly.”

Another snort.

“But mostly just that I should be a companion. Keep the man company.”

Lindy doesn’t respond to this last bit, and too late I realize she isn’t looking at me. She’s looking behind me.

I spin around and barely stifle a shriek when I see the silhouette of a man standing in the darkened doorway.

I can’t see his face, but his voice is ice cold. “Sounds like my father forgot to mention the most important part of your job. But then, he never tells my babysitters what they’re really doing here.”

I take a small step forward, wanting to get a look at the man I’m talking to, but he takes a step back, hiding himself in the darkness.

“And what’s that?” I ask, narrowing my eyes.

“Suicide watch.”

The door slams in my face.

Chapter Four

Paul

God fucking damn it.

Damn it all to hell.

Before I can think about it, my arm is in motion, and the crystal shatters against the wall. I barely register that Pappy Van Winkle bourbon is trickling down the wall into an expensive puddle on the hardwood.

I thought I was prepared.

Hell, I was prepared.

I was prepared to greet whatever matronly, pious do-gooder was next in line in my father’s endless supply of babysitters and make her feel right at home. Okay, that’s an exaggeration. But I had every intention of not being a dick. I was going to show her my good side—my right side. Maybe even force a smile. Welcome her. I’d spent all night telling myself that a washed-up hag wouldn’t care what I looked like.

But the woman on the other side of the door? No, the girl. She’s no washed-up hag. This caregiver is…beautiful.

And I don’t think it’s just the fact that I haven’t been with a woman in longer than I want to think about and haven’t seen a girl my own age in longer than that. She’s hot. Big green eyes, long blond hair that I want to tangle my fingers in. A wide, lush mouth that I want…

No. No fucking way.

She can’t be more than twenty-two. All of the others were at least in their mid-thirties. This woman—this girl—is exactly the sort of person I exiled myself to Maine to avoid.

She’s tempting. Not just in the sexual way, although yeah, there’s that. But with that briefest of glimpses, she tempts me with something worse: she makes me long for normal.

She has to go. Now.

I make a fist and ram it hard against my thigh, punching myself in punishment. Of all things, you had to go and tell her you’re on suicide watch? But it was instinctive. I wanted to drive her away hard and fast, and that seemed like a surefire way of scaring off someone who has to be a rookie at this business.

She’ll be scampering back to the car by now, and I tell myself I’m glad. I don’t need a gorgeous blonde to remind me of all the things I can’t have.

Except…

My eyes fly open.

That damned ultimatum.

To say that my father one-upped me on this is an understatement. The three-month commitment to playing nice was bad enough when I thought I’d be dealing with a crotchety old woman, but this? Asking me to spend three months in the company of this gorgeous blonde?

This is sheer manipulation. My father isn’t just trying to lure me back to the real world, he’s throwing me into it.

I push my fingers into my eyes as the reality of my situation wraps around my brain and squeezes. What are my options?

I can tell my dad to shove it—let the girl get back into that car with Mick, and as a result be out on my ass with nowhere to go and not a cent to my name. And I can leave Alex’s wife and daughter with nothing.

Or…I can chase after Goldilocks and pretend that I want her here. Pretend that I need her so that my best friend’s daughter can live.

Damn it. There’s not a choice. Not really.

I move toward the door, only to falter when pain rips through my calf. Shit. It’s been a long time since I’ve forgotten to favor my left leg. That right there tells me how much trouble I’m in. For a second, I forgot who I am. What I am.

I’m no longer Paul Langdon, hotshot quarterback and all-American hero off to war. I’m Paul Langdon, disfigured recluse and of no use to anyone. Hell, I can’t even be of use to myself. I can’t even fucking walk.

Before I can give my dad the proverbial finger and tell him I don’t need his house or his money, I need to get my shit together. And in order to do that…

I turn away from the desk and move as quickly as I can across the room. I hesitate briefly with my hand on the doorknob, all too aware that my life is about to turn upside down.

My heart is thundering and I’m trying to tell myself it’s in anger, but I suspect it’s something worse. I suspect it’s fear. I know the sight that awaits this girl, and it is not pretty. Far from it.

I open the door, wondering how I’m supposed to chase after the girl with this leg.

Turns out I don’t have to chase her.

She’s waiting for me.

Chapter Five

Olivia

For five minutes I’ve been standing outside the library, staring at the door he slammed in my face and wondering just who—or what—Paul Langdon is.

I mean, I wasn’t expecting a gentle teddy bear in need of a hug and a listening ear or anything, but that thing is more like a tormented barbarian than a war-weary human. Still, it’s not until the door unexpectedly swings open again that I realize just how stupidly unprepared I am.

He was completely in the shadows before, but this time the hallway light catches him, and it feels like my stomach drops to my feet.

Paul Langdon is not the crippled, middle-aged recluse he’s supposed to be.

He steps back into the shadows before I can see him properly, but my first impression is broad shoulders, military-short blond hair, and piercing blue eyes. And young. Like my age young.

“What the hell are you still doing here?” he asks, taking another step backward into the darkness of the library.

I instinctively take a step forward, and he goes back another step just as quickly, and for the first time I notice that despite giving the overall impression of youth and vitality, he doesn’t move nimbly.

I stop in my tracks, as though not to scare a wounded animal. Aren’t wounded animals the most likely to lash out? And this guy is definitely wounded.

“What the fuck are you still doing here?” he repeats, this time with a snarl.

Well. At least I didn’t imagine that whole surly caveman episode from a few minutes ago. Seconds after he’d dropped that little bomb about a suicide watch, Lindy sighed and patted my shoulder, telling me to be “patient with the boy.”

Patient my ass. Sure, the guy has likely seen more horror that I can possibly imagine, but if there’s anything that a rich Manhattan girl is familiar with, it’s the tone of a self-indulgent jerk. Paul Langdon definitely has some of that going on.

I’m probably supposed to answer his testy question about what I’m still doing here with something calm and straightforward and soothing. Nothing comes to mind, so instead I stay silent.

He remains in the shadows, and I’m suddenly desperate to know what he’s hiding. What would turn someone who looks like him into a suicidal recluse?

“At least throw a dollar in the hat,” he bites out before turning away and moving toward the desk. He walks with a slight limp, but…

Is it my imagination, or did the limp come after he started moving? Almost like he had to remind himself to limp?

I guess I should go to him and make some sort of effort to help, but some dark, untapped instinct tells me not to. That’s what he’ll expect, and being predictable with this guy is a mistake.

“A dollar in the hat?” I repeat, shutting the library door quietly behind me. Stupid move. The already dark room now seems intimate, and I’m all too aware that it’s just me and a guy who may or may not want to kill himself. Or me.

“If you’re going to gawk, at least give me the same sympathy dollar you’d give any other circus freak,” he clarifies, still not turning around.

I roll my eyes at his melodrama as I move closer, wanting to see his face. No, needing to see his face.

From the back, he’s practically perfect. He’s wearing a black T-shirt that’s tight enough to show the ripples of his sculpted back, and his dark denim jeans ride just low enough on his hips to be interesting. I’m pretty sure that if he lifted his hands above his head, I’d catch a glimpse of boxers.

Or briefs?

Why is my mouth watering?

I haven’t even seen the guy in full light yet and I’m about fifteen seconds away from asking if his offspring would like to take up residence in my uterus.

I should run. Instead, I move closer.

“Let me guess. You were expecting an old dude in a smoking jacket?” he asks gruffly.

Actually, yes. I absolutely wasn’t expecting Paul to be Harry Langdon’s late-in-life son. Very late in life, if Harry’s as old as he seems in the pictures.

But of course I’ll tell Paul no such thing. I take another tentative step forward, noting the way he tenses as I approach. He really is like a wounded animal, which would make me feel sorry for him if I didn’t suspect that he’s using his injuries to justify being a manipulative son of a bitch.

Well, if he wants to play games…

My Chanel cross-body purse is still slung over my shoulder, and I fish around for my wallet as I close in on him.

He turns completely so his back is fully to me, and now he’s trapped between me and the desk, with nothing but late afternoon shadows to hide him.

I pause, waiting. Common courtesy demands that he turn around. He doesn’t. I shift to the side, but he shifts with me, still keeping his back to me.

Seriously? This is beyond childish.

I move to the other side, and he moves again.

“Maybe when we’re done with this activity, we can play Chutes and Ladders or Candy Land,” I say sweetly, even as I glare at his back. “Assuming, of course, that those don’t exceed your maturity levels.”

“Those should be fine,” he says, his tone just as pleasant. “I don’t need working legs to play board games.”

I feel a stab of pity. Maybe I’m being too hard on him. That, and I need to remember why I’m here. I’m supposed to help him mend so that I can start to mend. So I can prove to myself that I’m not some sort of monster.

I see my hand on his elbow before I realize I’ve moved, and I know he’s not expecting the touch, because even as he tenses up, I’ve pulled him around to face me. Not all the way, but it’s enough. I stifle my gasp, but barely.

I was warned that Paul Langdon was crippled. I came prepared for that. But in all of our email conversations, Harry Langdon seems to have forgotten to mention the ragged scars running along the right side of his son’s face.

Everything makes brutal sense now: why he’s been hiding in the shadows, why the hostility and bitterness roll off him in waves.

He throws my arm off with a curse, and I expect him to turn away from me. Maybe even push me back.

Instead, he faces me fully, letting me see him head-on, and the way his eyes betray nothing—not even wariness—almost breaks my heart. It’s like I can actually see him shut off his human side.

We stare at each other for several seconds, both of us barely illuminated by the last bit of daylight coming in through the window. His eyes are a fierce color of light blue that looks almost gray, especially when framed by thick lashes. His hair’s too short to get a good sense of its color, but it’s somewhere between blond and brown.

Finally my eyes land on his scars. Now that I’m prepared for them, they’re not as bad as I originally thought. Three raised lines run down the right side of his face, the shortest going from just below the outer edge of his eyebrow to the top of his cheekbone, as though it—whatever it was—just missed taking out his eye. The second is longer, running from the hair near his temple to the middle of his cheek. The last is the longest and ugliest, intersecting the other two as it runs from the corner of his eye, stopping just short of his lip. The straight lines of his lips are unmarred, but his mouth might as well be disfigured too, because I doubt he’s used it to smile in a long, long time.

Finally, finally I let my eyes meet his, my stomach feeling a little jerky when his gaze locks onto mine. He lifts his eyebrows as though to say, Well? It’s clear he’s been through this scrutiny before and knows what to expect.

I’m guessing most people try to pretend nothing’s amiss. The kind ones likely express pity—maybe even ask gentle questions under the idiotic misconception that he’d want to talk about it with a complete stranger. The cruel ones run.

I don’t want to be part of either group. I want Paul Langdon to see me as different.

So I do the unthinkable. As in really, truly horrible, and yet somehow I sense it needs to be done.

Wordlessly I bend my head, fumbling again with my purse.

“Mace won’t protect you,” he says with a sneer.

I ignore him as I go about my original task and pull a twenty out of my wallet.

“What’s this?” he asks, staring at the bill in my outstretched hand. I feel an odd surge of victory at the confusion on his face. For just a moment I have the upper hand.

I give a little rueful shake of my head. “A dollar in the hat’s not nearly enough. You should really think about charging more for the first glance. Twenty dollars, at least.”

Silence stretches between us, even though his expression doesn’t change.

My mouth goes dry as he studies me. It’s a risky move, and I know it. With someone else—anyone else—it would be unbearably cruel. And yet somehow I suspect that this sort of in-your-face acknowledgment of his scars is exactly what Paul Langdon craves.

Then with a strangled snarl he swipes at my hand, but neither one of us watches the bill flutter to the ground.

Whoops. So it’s possible that I’m wrong. Maybe he doesn’t know that this is what he craves.

My pounding heart demands that I take a step back before I get backhanded by the livid guy in front of me, but I keep still, standing toe-to-toe with a beast of a man who looks as though he’d like nothing more than to physically throw me out of his secluded lair.

“Get out,” he says, mouth barely moving.

I lick my lips nervously, noting the way his eyes follow the motion of my tongue, and I finally accept that in spite of myself—in spite of the fear—I’m ridiculously attracted to him. Attracted in a fierce, animalistic way that I’ve never felt ever.

I found Ethan attractive, of course. I mean, we dated for like half of my life. And Michael…I don’t want to think about Michael.

But nothing in my limited sexual experience compares to the magnetic pull this guy has on me.

I ignore his demand that I leave him alone.

“Can I get you anything?” I ask, as though he hasn’t banished me from the room. “A cup of soothing tea? A turkey sandwich? Maybe sunglasses to protect yourself from all that happy sunshine you’re exuding?”

His eyes flash again, this time in puzzlement. I give him a fake-sympathetic smile and pat his arm. “Oh, I’m sorry, sweetie. Were your bear growl and caveman antics supposed to send me running away? Did you expect that I’d faint at your glower?”

He opens his mouth, probably to bellow at me again, but I simply lay a finger over his lips the way one would hush a petulant child, even though this bold, tough-girl routine is as foreign to me as it is to Paul.

But I’m apparently not the only one who can do the unexpected, because instead of pushing me back or turning away, his fingers curl around my wrist until he’s grasping my arm hard enough to hurt. Without warning, his tongue flicks over the tips of my fingers, and I gasp, trying to snatch my hand back from the sweetly erotic stroke.

He’s toying with me.

I know it’s only manipulation, of course, but damned if I’m not turned on by this sick game I’m playing with a totally messed-up guy I don’t even know.

Both of us are breathing too fast, and I feel a surge of panic.

It was never like this with Ethan. That was always comfortable and easy. It wasn’t like this with Michael, either. That was simply forbidden. It was an escape, and a transgression I continue to pay for.

Paul’s eyes continue to hold mine until very slowly he releases my hand and pushes me back. “You’re clearly incredibly stupid, in addition to being bitchy, so let me be more clear. Get the fuck out of my home. I don’t want you here.”

I shrug, taking a step toward him, and feel oddly gratified when he takes a step back in response. “I’ll leave,” I say in a low voice, my eyes never leaving his. Surprise flicks over his half-handsome, half-contorted features, and I press on. “Yup, I’ll leave.”

He narrows his eyes “What’s the catch? Double your pay?” he asks with a sneer.

“No. I’ll leave. In three months, as agreed.” I lean in just a little, letting my eyes focus on his mouth. “Better get used to me.”

I make it as far as the door before I realize my mistake. No, Paul makes me realize my mistake.

He grabs my wrist a second before pushing me back roughly. My shoulder blades hit the door a half second before his mouth descends on mine—hard. I let out a startled yelp, my nails digging into firm, broad shoulders that feel like granite beneath my hands. His leg might be damaged, but his upper body is most certainly not.

This kiss isn’t about want, and it’s definitely not about romance.

This kiss is about power. He’s trying to scare me off.

I’ve never really thought of myself as having a temper, but something about this guy has definitely set it off. Anger flares, and I sink my teeth into his bottom lip. Not hard enough to draw blood, but definitely hard enough to tell him to back off.

But instead of releasing me, he growls and moves closer, pinning me against the door with his body as his tongue slips into my mouth.

Oh wow.

My fingers tighten again on his shoulders, and it’s not to push him away. It’s like some dark, savage part of me is released by the taste of him, and instead of wriggling away and slapping him, I do the unthinkable. I kiss him back.

He freezes for a moment when my tongue shyly touches his, and he starts to pull back, but my hands go to the back of his head and pull him to me. When our lips meet again, it’s an all-out battle as our tongues tangle, each trying to take control. We’re like two sex-starved animals who need each other to survive.

It’s ridiculous. It’s wrong.

And I don’t want it to stop.

It’s only the vibration of Paul’s phone that has us jerking back, staring at each other in bewildered confusion. I raise a shaky hand to my lips before I catch how vulnerable the gesture is, and instead lift my chin and give him a defiant look.

His eyes rake over my body. “Get out.”

I give him a condescending look. “Please. If I ran away from every tepid, boyish kiss, I’d never have made it past junior high.”

I walk away from his enraged scowl, confident I’ve won this battle, but at a very, very high cost. Because I have a serious lady boner for the guy I’m supposed to work for.

Chapter Six

Paul

I wish she’d give the door a pissy slam, but instead it shuts behind her with a quiet, dignified click. I tell myself her departure from the room is dripping with self-righteous melodrama.

My hands make fists, although I’m not sure if it’s with the urge to punch a wall or the urge to chase after her, sink my fingers into her hair, and pull her mouth to mine. Again.

It’s that second urge—and the memory of that kiss—that enrages me.

That went wrong. All wrong. I’d meant only to scare her off, the big ugly brute making a move, and instead she responded like a cat in heat. She responded like she wanted me. Which obviously was only part of her game, but…for a second I wanted her to want me.

This girl is toxic. I’ll play nice with one of my dad’s caretakers, but it’s not going to be her. Anyone but her. I’ll take a doddering old lady, a smug Bible-thumper, even a cranky tyrant, but I won’t spend every day with a girl who reminds me of what I can’t have.

A girl I can’t stop picturing above me, beneath me…

Christ.

I thought she was enough of a temptation when I’d only gotten a brief glimpse of her. But seeing her up close? She’s even more gorgeous than I realized. The threat is more than just that, though. She’s also bold, irreverent, and brave. That combination is even more alluring than the wide green eyes and that long, lean body.

How long has it been since someone’s gone toe-to-toe with me? How long since someone refused to defer to my “condition”?

And that moment when she looked at my scars—really looked at them…If she’d gone sympathetic or horrified, I could have dealt with it. I’d been prepared for it. But that sort of frank acknowledgment? That blunt recognition of Yeah, you’ve got an ugly face? It was oddly intriguing.

And that I can’t deal with.

I grab my phone. My father picks up on the second ring.

“Find a new one,” I say, by way of greeting.

He doesn’t pretend to misunderstand. “You’ve been through all of the ‘new ones,’ Paul. I’ve already told you there’s not a limitless supply of people trained in taking care of invalids.”

Normally I hate the word invalid, but that’s not the part that rubs me the wrong way this time. “Trained? You’re honestly trying to tell me that this schoolgirl you sent out here is trained in anything other than manicures?”

His silence tells me I’m right. “Okay, I never said she was trained. But she’ll do for what you need.”

“Which is what, wiping my ass?”

“Company,” my dad growls. “Someone to make you human.”

My head snaps back a little at his words. He’s right, of course. I’m not human. But hearing it from your own father is…

I start to hang up, but my dad’s apologetic sigh stops me. “You know the deal, Paul.”

“Yup. Hard to forget my own dad throwing me out of the house.”

“You’re twenty-four. Quit making it sound like you’re a defenseless child.”

“Your paternal gentleness is overwhelming. And I’m not backing out of our deal; I’m just telling you to find a different caretaker.” One who doesn’t turn me on.

“No.” His succinct refusal isn’t a good sign.

“I’m not backing out on the deal,” I repeat, keeping my voice carefully level. “I’m just asking to work with someone who doesn’t look like an extra on an after-school special.”

“It’s Olivia or no one.”

Olivia. Did I know her name before now? We certainly didn’t introduce ourselves during all that heated staring, and if my father mentioned her name before, I didn’t bother to register it. The name suits her.

In spite of myself, I wonder what her story is. Has she done this before? Has she helped some other pathetic, damaged loser go about the tricky business of living? It seems a waste, somehow. A girl like that wasting her time on the dregs of society.

“This conversation is over, Paul,” Dad says. “It’s three months with her, or the deal’s off. You lost the right to be picky sometime around running off the sixth person I sent out there.”

I sink into the desk chair. My leg is killing me, although it’s nothing compared to the pressure in my chest at the finality in my father’s tone.

“She’s young, Dad,” I say, hating the desperation I hear in my own voice. “About my age.”

“And?”

God, is he really so clueless? Heartless?

“She just…she’s too much like someone I would have hung out with…before.” Hell, she’s like someone I might have dated.

“Well, maybe that’s a good thing, Paul.” His voice sounds tired. “It would do you some good to remember that even though you don’t look the same or move the same, you’re still the same person.”

Except I’m not. Not even close. The worst of my scars aren’t the ones I see in the mirror, and just once I wish the old bastard would try to understand that.

“I’m not spending the next three months with her. There’s no way.”

“Fine. I’ll tell Lindy and Mick to start packing your bags.”

I close my eyes and slump back against the chair, getting a little desperate. “I swear to God, whoever you send next, I’ll welcome them. Anyone but her.”

He’s silent, and for one hopeful second I think he’s going to relent. Then he repeats: “It’s her or no one.”

“Goddamn it!” I explode.

“I’ve got to go—I’m already late to a meeting with the board.”

Of course. The man eats, breathes, and shits his work.

Think about Lily. Think about Amanda. Do it for Alex.

“Fine,” I mutter, hating myself for sounding like a petulant child, but I draw the line at pretending I’m okay with his manipulation.

“I’ll call you on Sunday,” he says.

I start to hang up the phone, but his voice halts me.

“Paul?”

I don’t respond, but neither do I disconnect.

“It’ll be okay, son. You’ll see.”

Bull-fucking-shit.

But he’s already gone before I can tell him that I gave up on things being okay a long time ago.

Chapter Seven

Olivia

I stomp out of Paul’s creepy depression cave with my head held high, but as soon as the door shuts, I round the corner and slump against the wall, trying to gather my thoughts.

I’m immediately regretting my uncharacteristic burst of…well, actually, I have no idea what that burst was. I’d like to think it was me being bold and noble—following through with my commitments, or something virtuous like that.

But the truth is, everything about Paul Langdon plain pisses me off and I lost my temper. I didn’t even know I had a temper.

I find my way back into the kitchen and find Lindy covered up to her elbows in flour. “What are you making?” I ask before she can inquire about my disastrous encounter with Paul.

She gives me a curious look. “What does it look like?”

I eye the beige blob she’s flopping around on the granite countertop. “Pizza dough?” I ask, her motions reminding me of watching the guys behind the counter at Grimaldi’s.

Lindy gives me a little half smile. “I make that too. But this will just be good old-fashioned bread.”

“Oh,” I say, feeling stupid. Of course it’s bread. It’s just that bread in the Middleton household means stopping by a local bakery or the Italian market down in the Flatiron District. I watch Lindy punch the dough around for several moments, and though her movements are rhythmic and soothing, they do nothing to calm my racing brain.

“You want to talk about it?” she asks, not looking up.

“I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

“He does tend to have that effect on people. They come in expecting to feel sympathetic but walk away wanting to strangle him.”

“That about sums it up,” I say, tracing a finger through the flour dusting the counter.

“But you’re staying?” she asks.

I press my lips together as I consider. I don’t want to stay. I want to scream for Mick at the top of my lungs and hightail it back to Manhattan, where people buy bread, and where it’s not so freaking quiet, and where crippled war vets don’t have sexy blue eyes and shitty attitudes.

But then I picture Paul’s smug condescension as he stared down at me from that ravaged, once-gorgeous face. He knew I would feel this way. Heck, he’s made sure that there’s nothing to hold me here. It’s as though he saw right through my plan to swoop in here like a saintly guardian angel in order to atone for my own sins, and he’s telling me he isn’t going to play.

Clearly getting forgiveness isn’t going to be as simple as ladling soup into a weary, appreciative soul’s mouth.

Lindy gives another of those half smiles that she seems to have in endless supply. It’s a smile that says, Life sucks, but it’s always worth living. “Most people don’t admit how frustrating he is,” she is. “Most of them pretend he’s an absolute dear and claim they’re the one who can fix him. Although sometimes they don’t bother to pretend. They just leave within minutes of meeting him.”

“Can’t say I blame them,” I say, pushing away from the counter. “But it just so happens I have nowhere else to be. And I’m also probably not the right person to help him, but then I don’t know if there is such a thing when you’re dealing with him.”

“Well then.” Lindy gives the dough a satisfied pat before wiping her hands on a dish towel. “I’ll show you to your room.”

The upstairs of the house is as vast and grand as the downstairs, but its emptiness is a little unnerving. I follow Lindy down a long series of hardwood hallways, noting that we pass a half dozen bedrooms, not one of which seems to be in use. Of course, they wouldn’t be: Paul’s father doesn’t live here, and I’m assuming Mick and Lindy live in the nearby staff house, wherever that is. Which means it’s just me and Paul. Alone.

The thought should be terrifying, and it is. But then I remember my reaction to him…that pure, undiluted surge of attraction, and now I’m agitated on top of being nervous as hell.

“Here we go,” Lindy says, stopping at a room on the left at the end of the hall. “It’s not the biggest of the guest rooms, but the view’s the best in the house. Other than the master suite, of course.”

“Is the master suite where Paul’s father sleeps when he comes?” I ask, stepping into the room.

“Mr. Langdon rarely stays the night,” Lindy says quietly. “When he does, it’s in a guest room as far from Paul as he can get. It’s the only way they can keep the peace.”

“How wonderfully dysfunctional,” I mutter.

But as I take in my new bedroom, I temporarily forget all about the Langdons’ issues, because the room looks like something out of a luxury resort. The bed is huge, its bedding a pristine white save for the fur blanket draped across the foot. The furniture is all natural wood and has that sort of oversized one-of-a-kind quality look that makes me think it was made locally instead of created in bulk and distributed to thousands of households.

There’s a large desk in one corner, a reading chair in another, but the star of the room is the massive windows overlooking the water. “Wow,” I whisper.

“See, we do have a few things New York City doesn’t,” Lindy says, not bothering to hide the pride in her voice. “Frenchman Bay is one of them.”

I can’t argue. I’ve seen plenty of gorgeous views on summer vacations and spring break trips, but this ranks up there with the best of them because it’s unexpected. It’s nearly dark now, but it only adds to the appeal of the shadowy water. I imagine in the bright sunlight it would be postcard worthy.

“Bathroom’s through there,” Lindy says, gesturing to the door opposite the window. “I put in fresh towels, and there’s a small fridge next to the closet with water and a few snacks. I cook three meals a day. Nothing fancy, so if you need anything in between, or anything else, you’re on your own.”

“Sounds great,” I say, giving her a small smile. “Although I’m not really hungry when I travel, so I’m good for tonight.”

I haven’t eaten since breakfast save for the pretzels on the short plane flight, but my appetite has definitely deserted me for the moment. It probably has something to do with the fact that I’ve somehow gotten myself into the mother of all disasters.

“For meals, do the caretakers usually eat with Paul?” I ask.

Lindy’s lips press together for a moment. “No. He takes most all of his meals in the study, some in his bedroom. You are of course welcome to eat with Mick and me at any time, although we tend to eat in the small house.”

She says it in that way people have of not really expecting you to take them up on the offer, and I admit I’m a little depressed by the fact that I’m apparently expected to eat by myself. My family has always made a big deal about sharing meals, so the thought of four people living in one home and eating separately seems strange.

Then again, eating alone seems a lot less strange than sharing a meal with Paul. As if he’d even allow it, especially after the way I behaved. Although, oddly, I still don’t regret my over-the-top rudeness. It was worth it for the sheer surprise on his face. And something tells me that surprise is the only thing I’ll have going for me if I want to have any chance of keeping the upper hand.

Lindy heads toward the door. “There’s a phone in the kitchen and at the end of the hall, and both have a number listed for the small house. I usually head over there shortly after I get Paul his dinner, so if you need anything…”

“I’ll be fine.”

She studies me for a moment, and I’m pretty sure she wants to call my bluff.

Instead, the door closes behind her, and I stand for several moments staring at bobbing sailboats, wishing I could be on one of them sailing to anywhere that’s not here.

It’s a testament to just how cushy my life has been up until the past couple of months that I’ve truly never given much thought to being unhappy. I mean, I never really thought about being happy either. I guess you could say I’ve floated, but in a harmless, life-is-good kind of way.

And now?

Now I can’t bear the thought of returning to my life with all of its glossy ease, and yet staying in Maine is almost as unfathomable. Not just because it’s foreign, and not just because Paul is a complete asswad who may or may not turn me on. But because I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.

Tomorrow morning is right around the corner, and I’ll be expected to do the job that they’re paying me for: being a companion to a guy who can’t take care of himself. Except, beyond that limp and the sneer, he seems to be managing just fine. I can’t imagine he’ll want me to read the classics aloud to him while he dabbles in watercolors. I’ll be lucky if he even lets me in the same room.

The futility of it all threatens to choke me, and I go through the motions of unpacking the suitcase that Mick carried upstairs for me. With each bra I drop into the dresser drawer, I keep hoping it’ll help my brain accept that I’m staying.

Instead my mind is going down a more ridiculous path…wondering which bra Paul would most like to see. Wondering what it would feel like to have him take it off me. Wondering…

Oh my gawd, Middleton. You are half a dirty thought away from being a revolting perv.

By the time I brush my teeth and wash my face in the small but modern bathroom, I’m surprised to realize that I’m exhausted despite the fact that the sun’s barely set. I wonder if I’m supposed to check on “Mr. Paul,” but from the way he glared at me as I stormed out of his cave earlier, I don’t think another encounter today will do either of us any good.

Changing into my pajamas, I curl up on my side on the large bed, resting my cheek on my hands as I stare out at the dark sky. When I finally drift off to sleep, it’s not picturesque water and boats I see. It’s an angry mouth and gorgeous blue eyes.

For the first time in months, my dreams aren’t about Ethan. Or Michael.

Tonight, my dreams are about someone far more dangerous to me than either of the guys from my past.

Chapter Eight

Paul

Back when I was in high school, me and football were kind of a big deal. And I always liked it well enough, but football was never really my true passion, cheesy as that sounds.

In fact, I was semi-disappointed when my coach marked me for QB early in my freshman year. The quarterback doesn’t get to run much.

That’s my passion. Running. Tossing a football to a bunch of other guys was nothing compared to the rush I got from running.

I ran every day leading up to Afghanistan. I ran as often as I could around the base after I got there. And since getting back…Well, let’s just say that my future holds as much hope for running as it does flying.

But I have a secret.

Not a big one. It’s pathetic, actually. But one that nobody knows. Well, I suspect Mick and Lindy might, but they won’t dare mention it.

The truth is, running is the one area of my life where I let the tiniest ray of hope shine in. Not real hope. Because I can’t actually let myself think that it’s going to happen. But I dream of running again.

It’s that dream that has me getting up at the ass crack of dawn every morning. Before Lindy or Mick or whatever godforsaken caretaker is lurking about is awake…hell, before the sun’s even up.

I go outside and pretend I’m running. Not physically pretending, of course. My leg’s not even remotely able to sustain that kind of fantasy. But mentally? I run.

It’s the only time I’ll use my cane. Partially because nobody’s watching, but also because the cane allows me to go longer, farther, faster. Just a mile or so on a trail that winds around the bay. I walk/hobble in the predawn silence and let myself pretend just for an hour that I’m running. That I’m normal. It’s my time.

Of course, being the hermit that I am, all time is my time. But this is different. I’d almost say sacred if that didn’t sound so ridiculous. But save for the fishermen—because this is Maine, after all—I’m alone. And this solitude is different from the rest of my day because it’s intentional.

This time of the day is the only time I feel alive.

And I never dreamed that it could be ripped away from me in the most debilitating way possible.

Olivia Middleton—the very person who kept me up the entire night—is a runner. Worse, she’s running on my path during my time.

She’s running toward me, and although she’s still a good ways off, I know it’s her. That blond ponytail and that tall, slim frame are all I’ve been able to think about since that kiss.

Turning around would be futile. Her jog would easily overtake my walk, so there’s nothing to do but wait. And brace.

I slow to a standstill. It’s bad enough that she has to see me with the cane; I’ll be damned if I’ll give her the spectacle of watching me actually hobble along with it.

She’s got hot pink running shoes, which are ridiculous, especially since they perfectly match the long-sleeved pink running shirt. The hairband is also pink. Come to think of it, wasn’t she wearing a pink sweater yesterday? Just what I need. A bubblegum explosion in my life.

Even if her fashion-forward running gear didn’t clue me in (real runners don’t care about matching their hairband to their shoes), it’s obvious from her slow pace, her pink cheeks, and the gait that’s just slightly off that she’s new at this.

Already my brain is racing with pointers. Breathe in through your nose, out through your mouth. Don’t move your arms so much. You overpronate—do your girly shoes compensate for that?

At first I think she doesn’t see me. There’s no change in her gait or expression as she closes the gap between us. But then she’s almost upon me. Then in front of me. She stops.

My fingers clench on the handle of my cane—a black python affair I ordered on the Internet mostly because it was so ridiculously gaudy—and I resist the urge to turn my head and give her my profile. My good side.

But if the two of are going to be stuck together for three months, she’d better get used to seeing me. I’d better get used to her seeing me.

She doesn’t look at the cane at all, and other than the briefest flick of her green eyes over my scars, she doesn’t really seem to care about those either. Then again, it’s still dark, with the barest hit of early morning sun illuminating us, so perhaps she can’t really see their ugliness. Which reminds me…

“You shouldn’t go running alone in the dark,” I growl.

She frowns almost imperceptibly, just the finest line between her dark blond eyebrows. “Why not?”

“You go running through the streets of New York City at the crack of dawn?”

“How do you know I’m from New York City?”

I remain silent, not wanting to have to explain that I spent most of the night studying the limited information my dad had sent over on Olivia. Nothing interesting. NYU dropout. Manhattan resident. Short of a crash course in CPR, no actual experience in taking care of anyone. She turned twenty-two just days before arriving in Maine.

But the file didn’t answer any of the things I wanted to know. Like whether she enjoyed that kiss yesterday or was just pretending. Whether she likes guys to hold her face or her hips when they kiss her. Whether she has a boyfriend. And, most important…what the fuck is she doing in Maine?

“Don’t go running alone here,” I say. I don’t bother to explain all the dangers of a woman running alone in the dark. Bar Harbor is safe enough, but all it takes is one sick fuck lurking in the bushes to destroy a life.

“Okay,” she says, surprising me.

I narrow my eyes and wait for it.

She squirms. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I’ve never known a female to acquiesce that easily without a catch. How about you hit me with it now and get it over with.”

Olivia shrugs. “Fine. I was going to say that I won’t run alone if you promise to go with me.”

“No,” I say, almost before she’s finished her sentence.

“Why not?”

I rap my cane once against the ground. “Well, for starters, despite the fact that there are tortoises that could surpass your sorry excuse for a jog, I’m in no shape to accompany even the most pathetic of runners.”

“What a handy skill you have of overloading a sentence with insults,” she says as she reaches up to adjust her ponytail. “That must be helpful, what with your thriving social life and all.”

I thump my cane against the ground again, studying her. “Must be nice, picking on the cripple.”

Olivia rolls her eyes. “Please. Your soul’s more crippled than your leg.”

She has no idea how right she is, and I have no intention of letting her anywhere close enough to find out. I’ve gotten good at shutting people out by pushing them away…being as nasty as possible until they reach their breaking point. But with her? It’s different. And not only because the three-month rule my father’s implemented means I can’t scare her away. I suspect she of all people might realize that the caustic, hostile routine isn’t a routine at all. This girl might just figure out that I’m truly rotten to the core.

It’s better that she does; I just need to delay that realization for a while. Three months, specifically. I’m not saying I’m going to be nice to her. I have absolutely no intention of going all friendly on her ass. But I’ll do whatever it takes to prevent her from realizing that I’m more dead inside than she can possibly know. I’ll do whatever it takes to ensure that little Lily gets the treatment she needs.

I will not, however, accompany her on her morning “runs,” and I use that word loosely.

“There’s a treadmill in the gym,” I say, continuing along the path.

“Is there?” she asks, falling into step beside me. “Rumor has it you don’t use it.”

“You know,” I say as though realization just struck, “I just had the best idea. How about we not do this chatty little shared morning together? You go ahead and scamper back up to the house with your ill-fitting shoes, and I’ll continue slithering along this path alone. Yeah?”

“My shoes are not ill-fitting.”

I snort. “Please. Where’d you get them, online?”

She’s silent for a second. “They got great reviews.”

“I’m sure they did. Probably by people who liked the pretty pink color.”

“What’s wrong with the color?”

“For lipstick? Nothing,” I say, even though I have no idea why I’m continuing this conversation. The innocuousness of it feels suspiciously normal.

“Let me guess,” she says. “Your high school track team placed second in the state like a hundred years ago, and you’re still reliving the glory?”

“A hundred years ago? Exactly how old do you think I am? And no, I didn’t run track in high school.”

“You’re twenty-four going on like a hundred.”

I narrow my eyes at her. “Is that a crack about the cane?”

“Oh yeah, can we talk about that for a second?” she asks, peering down at the object in question. “That whole snake thing is a reference to your penis, right?”

My footsteps falter. This girl looks like a poster child for a church’s youth group, and penis is so not a word I was prepared for. Not in this context, anyway.

“Seriously?” I ask, annoyed at being thrown off guard. Not only does she invade my personal space and invite herself on a walk she clearly wasn’t invited on, but she’s prying into my past, accusing me of being an old man, and now dropping penis into conversation like we’re discussing the weather.

“I’m just saying,” she says with a shrug. “It’s a snake head, and the way you use it keeps it sort of in the vicinity of, well…your snake head. I figure that can’t be an accident.”

Sweet Jesus.

“It’s a cane. I can’t use it and not have it in the vicinity of—shit. Just never mind. Can you please just trot along back to the house? Your Barbie shoes are going to get dirty out here.”

Olivia shrugs but doesn’t make any move to head in the opposite direction. “Personally, I think you should have gotten a jaguar cane. That would have been really cool.”

I frown. “The python’s cool.”

“No. The python’s creepy and suggestive. But a sleek, sexy black cat? That would up the cool factor.”

For a second, I almost tell her that I don’t need any help upping the cool factor. Then I remember that I’m not Paul Langdon, Boston hotshot anymore. I’m the crippled, small-town version.

I take in a long breath of cold morning air to keep myself from letting the despair that’s lodged in my throat come rushing out in an angry bellow. If I let her see even a sliver of what’s inside me, she’ll be on her way back to Park Avenue. And tempting as that is, I need her here. At least until I formulate a plan for what the hell to do with my life.

Until then, I have to keep her around in a way that doesn’t make me want to strangle her—or push her against a nearby tree and kiss her senseless.

“How long have you been running?” I ask, almost choking on the inane, unimportant question. It’s been so long since I’ve had a casual conversation that it feels both unnatural and strangely familiar. Plus it keeps my mind off the way she fills out her pink running shirt. Practicality tells me she’s got a sports bra under there—probably pink—but it doesn’t stop me from fantasizing about seeing Olivia in less utilitarian undergarments. Or better yet, none at all.

“The running thing’s kind of new,” she replies, jerking me back to the conversation.

“Shocker,” I mutter.

“Well, sorry I’m not Flo-Jo.”

I smile a little. “That’s the only runner you know, isn’t it?”

“Maybe. Jeez. What is it with you and running? I didn’t realize that track trivia would be part of the job requirements,” she says, her tone exasperated, as we take a sharp right turn in the path, bringing us closer to the water.

“I miss it.” My answer is simple and a good deal more revealing than I intended.

I half expect her to mock me. To inform me that there are more important things in life than the ability to run, or to pacify me by telling me that there are other things I can do that are just as great.

Instead she nods, but not in a pitying way, just a quick acknowledgment of my statement.

“I started running as an escape,” she says after several seconds of silence.

I glance down at her profile, noting that her nose is just slightly upturned and kind of cute. “An escape from what?”

She glances back at me, and our eyes collide for one charged moment. The message is clear: she’ll tell me her secrets when I tell her mine.

Which will be never.

“Your breathing’s all wrong,” I say, tearing my eyes away from hers.

“My breathing’s fine.”

“Not if you want to run more than three miles. Your breaths are too shallow. You need to inhale deeper. Engage your diaphragm. And get used to matching the breaths to your steps. For your slow pace, inhale for maybe three or four steps, then exhale for the same.”

“That seems like a lot of thinking for something that’s supposed to be natural.”

“You’ll get used to it.”

“Okay, what else?” she says, spreading her arms wide. “Am I bowlegged? My ponytail not high enough?”

“Just start with the breathing for now,” I say, irritation starting to set in as I realize how much I want to be the one running, not the one telling someone else how to run.

“Sure thing, Coach,” she mutters.

“So, by any chance, does your sudden affinity for running mean you want to be alone?”

She frowns. “Not really. Why?”

“Jesus, take a hint.”

“Ah. You want me to leave you to your brooding.”

“Yup.”

She stops walking immediately and pivots so she’s facing back toward the house. “Fine. I’ll try to master your little breathing activity on the way back. Same time tomorrow?”

“No. Find another time to run.”

“I’m getting paid to keep you company, you know.”

“Well, do so quietly. And from afar.”

She sighs as though I’m a petulant child. “It’s shocking that none of your other companions stuck around for more than a couple of weeks. Absolutely shocking, I say.”

“Goodbye, Middleton,” I say, gesturing with my cane back toward the house.

“See ya, Langdon,” she says as she begins walking backward so that she’s still facing me. “Also, fun little trivia for this morning? In exchange for your unsolicited breathing advice?”

“No thanks.”

She ignores me and points to the cane. “That cane? All for show. You haven’t used it once to support your weight this entire time.”

I open my mouth to argue, but instead my jaw goes a little slack as it hits me.

She’s right.

And I haven’t once thought about my leg. Or my scars.

She’s already jogging away from me, and I stand still for several minutes, watching her until she disappears around a bend in the path. Then I continue with my walk, telling myself I’m relieved to have my solitude back.

And if there’s the slightest undercurrent of loneliness, I ignore it.

Chapter Nine

Olivia

After my shower, I go looking for Paul.

He’s not in his library or the kitchen. Halfway back up the stairs, I hear the hard, driving music from the direction of his bedroom. I didn’t grow up with a brother (or a sister, for that matter), but I’m pretty sure all that scary guitar noise is dude code for “keep the hell out.”

Fine with me.

I’m not sure which encounter feels more strange: the kiss in the library last night, or the unexpected predawn walk/run, where we almost connected for like a half second before he reverted to asshole mode.

Returning to my bedroom, I check my email, ignoring everything except the message from Harry Langdon. I hit reply and proceed to vomit out a bunch of lies about how “Paul and I are going to do just fine together!”

It’s not like I can tell him the truth: that I’m not at all sure how to survive three months with his gorgeous, tormented son.

And then, because I have no idea what else I’m supposed to be doing, I take myself on a little tour of the Langdon estates.

The compound is just as enormous and impressive in the morning as it was at twilight, and although everything is state-of-the-art, right down to the sound system in the small house, which Mick insists on showing me, I can’t help but feel I’ve stepped back into another era where some desolate duke reigns over a semi-abandoned estate.

The gym in particular is depressing. It has enough equipment for an entire football team, which is a little pathetic considering there’s only one person using it, and according to Harry Langdon’s earlier emails, Paul only works his upper body—not the leg that so desperately needs rehabilitation.

Yet…wasn’t lying this morning when I pointed out that he doesn’t seem to need his cane. Admittedly, my psychology expertise is limited to one throwaway psych class my freshman year at NYU, but I’d bet serious money that Paul Langdon’s issues are a lot more in his head than in his leg. And I suspect that, deep down, he knows it too.

Which is why he’s avoiding me.

He’s not trying to run me off with the same sort of hostile enthusiasm he displayed yesterday, but he’s certainly not seeking me out. I’m disappointed but not surprised. After all, he’s made it very clear that he can’t stand anything about me. Not my personality, not my running technique, not my pink shoes…

Later, Lindy asks me to take Paul lunch—homemade minestrone and a ham sandwich—but when I bring it into the study, the room is still empty. However, there’s a glass of some brown alcohol on the desk that I know wasn’t there earlier, so he’s obviously not locked in his bedroom anymore.

Yup. Definitely avoiding me. I take the tumbler of liquor out with me after setting the tray on the desk. I’m not a teetotaler by any means, but the last thing this guy needs is to be drinking before noon. When I get back to the kitchen I dump the alcohol down the sink, perversely hoping that I’ve just tossed something extremely expensive.

I spend the next couple of hours in my room. I call my mom and give her a glossy, half-truth-filled version of my first day. Next I call Bella, and although I fill her in on the fact that Paul is younger than expected and ridiculously sexy (best friend privilege; I can’t not tell her), I stop short of confiding that I’m both drawn to him and utterly terrified by him. I certainly don’t tell her about the kiss.

Then I kill as much time as I can checking in on the various social media stops, spending an extra few minutes studying the newest pictures of Ethan and Stephanie, just to punish myself.

Seeing the wide smile on my ex’s face when he looks at the tiny brunette feels a bit like a knife in the chest. He used to look at me that way. Didn’t he? Ugh. What if he didn’t? What if nobody does again?

Once I’ve exhausted every social media network and every celeb gossip site I know, I’m about to close my laptop when a new email comes through.

It’s from Harry Langdon.

Ms. Middleton:

Glad to hear you’re settling in nicely. I hope Paul wasn’t too unwelcoming. He can be a bit rough around newcomers given his condition. I know he’ll be difficult, but I’m confident that even just an hour or two of human contact each day is vital to his recovery. Be patient with him. He’s a good boy.

I’ll be in touch,

Harry

P.S.: Watch his drinking.

I read the message twice. Really? “A good boy”? Clearly Harry hasn’t spent much time with his “boy” in a while, because the guy I met is far from good, and well on his way out of boyhood.

Also, what condition? Hostility? General asshole-ness? Being allowed to wallow in self-pity for too long?

Plus there’s a detached quality about the email that’s bugging me. Sure, the man is paying ridiculous amounts of money to hide his son away in luxury, but can paid babysitters really make up for the lack of family? And where’s Paul’s mom? I make a mental note to ask Lindy.

The only thing about the businesslike email that gives me any peace of mind is Mr. Langdon’s mention of “an hour or two” of human contact. I admit I’ve been feeling a little weird about getting free room and board plus a decent salary to watch over a guy I can’t even seem to locate. But hey, if they want to pay me to intrude on his morning walks and dump out his booze, bring it on.

I set the laptop aside and reach for the book I brought with me. One of my personal goals for this little Maine adventure is to read more. I mean, I’ve always been really good at reading gossip magazines, and I read my textbooks carefully enough to get good grades. But lately I’ve had a little craving to get more substance into my life.

I pulled a biography of Andrew Jackson off the shelf in my dad’s library when I was packing, mostly because it was big and had “Pulitzer Prize Winner” printed on the front. Impressive, right? So maybe I hadn’t known straightaway that Andrew Jackson was a former president, but that only reinforced my resolution to read it. The new and improved Olivia is going to know shit like that.

I open my bedroom door, listening for the music coming from Paul’s room. Nothing. I hope this means he’s down in his study. Poor guy doesn’t know it yet, but he’s about to have some company doing whatever it is he does in that room for unhealthy amounts of time.

I put on a quick swipe of mascara and pink lip gloss. I try to tell myself that it’s out of habit (my mom is of the opinion that ladies should always be groomed), but I’m pretty sure it’s because I’m trying to make up for the fact that the last time Paul saw me, I had major boob sweat and a greasy ponytail and was short on oxygen.

My dark jeans and cream sweater aren’t exactly sexy, but they’re a big improvement on my running gear. As is the fact that I’m showered.

You’re an employee, my brain reminds me. So not the time to cultivate your inner tramp.

At the library door, I start to knock, only to realize that’ll give him a chance to throw himself out the window or sneak out some secret passageway that I’m only half kidding about. Instead I go right in, and the scene in front of me is…well, it’s ridiculously appealing.

The roaring fireplace in the corner, the sexy guy in the big wingback chair by the fireplace with a book and another of those amber-liquid filled tumblers. It’s all very après-ski chic.

For the first time since arriving in this hellish place, I feel a true pang of regret for intruding on him. He doesn’t seem like a victim who needs a keeper so much as a guy trying to read a book in peace by the fire on a blustery afternoon.

I’m thinking about backing away and leaving him to the quiet when he opens his fat mouth.

“That liquor you tossed earlier came from a five-hundred-dollar bottle.”

Ah. Back to normal. I use my foot to close the door behind me. “I’m sure that really made a dent in the family coffers. You know, right, that all of the artwork in your halls is original?”

“Come on,” he says, still not looking up from his book “You’re a rich girl. Surely you know how stereotypical comments like that can be.”

“Yeah, you look really torn up about it,” I mutter, moving closer to him. “And how do you know I’m rich?”

“Google. Your family’s a big deal.”

I ignore this. We’ll both be better off not talking about me.

“So what is it?” I ask, tentatively sitting in the chair across from his even though I’m uninvited and clearly unwelcome. I study him. Paul has just a bit more stubble than he did yesterday. Normally I prefer a clean-cut guy, but this slightly rough look really, really suits his golden-boy-meets-jaded-war-hero vibe. I wait for him to look at me, mentally bracing myself for the shock of it.

As though he’s sensed my thoughts, his blue eyes flick to mine, and I’m not sure why I thought bracing for it would make a damned bit of difference. It still sends ripples of want from my eyelashes right down to my toes.

“What is what?” he asks.

It takes me a moment to realize that I asked him a question. “The precious liquor I threw out. What is it?”

His eyes flicker in irritation and I think he’s going to tell me to get the hell out, but something seems to stop him, and he very slowly lifts the crystal glass from the table and hands it to me.

I sniff. “Scotch.”

He nods. “A thirty-year-old Highland Park. Not the best we have, but not something to be tossed down the drain, either.”

“Very alpha.”

He rolls his eyes, and I take a tiny sip, knowing from past experience that I don’t really like Scotch. Turns out I don’t like the $500 one either, and I hand it back to him with a little shrug.

“Want anything?” he asks. “Wine?”

“I’m good.”

Actually, water would be great right about now. Between the hot look in his eyes and the heat of the fire, I’m a bit, um, parched.

“What are you reading?” I ask.

He groans. “Not this again. I know we’re stuck with each other, but do we have to do the get-to-know-each-other chat? Can’t we just sit in silence?”

The way he says stuck with each other gives me pause. I know why I’m sticking this out, but why is he? From what I’ve heard from Lindy and what I inferred from his father, Paul has no qualms about driving people away.

Is he treating me differently? Or just biding his time until he figures out how to add me to his list of banished caretakers?

I really, really want it to be the first one.

“Fine,” I say, sitting back in the chair and settling in. “I’ll give you twenty minutes of silence in exchange for a shared dinner.”

“Hell no,” he says calmly, his attention already returned to his book as he turns a page.

“Thirty minutes of silence.”

“I don’t share meals with anyone.”

“Come on,” I cajole. “I promise not to try to feed you your soup airplane-style like a child.”

“No.”

“Paul.”

His eyes flick up again, and for the briefest of moments the look on his face is almost one of longing. I realize it’s the first time I’ve spoken his name out loud.

I’m pretty sure I’m not just another caretaker. Thing is, I don’t know what I am.

“I can keep a one-sided conversation going for a long time,” I press on, quickly trying to move us away from the charged moment. “Let’s see, I was born on August thirtieth, which means that my birthstone is peridot, which is a fancy word for ugly green. And speaking of color, this hair color? So not natural. I mean, I was one of those adorable blond toddlers, but it all went mouse brown right about the time I started third grade, and I’ve been adjusting it ever since. I got my first period when I was—”

“Okay!” he interrupts. “I cave. You give me an hour and a half of silence now, and I’ll eat dinner with you later, but we can’t talk during that either.”

“No deal. I’ll give you one hour of quiet time now, but we talk at dinner.”

He takes a small sip of Scotch and studies me. “You’re annoying.”

I start to argue that annoying has never been one of my personality traits. I’ve always been more in the polite, mellow, and shy category. I always say the right thing at parties, I respect other people’s boundaries, and I dodge controversial topics like they’re land mines. But there’s something about him that’s brought out this other version of myself. I kind of like it.

I shrug, refusing to apologize. Besides, the old, sweet Olivia would get stomped on by this guy.

“So do you know who Andrew Jackson is?” I ask, pulling my legs beneath me and curling into the soft black leather of the chair.

“Yes, I know who Andrew Jackson is. Old Hickory.”

Old what? “Whatever,” I say. “Have you heard of this book? It’s called American Lion, and—”

“Olivia,” he says mildly, turning the page of his book, “that hour of silence is effective immediately.”

I sigh. Guess I’ll actually have to read this book instead of talk about it. So disappointing.

“Okay,” I say as I open to the foreword. “But you should know that I plan to eat very, very slowly at dinner.”

I ignore his groan as I settle in to read about this Old Hickory guy. And maybe sneak a few glances at the hottest guy I’ve ever seen.

Chapter Ten

Paul

It’s hot. So fucking hot, but I’m not even aware of it. None of us are, because it’s always hot, and not worth complaining about because there are bigger things to worry about, like the helicopter that went down last week or the Humvee that didn’t return to base last night.

The best you can do is ignore the heat, play football with your friends when you can, and pray to any god, spirit, or deity you can think of that you’ll be one of the lucky ones.

Then Williams breaks the code.

We’re out on standard patrol, and he breaks the damn code.

“I fucking hate it here.”

I’m in the process of mentally thinking about what the hell I’m supposed to write to Ashley, my girlfriend back home, but my brain skids to a halt at Williams’s outburst. Garcia and Miller stop bastardizing whatever outdated Jay-Z song they were attempting to sing and stare at Williams with a mixture of dismay and disgust.

Alex Skinner, my best friend since boot camp, just looks pissed. “Goddamn it, Williams.”

Greg Williams merely shrugs. Of all of us, he’s the smallest, but he’s damned fast. And smart. At least I thought so until he broke the fucking code.

“Don’t start that,” I say, trying to lighten the mood. “You know the second we start acknowledging that we are in fact, living the shit life, that’s the second our luck runs out.”

“I’m just saying. This fucking blows. The sand, the heat, the constant fear of being sent home in a box. You all know it.”

Skinner leans forward to get in Williams’s face. “We all knew that getting into it. This isn’t some glorified World War I bullshit where we didn’t know what to expect.”

Williams shoves at Skinner’s shoulder, and I place an arm between them before the two hotheads make a shitty situation shittier.

“I’m allowed to say what I think,” Williams grumbles, shaking both of us off and staring down at his hands. “I’m allowed to say what we’re all thinking. There ain’t no fucking curse that’s going to come because I spoke the truth.”

Less than ten minutes later, we find out he’s wrong.

Williams gets sent home in a box.

So do the rest of them.

Suddenly time both speeds up and slows down, and a second later I’m on the ground holding on to Alex, and he’s trying to talk but the only thing that comes out of his mouth is blood.

There’s too much blood. Mine. His. It’s all one bitter, metallic mess.

I try to understand what Alex is telling me. I try to understand his dying wish, try to comprehend his last word, but there’s too much blood.

There’s always too much damned blood.

It’s not the first time I’ve woken up in a pool of sweat.

But it’s the first time since those early days in the hospital that someone’s been there when I wake up.

I don’t remember the nurses well, but I’m pretty sure none of them looked like Olivia Middleton, kneeling on my bed, wearing only a tiny white T-shirt and pink boxer shorts. What is it with her and pink?

And then I comprehend that she’s here. In my bedroom.

I comprehend why she’s here.

The dream. I was yelling, and she came to find out why.

“Get the fuck out,” I say, pushing myself into a sitting position and rolling out of bed on the other side before she can touch me. “Get the fuck out!”

“You were screaming,” she says calmly as she climbs off the bed and turns to face me, the king-size bed separating her from my sweaty, amped-up self.

“Of course I’m yelling. It’s goddamned war.”

It takes me a second to register my words, and I run my hands over my face, trying to wake up. Trying to see anything but Alex dying.

“Get out,” I say again.

“How often does this happen?”

I ignore her and move toward the sideboard, where I pour myself a glass of whatever’s in the closest bottle.

“Water would be better,” she says. “You’re soaked with sweat; the alcohol will just make it worse.”

“Yeah? Water would be better? Water will fix it all?” I ask snidely. “You don’t know a fucking thing, Goldilocks.”

“Nice,” she snaps. “Really original. And I don’t mind the occasional bit of profanity, but you’re starting to get repetitive.”

I toss back the whiskey, relishing the burn. I pour another, wondering how many it will take this time. How many drinks to numb the pain.

Cool, slim fingers wrap around my wrist. “Don’t.”

I jerk my hand away and push her back. Not hard, but enough that she stumbles a little.

A tiny, decent part of me starts to reach out to steady her. To apologize. No, to beg for forgiveness, because Paul Langdon is not the type who takes out his issues on women.

But she’s too close, and her presence is so wrong, and instead of apologizing, I turn my back to her and place my hands on my head, trying to take deep breaths when really all I want is to slide into nothingness and never come back.

“Paul.”

“Don’t,” I snarl. “Just because I played nice and let you ramble on about your childhood pet over pot roast doesn’t mean you get to come in here in your minuscule pajamas, trying to wipe my damp brow and comfort me on shit you know nothing about.”

“So then tell me about it,” she says, her voice all calm reason, pissing me off even further. “Or tell someone.”

Right. Never heard that advice before.

It’s not the advice that pisses me off; it’s the fact that for the first time ever, I’m tempted. For the first time, I want to lay my head on someone’s shoulder and let them stroke my hair and tell me that it will all be okay. I want to share the monsters inside me.

And that’s not the worst of it. Creeping in around the pain of seeing Alex die again, infiltrating the misery of that day, is another kind of awareness: that I’m wearing nothing but boxers, and that Olivia is in little more than underwear.

For anyone to be around me after one of the dreams is dangerous. But to have her, with her smooth skin and the lingering scent of the perfume she wears, invading my space when my blood is already pumping and I’m mad and turned on and ready to punish someone—anyone, starting with myself—well…

I turn around again to resume pouring my second drink, but she’s moved toward me again, plucking the glass from my hand. Her breasts are against my biceps, and my edginess ratchets up another several notches.

“Leave,” I say. My voice is raspy. For God’s sake, leave now. I turn my head just slightly to watch her reaction.

She continues to watch me, her expression unreadable. “Or what? You physically throw me out?”

“It’s a distinct possibility.” The safer one.

“I’ll leave when you promise to talk to someone about the dreams. What if you start easy? Write it down on a piece of paper.”

Yeah, that’ll help. A fucking diary.

“I’m going to count to three,” I say, grabbing the glass back out of her hand and reaching for the bottle. “One.”

“Paul.”

“Two,” I say, never raising my voice. I toss back the shot, pouring another even as the one I just had still burns my throat.

She tries to grab for the bottle, but this time I’m prepared and move it out of reach. Except now we’re standing chest to chest.

Her eyes flare briefly. Annoyance? Arousal?

“Three,” I say slowly.

For a second, neither of us moves. Then I grab for her with the ruthless quickness of a soldier and fist my hand into her silky blond hair before she can step back.

Her eyes go wide, and for the first time since I’ve met her, she looks scared.

Good.

She should be.

Chapter Eleven

Olivia

Just like the first time, the kiss is meant to punish.

But if the kiss the other day was about testing each other, this one is about domination.

Paul is winning. My mind is fully aware that I’ve invaded his space and his privacy, and this tortured man thinks that his mouth on mine is teaching me some sort of lesson.

And it’s a lesson all right. A lesson in want. Because if my mind registers that the kiss is savage, then my body is a glutton for it. The feel of Paul’s lips rubbing roughly against mine sets off a chain of fireworks through me.

His fingers tighten in my hair as the other hand snakes around my waist, jerking me toward him. The thin fabric of my T-shirt does nothing to diminish the sensation of being against his bare chest—which, by the way, is even more ripped than I expected. I know it’s dark, but I’m pretty sure we’re talking eight-pack.

Even when Ethan and I were in the early, just-discovering-each-other’s-good-bits phase back in our teens, I’ve never been what one might call lusty. Maybe sensual on a good day, when I have the right lingerie and am having a good hair day. But it’s never been electric. I’ve never wanted to lose myself in another person.

Not just any other person. Paul. The one guy I absolutely, positively should not want. But I do.

The fingers in my hair tighten, tilting my head back as his lips move from my mouth to my jaw, his teeth grazing there just before his mouth moves down to my neck.

I shouldn’t let him. I really shouldn’t let him.

But instead of pushing him back the way my brain demands, I hear myself moan as my fingers move helplessly on his shoulders. He sucks on the sensitive flesh beneath my ear before pulling back just enough to stare down at me.

“Tell me to let you go,” he says.

I open my mouth to do just that, but no words come out. Not when we’re chest to chest, hip to hip, and the skin on my neck is still damp from his kiss.

His eyebrows go up in smug realization. “No?” he asks, his voice husky as he bends down and nips my earlobe. “You like this?”

I gasp as his tongue finds my ear.

“What about this?” His hand moves from my waist to my breast, and the thin fabric of my T-shirt does nothing to disguise my response.

He smiles against my neck, and I hate him then. But not as much as I hate myself, because I don’t push him away.

I let him slide his warm hand under my shirt to palm my breast, hot skin against hot skin. I let his other hand release my hair so that both hands are on me, his thumbs moving over my nipples as I do little more than pant.

And then, God help me, when his mouth returns to mine I kiss him back like I’m starving.

“You want me?” he asks against my mouth. “You want my hands on you?”

Little alarm bells are going off in the back of my head. There’s no warmth in his words. No kindness, or even desire. He’s playing some sort of cruel game in which my body is definitely the playing board. And I’m a willing participant.

Paul’s hand slides down my stomach, moving under my shorts before resting against the thin, damp fabric of my panties.

His breathing is harsher now, and I know he’s testing his own limits.

My fingernails scrape lightly at his wrist, reason demanding that I push him away. His fingers move, brushing against me, and my head falls back helplessly.

Paul’s breath is hot and fast against my neck as one finger slides its way under the elastic, finding me hot and slippery.

“Christ,” he mutters.

Another finger joins the first, and I’m still gripping his wrist, but this time with no intention of pushing him away. His fingers toy with me, experimentally at first, and then more confidently as he figures out what makes me squirm and gasp.

My orgasm is upon me embarrassingly fast, and he seems to know it, because in those last seconds he pulls me close with one arm, the pads of his fingers moving faster and faster against me until a hoarse cry rips from my throat as I shatter.

As I ride through the aftershocks, I start to lean into him, just until my legs stop shaking and I catch my breath. But he pulls his hand out of my shorts and steps back before I have the chance. I still can’t think straight, so it takes me a second to register what’s happening.

Paul wipes his hand—that hand—against his boxers with a sneer. “Well, that was easy. Makes one wonder who’s working for whom.”

There’s a dull roar in my ears. Oh my God. This isn’t happening. I am not being flat out rejected by the guy I just let finger me. A guy I work for.

He reaches for his glass, taking a long swallow of his drink as though nothing happened.

The realization feels like ice water in my face: he doesn’t want me. He never wanted me. I let myself think this was a midnight liaison driven by animal attraction, when really he was making a point in the cruelest, coldest way possible.

“You’re a monster,” I whisper.

He turns to face me, his expression betraying nothing. “You expected anything else?”

“Why?” I ask, trying to keep whatever pride I have left, lifting my chin and meeting his eyes.

Paul shrugs, and his indifference is worse than the sneer. “I was bored. You were begging for it.”

I close my eyes. The truth of his statement hurts worst of all. I did beg for it. I absolutely should have pushed him away, and I crossed more lines than I care to think about at the moment.

But I’m not the only guilty party. I open my eyes again, searching his face for even a tiny bit of remorse. Nothing. Maybe he really is as dead inside as he looks, as he wants everyone to believe. Maybe I’m doing little more than babysitting a statue with a sadistic streak.

And yet…who was that guy who was so obsessed with my running technique that he forgot he was supposed to be injured? Or the guy who shared his billion-dollar whiskey with me while we read by the fire? Or the one I coaxed into conversation over dinner?

There has to be a human being left under the cold savage. I just don’t know how to reach him…yet.

I take a deep, shuddering breath, not caring that it betrays my nerves, and take a step backward, then another, my eyes never leaving his. Letting him know that I’m not running away, that I’m not leaving his house just because he played my body like a fiddle and then mocked me for it.

For the first time in my life, I feel myself acting entirely on instinct, and although it feels an awful lot like playing with fire, it also feels oddly right.

“You know where to find me if you want to talk,” I say gently. “About the dream.”

His eyes narrow at the change in topic, and I feel a little surge of victory creeping in on top of my shame. I’m right. That whole terrible kiss and everything that followed wasn’t just about humiliating me. It was a red herring. I got too close to his secrets by waking him up from his dream, and he used sex to distract me.

It won’t happen again.

I head toward the door, turning my head just slightly to deliver my parting question. “Who’s Alex?”

He makes a growling noise, ducking his head as he braces both hands on the dresser, his breaths coming in shallow gulps.

I pause for a second, giving him a chance to respond to my offer to talk, even though I know he won’t. I’m right, of course. He says nothing.

I slip out of the room, closing the door quietly before leading forward and resting my forehead against the wood for just a second, trying to catch my breath. My thoughts.

What the hell am I doing?

I can’t actually be helping the guy. I don’t even know if it’s possible to help someone who doesn’t want to be fixed. But that’s not what really has me all wound up and on edge.

It’s that deep down, I know that the reason I came here in the first place was the naive assumption that helping Paul would be helping me. That I could somehow fix whatever is broken and rotten inside me.

I want to fix the part of me that cheated on the boy I loved. I want to fix the part of me that could betray someone I cared about more than anyone. But…

And what if Paul has the right idea? He might be a callous son of a bitch, but at least he’s honest with himself about being a barbarian. At least he’s not pretending that he can ever be anything else. So what if he’s right and we aren’t fixable?

I slowly make my way back down the hall to my own room and curl up on my side.

Sleep doesn’t come.

Not for a long time.

Chapter Twelve

Paul

Olivia doesn’t go for a run the next morning.

Did she leave?

No. Not yet. I would have heard Mick bring the car around, and I would have heard the suitcases being clumped down the stairs.

But she might be upstairs packing.

The thought fills me with…what, exactly?

I should be satisfied.

Getting rid of her is exactly what I was after last night when I kissed her with all the finesse of a werewolf. I meant to be a little rough with the kiss, though I’d never intended the kiss to be that aggressive. But then I put my hands on her, and my response was almost violent. I went at her like a fucking starving dog.

Which would have been fine if she’d pushed me away, scraped at me, or even slapped me, because I definitely was asking for that. But she responded. She responded like she was made for me.

What I did is beyond heinous.

All I wanted was to take her in my arms, lay her on the bed, and just be with another human being, and for that reason, more than any other, I was cruel. Cruel even by my standards, and I didn’t even realize I had those anymore. A part of me is racked with guilt. The other knows that it’s better for her to find out now that I’m a monster.

But something else has been bothering me since last night.

In those first moments after I pulled back, deliberately degrading her, she was shocked and angry, as she was supposed to be. But in the moments that followed, there was something else that pissed me off: resignation. In a matter of seconds, the angry, betrayed light went out of her eyes, and she just stood there, accepting what I’d just done as though it were her due.

I may not know Olivia Middleton well—okay, I don’t know her at all—but I do know that she deserves more than what she got from me last night.

There’s a soft knock at the door, and I hate that my head shoots up in expectation and my heart seems to beat just a little bit faster.

Then I remember: Olivia doesn’t knock. It’s Lindy.

“You look tired,” Lindy murmurs as she sets the tray with my lunch on my desk.

“Yeah.” I dig the heels of my hands into my eyes. “Rough night.”

She nods. “Same with Olivia. She was up early, but I sent her right back to bed. Girl looked like she hadn’t slept a wink.”

I catch myself before I can beg for more detail. Did she tell Lindy what happened? I scan the housekeeper’s familiar features carefully, looking for any clue, but Lindy’s calm and expressionless, as always. I like that about her. She’s one of the few people who’ve figured out how to be there for me without acting like a goddamned battering ram. Are you listening, Dad? And all you doctors and shrinks with your bullshit about how PTSD can be cured?

But just for the briefest second, I wish she’d ask. I wish someone would ask what happened. How I am. Something other than the vapid Need anything?

Hell yes, I need something. I need someone to care.

“You’re not drinking today,” Lindy says, eying my coffee mug.

I raise my eyebrows as if to say, And?

She shrugs in response. “I asked your father for a weekend off. It won’t be for a couple of weeks yet, but I’m giving you a heads-up now.”

“Fine,” I mutter, relieved that she dropped the topic of my drinking. I’ve been telling myself all morning I’m laying off the whiskey because of my headache. Not because a certain green-eyed girl has made me all too aware that I might be using alcohol for all the wrong reasons.

“Mick is taking some time off too,” Lindy says, heading toward the door. “We’re headed to Portland for a little getaway. Your father offered to get us a hotel. Thought we’d go to the movies. Have someone cook for me for a change.”

Wait, what? My father is giving his employees free vacations now? And the two of them are taking it together? I try to think back to the times I’ve seen Mick and Lindy together. Not often, but then I make a point of ignoring everyone as often as possible. Are they…you know? Good for them if they are. At least someone should be getting some.

“Cool,” I say.

Lindy purses her lips. “You’ll be fine. For food and stuff. I mean, it won’t be my cooking, but…”

Technically she’s talking to me, but I know from her tone she’s trying to reassure herself that she’s not abandoning me.

I give her a look. “Do you have any idea what they feed soldiers in Afghanistan? I’ll be fine.”

“Olivia tells us she’s handy enough around the kitchen,” Lindy responds, as though she didn’t hear me. “I’m sure you can survive on scrambled eggs or grilled cheese, or whatever she has in her repertoire.”

Olivia.

Me and Olivia.

Alone. In the house.

Olivia in itty-bitty pajamas, with small breasts and long, toned legs.

Olivia with her don’t-fuck-with-me green eyes and lips that taste better than the most expensive Scotch on the market.

I won’t survive it.

“Whatever,” I mutter.

I keep one eye on the door as I eat, half expecting Olivia to come barging in with that Andrew Jackson book she’s about two pages into, insisting that we share a meal. But the door stays shut. The house stays quiet.

After lunch, I try to read, but I can’t concentrate. Instead, I head to the gym. Usually I hit the gym first thing in the morning, after my walk along the water and before my shower, but I didn’t have the energy this morning. Not after last night.

The gym is, admittedly, ridiculous. It’s huge by normal standards, but considering that only one person uses it, it’s downright absurd. Mick and Lindy are welcome to use it, but they’re not exactly fitness buffs. It’s just me.

I move steadily through my routine, relishing the familiar burn as I push my upper body to the limit. The truth is, from the waist up, I’m in better shape than I was at the peak of my military training, and that’s saying something. On some level, I guess I know that it has to do with overcompensating for the bad leg, but I don’t give a shit.

For some reason, I can’t stop thinking about my leg today, all too aware that it’s only going to get weaker and weaker. I keep it in usable shape by taking my daily walks. I’m not a complete idiot. I might not buy any of that physical therapy bullshit, but I know that unused limbs atrophy and all that. But I draw the line at any lower-body exercises in here, even for my good leg. It’s too much of a reminder of where I used to be, and where I’ll never be again. No squats. No lifts. No leg presses…

I push the thought aside, and with a last grunt I finish my set of presses. I lie on my back on the bench, chest heaving.

“You’re going to wind up hideously out of proportion if you keep that up.”

The voice is unexpected, and I sit up so quickly that I almost hit my head on the bar.

Olivia.

She’s wearing a sports bra and matching athletic shorts in…wait for it…pink. There’s an iPod in her hand and a water bottle under her arm. It’s obvious that she’s here to use the gym herself, not to hound me. Probably could have figured that out from the way she looks. Her smoking body has been well earned.

She moves toward me, and although her ponytail is as perky as ever, she has shadows under her eyes and her expression is more guarded than it was yesterday. She’s put walls between us, keeping me at a distance.

I feel a flash of regret, even as I mentally congratulate her. And myself. Mission accomplished, asshole.

“You’re going to be disproportionate,” she repeats. “All bulky and ridiculous on top, and scrawny on the bottom.”

“I’m not scrawny,” I say immediately. Why are we talking about this instead of last night?

She comes closer, reaching out a hand and plucking at the fabric of my pants. She raises an eyebrow. “Yeah? When was the last time you wore shorts?”

I lift my eyebrows right back. “You saw me in boxers last night. Did you see scrawny?”

She snatches her hand back. “We’re not talking about last night.”

“I thought you’d be back in New York by now. Or at least all up my face demanding an apology.”

Her expression never changes. “I thought about it. But I need some distance from New York, and I know better than to expect an apology, so…” She holds out her arms as though to say, Here we are, deal with it.

Her matter-of-fact reaction to last night pisses me off. She should be demanding an apology—what the hell is wrong with her that she isn’t? Even more annoying…why do I want to give one?

“When was the last time you did any sort of lower-body workout?” she asks, oblivious to my inner turmoil.

I snatch her water bottle and take a long drink as I study her. “Not your business.”

She pretends to think about this. “Oh, wait a second, actually it is my business. If you want, I can get you my job description. It specifically says—”

“I’m sure it does,” I interrupt. “But you can go ahead and scratch that physical portion off because I’m not doing it.”

“Ten leg lifts,” she says calmly, ignoring me.

“What?” I ask, annoyed, as I get into a standing position. “No way.”

“We can start them easy. No weight at all.”

“I’m going back to the house,” I mutter, leaning down to grab my towel.

She moves in front of me. “Five. Leg lifts.”

I roll my eyes. “You’re a terrible negotiator. You lower your price too quickly even before you’ve offered an enticing reward.”

“I’m not haggling with you for the thrill of it. I’m just trying to do my job.” She puts her hands on her hips. It reminds me that my hands were on that very spot not so long ago. And that I want them to be there again.

I tear my eyes away from the enticing points of her hip bone.

“Why is this your job?” I ask.

She jerks her shoulders back a little, defensively. Interesting. “What?”

“Why is coaxing me to work my shit leg your job of choice? My little recon exercise says you were a marketing major. Didn’t Daddy want you in the lucrative family business?”

Her eyes flit away from mine. “Sure. That was the original plan.”

“What changed?” I ask, surprised to realize that I’m genuinely interested.

“Life,” she snaps. “And we’re not talking about me.”

“Obviously we are,” I counter, taking another gulp of her water.

She opens her mouth, probably to tell me to fuck off, but then she seems to reconsider. She tilts her head, and just then I realize exactly what I’ve set myself up for.

“I’ll trade you one question for ten leg lifts.”

“Nope,” I reply, already turning around. “No way.”

“Come on,” she says, scooting around to get in front of me. “Don’t you want to know why a hot twenty-two-year-old with everything going for her is hiding out here in Maine?”

I give her a glance over my shoulder. “Did you just call yourself hot?”

Olivia smiles a gotcha smile. “Aren’t I?”

I flick my eyes over her. Yes. “Maybe.”

“So you’re in? Ten leg lifts for one question?”

I hesitate, even though my brain is demanding I walk away now. “Will I get the real story?” I ask. “Or some bullshit evasion?”

“I’ll give you a true statement, but no guarantees that it’s the whole story. Final offer.”

“Not good enough.”

She sighs. “How about I’ll give you a true statement, and I’ll let you give me running pointers tomorrow?”

I put a hand over my chest. “I can’t believe this is happening. All my dreams are coming true.”

“You in or out, Langdon?”

Walk away. Walk the hell away.

Her green eyes are practically bursting with challenge. And, even more intriguing, secrets.

“Fuck it. I’m in.”

Chapter Thirteen

Olivia

Yeah, okay. So agreeing to answer Paul Langdon’s questions isn’t going to go in my Good Choices Hall of Fame. But to be totally fair, I’ve been pretty short on good choices lately, so this feels about par for the course.

However, that doesn’t make it any easier to think about the possibility of spilling my guts, even though I fully intend to censor the heck out of whatever truth I have to give him.

For a second I’m about to back out and tell him there’s no way I’m going to spill my guts just to bribe him to do something he should have started a long time ago.

But then I see the tension on his face when he looks at the waiting leg-press machine. He’s nervous. I mean, he’s pissed too, because I’m guessing I’m not the only one who’s furious about getting backed into a corner.

But it’s not Paul’s anger that has me swallowing my pride and pushing on with our agreement, even at the expense of my own privacy. It’s his unease.

He’s afraid of failing.

As he starts to head toward the leg-press machine like it’s the guillotine, I mentally throw away the bubblegum pep talk that I figure is written in the Caretaker 101 textbook for this type of situation. We’re supposed to be our client’s cheerleaders, but this guy needs something entirely different. Acting entirely on instinct, my hand reaches out and gives him a sharp smack on the ass.

He halts, throwing me an incredulous look over his shoulder. His very nice, very sculpted shoulder, by the way.

“What was that?” he snaps.

I shrug as though touching his firm and, um, perfect ass cheek is no big deal. “Thought you needed a little encouragement.”

He lifts his eyebrows. “Oh, absolutely. I could use some encouragement. Why don’t I show you what sort of encouragement would rev my engines?” His eyes drop to my chest, and my nipples tighten in response.

Well…crap. That backfired.

I shoo him forward. “Chop-chop, Langdon. I don’t have all day. Women need to exercise too.”

He gives me an understanding nod. “Kegels. I get it.”

I make a face and jab a finger at the bench. “Sit.”

There’s no fear on his face anymore. It’s perfectly blank, as though he’s preparing himself for failure.

“Okay,” I say, moving over to the machine, grateful that my mom’s had me going to a personal trainer since I was sixteen. Sort of psycho, now that I think about it, but at least I know my way around weight machines.

His right leg immediately falls into place, but he hesitates before moving his left leg into position. He’s wearing blue sweatpants, so I can’t see his injured leg, and although I hate to admit it, I’m kind of glad.

Granted, I could have looked at it last night when I barged in on him in his boxers, but I had more important things to worry about. Like the fact that the guy had some seriously messed-up dreams. And that he knew his way all too well around my body in way too short a time.

I shake my head a little to clear it, carefully avoiding meeting his eyes.

“You’re blushing,” he says. “Whatcha thinking about?”

I give him a glare. I’m pretty sure he knows exactly what I’m thinking about. His expression flickers with something—remorse?—and for a second I think he’s going to apologize for last night. He should apologize.

And yet…I don’t want him to. That would somehow make me into the victim of the situation, and I was very much in control. Well, not in control of my hormones. But I know that if I’d told him to back off, he would have. He hurt my pride, but not me. I’d wanted every second of pleasure that he gave me, even if it was for all the wrong reasons. I don’t want an apology for that.

My gaze locks with his. Drop it.

His eyes narrow slightly before he looks away.

Good boy.

I make a big show of checking the weight, but it’s already at the lowest setting. Probably the factory setting, since I bet it’s never been used.

“Ready when you are,” I say quietly.

His lips press together for a second as he rolls his shoulders in irritation. “Do you have to watch?”

I give a careless little shrug. “I watched the rest of your workout.”

“That was different,” he grinds out. “And, for the record, creepy.”

“Couldn’t be helped. You can do a crazy number of pull-ups. I doubt I could do five.”

“You think you can do one?”

“Hey!” I say.

Paul lifts his hands, all innocence. “They’re hard. I knew a handful of women in boot camp who couldn’t do more than two. Men too.”

I open my mouth to argue, except I have no idea if I can do even one pull-up. I jab a finger toward his chest. “You’re stalling. And I already said I’d answer one of your dumb questions. Don’t try to sweet-talk me into a pull-up too.”

“Yeah, that’s what every guy wants to see. A girl trying to do a pull-up.”

If it’s anything like watching men do pull-ups, it wouldn’t be half bad. There was something about Paul in his gray tank top and those blue sweatpants hugging lean hips as he lifted himself over and over and…

My thoughts about his perfect back scatter as I realize his legs are moving. I have to dig my nails into my palm to keep from touching him in encouragement.

The first time is ridiculously easy for him, and it’s clear he’s using his good leg to lift the weight.

Same with the second time.

And the third. And the fourth. And the fifth. The right leg doing all the work, with the left just along for the ride.

No way. Not good enough. Now I do touch him. Just a gentle touch above his good knee, but it’s enough to make him pause. His eyes fly to mine, although he quickly turns his head so he’s not facing me head-on. Like in most gyms, the lighting in here is fairly bright, and abruptly I realize it’s the first time I’ve had the chance to see his scars up close, without the shadows of dawn or dusk, or his gloomy den, or his dark bedroom.

There are no shadows to soften his scars in here, but I didn’t even notice. I know they’re there, of course, but somehow they’re just part of the complex package that is Paul Langdon.

But I know he doesn’t see it that way. So when he turns away, I avert my eyes. First we’ll fix the leg. Then we’ll work on getting him to accept his new face.

I press my hand gently on his knee again, silently telling him to relax his good leg and let the other one do the work. From the shuddering breath he lets out, I know he understands my request.

His hands fist at his sides, and for a second I think he’s going to tell me to fuck off, but then the bar starts to rise again. Slower this time. But steadily.

Six, I mentally count.

He lowers his leg, staring at it as though surprised to find that it’s actually moving when he wants it to.

The bar moves again. Still slowly, but still steadily. Seven.

This time the bar drops with more of a clank, and my heart twists as I realize just how much weaker that leg really is.

But he doesn’t quit. Again, slower still. Eight. Then a painstaking ninth rep.

The bar halts halfway through the tenth, and his breathing is harsh. I slip my hand in his, trying to communicate palm to palm that he can do this.

His fingers clench around mine so hard I swear I hear bones crunch, but it’s worth it to see him lift a few more inches. The bar falls quickly this time as his leg gives out, and the clank of metal seems to go on forever before I finally tear my eyes away from his leg to meet his gaze.

He’s staring at me, and my mouth goes dry at the intensity of his stare. I want to cheer. He’s defeated this first demon. But the victory didn’t come for free.

I start to pull my hand away, but he holds me still.

“Your turn, Goldilocks. Start talking.”

I want to say something witty, but the best I can do is a pathetic little eye roll, and his smirk tells me he knows I’m backed into a corner I don’t want to be in. It doesn’t stop him for going from the kill.

“My burning question, Ms. Middleton…and I’ll have the truth, please…”

I hesitate only slightly before giving a curt nod.

“Don’t worry. It’s an easy one.” He leans forward. “Who, my dear, is Ethan Price?”

Chapter Fourteen

Paul

Confession: my research on Olivia Middleton has gone beyond just getting her vital stats, like her age and where she’s from. I may or may not have snooped through every picture she’s ever been tagged in.

And the star of the Olivia show was Ethan Price. A guy who’d been glued to her side in almost every picture for a very, very long time.

Then, a few months ago, bam. All couple shots ceased.

And now? This Ethan guy’s profile features a cute, edgy-looking brunette, which makes me think a reconciliation between Olivia and her onetime suitor isn’t likely.

I shouldn’t care. I don’t care. Olivia Middleton’s love life has nothing to do with me, but the timing is interesting. She drops out of school months after her romantic life explodes? High-tails it to Maine? I’m thinking the two are connected.

Her shocked expression tells me I’ve caught her off guard with my stalker-worthy information. But it’s not the surprise on her face that intrigues me. It’s the flash of guilt.

Interesting.

“How do you know about Ethan?” she asks.

No big deal. Just dabbling in cyberstalking.

I absently rub my leg as I study her. In truth, the leg doesn’t hurt as much as I expected, but the fact that such a simple exercise is even remotely difficult is an appalling reminder of exactly how weak the leg has become.

No, how weak I’ve let it become.

As much as I hate myself, I hate her more for forcing this upon me. Not only the pain in my leg, but the realization of its weakness. If this keeps up, the next three months just might destroy me. And if that’s the case, I’m taking her with me on the road of destruction. My leg is my weak spot, but I’m betting that Ethan Price is hers.

“Your privacy settings on your social media profiles leave a lot to be desired,” I finally say in answer to her question.

“I have nothing to hide.” She lifts her chin a little.

“Great. Then there should be no problem telling me about your boyfriend.”

“Ex-boyfriend,” she corrects automatically.

“Ah,” I say knowingly, even though I’ve already figured that much out. “Do tell.”

“I just did. You asked who Ethan Price was, and I told you. He’s my ex-boyfriend. I said I’d give you the truth; I didn’t say I’d give you a rundown on my entire love life.”

I make a bigger show out of massaging my leg, as if to say, You owe me. Her lips purse for a second, making her look a tiny bit prissy and a lot cute.

“So,” I prompt, sensing an opening. “He was your entire love life, huh?”

Her torso twists, as though to turn away, but then her eyes land on my leg and she sighs. “Ethan and I grew up together. We were pretty much dating before either of us knew what dating was. Our families are friends.”

“Betrothed from the womb?”

“Something like that,” she mutters.

“So what happened? You two looked like an after-school special together.”

Olivia makes a face as she tugs her long sleeves over the tops of her hands in a girlish, protective gesture. “We broke up. It happens.”

“Sure, but if you guys were dating since before you had pubic hair, there had to be a good reason for the breakup. Unless it was just that you got sick of each other.”

I know it’s not the latter. She wouldn’t be this edgy if they’d just decided to go their separate ways.

Her eyes narrow. “Why so interested?”

“Why so defensive?” I counter.

But why am I so interested? I tell myself it has everything to do with the fact that I want to know what makes this girl tick in order to keep us on an even footing, and nothing to do with the weird burn of jealousy I felt when I saw that Ethan guy’s arm around her shoulders or the way she’d grinned with a carefree happiness that I had yet to see from her.

“I’m just ensuring you keep your end of the bargain,” I say, trying to appeal to her sense of fairness. “Wouldn’t want you to feel guilty about tricking poor little me into an aching leg in exchange for nothing.”

“Your leg will be better off from this and you know it,” she snaps.

“I do,” I concede quietly. “Just like you’ll be better off from telling someone about it.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

I shrug and swing my legs around so I can stand. Up until now, we’ve been at eye level, since I’ve been sitting and she’s been standing. I push into a standing position, being careful to keep my weight on my good leg. Even with the infinitesimal lean to my right, I still tower over her.

“I’ll make it easier,” I say. “No need for the whole sob story. Just tell me this: were you the dumper or the dumpee?”

It’s a rude question, but then, I’ve been a rude guy for a couple of years now.

Her eyes flit away briefly, but when her gaze comes back it’s calm and unwavering. Good girl.

“It was his decision to end it,” she says quietly.

The way she says it tells me that’s just the tip of the iceberg. That there’s so much more to the story than her childhood sweetheart simply moving on. But more information would require another bargain on my part, and I’m not about to do jumping jacks or pose for glamour shots featuring my scars, so I don’t dig any deeper. Yet.

“Okay,” I say simply. Then I jerk my head in the direction of the treadmills. “Let’s see how good a listener you are.”

“What?” she asks, clearly confused by the change in topic.

“Those breathing tips I gave you the other day,” I reply. “Let’s see them in action.”

She tilts her head a little as though wondering at her easy escape from a shitty conversation, but then she shrugs and heads toward the treadmill.

“So, I changed my mind. I want to talk about the elephant in the room,” she says, putting her hands on her hips.

Good God. What is it about this girl in workout clothes that sets me on fire?

“What elephant?” I ask, trying not to remember that her collarbone tastes as good as it looks.

“Oh, I don’t know. How about the fact that last night you had your tongue down my throat? Your fingers in my panties?”

Heat rushes over my body, and I focus all of my mental energy on the dull ache in my leg to keep from doing exactly that again.

“We’re not talking about that,” I mutter.

“You’re really quite bad at it, you know,” she says, punching the treadmill into a fast one. “It’s no wonder you’re single. I mean—”

I open my mouth to tell her that she obviously enjoyed everything I did to her, and if she’s forgotten, I’m happy to give an encore. But then I see the smile that she tries to hide. She’s baiting me.

I narrow my eyes before swatting her hand out of the way and adjusting the speed on her treadmill myself.

Within seconds, I have her sprinting at a pace that makes it impossible for her to talk. Focusing on her running also keeps me from doing what I really want to do, which is yanking her off the treadmill and having my way with her until she can’t even think about complaining.

But even as the thought crosses my mind, a more dangerous one replaces it. Next time my lips are on Olivia Middleton, I want her to be the initiator.

I want her. But more than that, I want her to want me.

Chapter Fifteen

Olivia

“Did you know that Andrew Jackson was over six feet tall, but only like a hundred and forty pounds?” I ask, pulling my feet beneath me and turning more fully toward the fireplace.

“Yes.”

I give Paul a look. “How would you know that?”

“Because I’ve read the book,” he says, never looking up from his own book, which, as far as I’ve been able to tell, is some huge tome on philosophy.

“You have?”

“No. I made that up.”

“You did?”

That gets him to look up, gray eyes bursting with exasperation. “Are you trying to drive me insane?”

I give him a shit-eating grin that says, Sure am. “But seriously, you’ve read this book?”

“Yeah, last year. It’s good. Something you’ll figure out once you commit to actually reading it instead of talking at me every two minutes.”

He makes a good point, and in theory I do want to make it through this book. These hours in front of the fireplace in the late afternoon while both of us read are my favorite part of the day.

The only trouble is, it’s not my favorite part of the day because of the reading. It’s because it’s only in these quiet, uninterrupted hours with Paul that he temporarily abandons the haunted look as he loses himself in his book. And that is so much better than anything I’m reading.

Granted, me interrupting his reading to chat sort of counteracts that effect. I try to give him his peace, I really do. It’s just that I sort of underestimated the effect that all this solitude would have on me. I was in such a hurry to escape the world that I didn’t stop to think that escape often goes hand in hand with loneliness.

I’m not totally alone. I have coffee with Lindy almost every morning, and I’ve run into Mick a handful of times. I’ve even tried to make friends with the local girls who come in to clean every Wednesday, and they’re chatty enough.

But my only real companion is Paul. I’ve been here for two weeks now, and although he spends plenty of time avoiding me, I see him at least every morning for our run and gym time, as well as every afternoon for reading.

It’s what I should be doing. I get paid to be a companion, after all. The scary part is that I think I’d be seeking him out even if nobody was paying me to. I think I might like him. As a person.

I’m not so sure it’s the same for him, but every day it gets a little easier to coax him into conversation, so I like to think I’m making some progress, at least on the friend front.

On the other front? Well, he hasn’t tried to touch me. Not once. Not since that night.

I tell myself I’m glad.

“Can I ask you something?” I ask him.

He grunts.

“Why does your father think you need a caretaker? I mean, you make it clear that you neither need nor want anyone.”

I half hope that he’ll deny it, but he doesn’t.

“I told you that first day why my father sends all of you up here,” he says irritably.

“The suicide watch thing?” I say incredulously. “Look, I don’t mean to make light of a serious topic, but pissy as you are, you hardly look like you’ve given up on life. A social, normal life, perhaps. But not life itself.”

His eyes lock on the flames of the fire and I study the tense line of his jaw. He always sits in the chair so that I see only his “good” side, and it really is an almost painfully handsome profile.

Paul’s silent for so long that I think he’s going to ignore my question, as he does often when I push the envelope and get too personal. But then he answers, his voice low and gruff.

“He doesn’t want me to be alone.”

I keep my expression blank, but I’m surprised by the admission. He hardly ever mentions Harry Langdon, and when his father’s name does come up, it’s generally accompanied by a sneer. This is the first time he’s even hinted that his father might be acting in Paul’s interest.

“I think that’s probably a pretty typical paternal instinct,” I say softly.

“Which would be awesome if I were twelve,” he mutters.

“Don’t get your boxers all in a snarl about this, but do you really have the right to be petulant when you’re living on his dime?”

His already tense jawline goes even tighter for a second, but then he shrugs. “What’s your suggestion? My leg prevents me from doing anything involving physical work, and the repulsive face is a little too distracting for the corporate world, don’t you think?”

“That’s crap. Sure, professional soccer is probably out, and you can take modeling off the list, but you could make a living if you wanted to.”

“Sure. I could be a caretaker. That’s a great career path.”

“Knock it off,” I snap. “At least I’m doing something.”

“All out of the goodness of your heart, right? You just care so much about other people, is that it?” He leans forward slightly, his eyes mean, and I hate that he seems to see right through me.

“I care.”

“About me?” He gives a sick semblance of a smile, and I’m wondering how the hell this friendly, casual conversation veered so far off track so quickly.

“About people,” I grind out.

“Of course,” he says, leaning back in his chair, deceptively relaxed. “Olivia Middleton, the reformed do-gooder.”

How does he know I’m reformed? “We’re not talking about me.”

“Maybe I want to,” he says.

“Well, when I become so unhinged and mentally unstable and reclusive that my father pays you to spend time with me, then we can talk about me!”

His head snaps back a little, and I clamp my mouth shut. My words can’t hurt him. I’m sure of it. The guy doesn’t give a shit about me, and he’s only tolerating me for reasons I have yet to figure out.

So what is it that I saw flash across his face just now? Because it looked an awful lot like pain.

“Sorry,” I mutter. I don’t lose my temper often, and the hot feeling in my cheeks is as unfamiliar as it is uncomfortable.

“Don’t be,” he says, opening his book again. “You make a good point. My father pays you to spend time with me, and as long as I want to live under Daddy’s roof, I have to tolerate that. Doesn’t mean I have to entertain you, though, so if you don’t mind…”

It’s my turn to lean forward, and I kick him none too gently, although I’m careful to kick his good leg. “I’ll leave you to your sulky reading, but don’t think for one second that I don’t know that I’m the first caretaker to stick around. For some reason, you’re letting me stay. You’re even being mostly pleasant, although something tells me that’s fake as hell. So anytime you want to come clean, I’d love even just a tiny clue as to what the hell’s going on here. What’s with the fake-friendly routine? Why me, and none of the others?”

Paul couldn’t appear more bored if he let out a huge yawn, but to my surprise, he does look up from his book when I finish my rampage.

“You want to know why you’re here when all of the others ran off?”

“More specifically, I want to know why you’ve decided to be civil to me. Something tells me that ill-tempered monster I met the first day is the real you.”

“That much is true,” he says, his voice all easy agreeability. “As for why I’m up for keeping you around?” His eyes move over my body, and not in a flattering way…in an insulting, degrading way.

My body responds anyway.

“The only reason you’re still hanging around is because you’re hot,” he says. “Because as far as being a caretaker goes, you’re worthless. You don’t know shit about physical therapy, you’re more annoying than you are comforting, and when Mick and Lindy take off for their weekend outing in a couple of days, I have a pretty good idea that I’ll also find out you’re a miserable cook. But don’t worry, sweetie. You’ll always find work from the male clients. The old ones will call you eye candy and the young ones will call you a hot piece of ass.”

On some level I know I’m supposed to be offended, but it’s almost painfully apparent that offense is exactly his intention. Which makes it really easy to disregard his meanness as pathetic self-defense.

I settle back in my chair and open my own book. “Nah, that’s not why you keep me around,” I muse, as though talking to myself. “But for the record, I am a really good cook. You’ll see.”

Paul’s face goes incredulous over my refusal to get upset, but almost immediately he recovers his usual indifferent expression. “You’re one messed-up piece of work.”

“Yeah, but you’re starting to worry that you might like me,” I say confidently. “Considering I also give you a boner, shit’s gonna get reaaaaal complicated here in the next few months.”

Paul’s soft laugh is the best sound I’ve heard in weeks.

Chapter Sixteen

Paul

Today’s one of those days. The bad kind.

Last night the nightmares were unending, the sleep nonexistent, and the pain in my leg unbearable.

I’m avoiding Olivia like the plague. I tell myself it’s because I don’t want her around. But really I think I’m avoiding her because she has this annoying habit of drawing me out of my bad mood. That scares the crap out of me.

It’s a little before dawn, and normally we’d be meeting for our daily walk/run. Today, though, I’m letting her go alone. Today is one of those days when I don’t feel worthy to be alive, much less enjoying life with a beautiful girl. Not when my friends are dead. Not when Amanda Skinner spends half her nights sleeping upright in a chair in a hospital room while her daughter’s lying in the bed, hooked up to tubes.

I watch from the office window as Olivia looks around for me. I wait for her to start off on her run, but she doesn’t. She’s just standing there, waiting for me, and damned if I don’t ache a little to go out there with her. I want to let her cajole me into walking or, as she’s been doing more recently, challenge me to take a couple of steps without the cane.

Instead I turn away, flipping blindly through the pages of my book until I look up and see that she’s gone.

I intentionally go to the gym before she gets back. Most days we go together. We’ve fallen into a pattern. I let her coax me into stupid leg exercises in exchange for another piece of information about herself. Generally I enjoy it, although I’m starting to get pretty sick of all her responses being of the PR variety. So far she’s told me absolutely nothing about the real Olivia Middleton.

Today, however, I don’t want to be cajoled out of my bad mood. Lately there have been too many times when I forget who I am. I’ve been slipping into the old Paul, the one who could flirt and laugh with girls. I need a day to remind myself of the new Paul, the one who should have died with the rest of them in the fucking sandbox.

After the gym, avoiding Olivia for the rest of the day is easy enough, but when four o’clock rolls around, I hesitate. Of all the habits we’ve established, the routine of reading by the fire is the one I enjoy the most. And it’s for that reason that I force myself to lock the door, even turning up the music so I won’t have to listen to her knock or the rattling of the doorknob.

Eventually an hour passes, and then another, and I manage to lose myself in my book.

But when my stomach rumbles, I realize my mistake: I’m hungry.

I naively thought Olivia would leave a tray outside my bedroom door when I didn’t respond to her knock at lunch. I was wrong. And the absence of so much as a sandwich made Olivia’s message clear: if I want to sulk alone, I’ll do so without food.

That was fine at breakfast. And lunch. But now? Now I’m starving, and the smell of something meaty and spicy coming from the kitchen is too much for my stomach to ignore.

As expected, Olivia’s in the kitchen, only she’s not wearing a cute little apron or looking all frazzled from throwing together whatever’s bubbling on the stove. Instead, she’s wearing tight black pants, high-heeled boots, and a flowing, expensive-looking shirt that is clearly not meant for lounging around the house.

This is not domestic Olivia. It’s going-out Olivia.

“Going somewhere?” I ask, tearing my eyes away from her ass.

She spins around, opening her mouth as though to ask where the hell I’ve been all day, but she catches herself and fixes a vacant smile on her face.

“Hey. I hope you like chili,” she says. “It’s a little spicy, but enough cheddar cheese on top should tone it down.”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” I say, noting that she’s spent more time on her makeup. She’s done that thing that girls do to make their eyes darker and more mysterious, and her mouth is pink and glossy.

“Hot date?” I ask, still fishing.

“Yeah,” she says with a snort. “I’ve met so many great guys since I’ve been holed up here in your house. The really hospitable and friendly type.”

I move toward her under the guise of inspecting the pot on the stove, but she sidles away before I can get close. Smart girl.

She grabs her purse.

“Where are you headed?” I hate myself for asking. For caring.

Olivia lifts a shoulder and fiddles with the strap of her purse. “Lindy says there’s a bar not too far from here that I might like. Says you used to know the girl who’s bartender there.”

“Kali Shepherd,” I say automatically. “What the hell are you going out for?”

“I get two nights and one day a week off,” she snaps. “I’m finally putting them to use.”

“Why haven’t you taken them before now?”

“Because before now I’ve always had Lindy or Mick to talk to when you’re having one of your childish episodes.”

“They’re not episodes. And I’m allowed to have a break from people.”

“Well, then you’ll understand why I need to get out. I need a break. From you.” She gives a condescending smile and moves as though to pat my cheek. My fingers wrap around her wrist and I squeeze. Hard.

“Don’t. Touch. Me,” I say, my teeth clenched. Don’t ever touch me.

I release her hand with so much force that she almost topples backward, thrown off balance in her high heels.

I swear roughly and reach out a hand to steady her, but she steps back to avoid my touch. I drop my hand. I can’t blame her for recoiling, but I hate it all the same. I’m a monster.

“Olivia…”

“Don’t apologize,” she says quietly. “I shouldn’t have tried. I’m sorry.”

She reaches down to pick up the purse that she dropped, and scoops her keys off the counter. “Mick said I could borrow one of the cars. I won’t be late, but I have my cell if you need anything.” She heads toward the door.

“Wait,” I say, moving toward her.

Olivia pauses, giving me a look over her shoulder. “What?”

“I…”

I have no fucking idea what I’m trying to say. I don’t know if I want to tell her to stay, or have fun, or something even more godawful and unimaginable, like beg her to take me with her.

Take me with you on a Friday night where there are people and beers and laughter and shitty music, and my old friend Kali.

But I say none of those things, especially not the last one.

I don’t go out. Not anymore.

“Thanks for making me dinner,” I say gruffly.

This time she doesn’t even turn around. “Just doing my job, Langdon.”

Chapter Seventeen

Olivia

I’ve never been to a bar by myself.

And I can’t say I’ve ever imagined my first foray into solo drinking being at a tiny local bar on the outskirts of Bar Harbor, Maine. But tonight I force myself.

Lately I’ve been terrified that Paul’s reclusiveness will be contagious. Like if I don’t get some outside human interaction, I’ll turn into a hostile turd like him and become this wretched beast who doesn’t have to be accountable to anyone for my pissy moods.

Actually, that’s only part of the reason I left the house tonight. Truthfully? I hoped he’d come with me. Not that I asked. I intentionally didn’t ask, being stupid enough to imagine that the thought of being left all alone might be enough to spur Paul into leaving the house of his own volition.

My plan was to make it look very much like I wanted him to stay. I made what Google claimed to be the Ultimate World-Famous Chili, avoided him all day (actually, he avoided me first, but whatever), and I dressed carefully in an outfit intended to be sexy but understated. You know, a girl going out on the town for her own amusement, but if she happened to meet a cute guy, then hey, why not?

But Paul didn’t take the bait. I guess I should count it as progress that he even came out of his lair in search of food, but the truth is, I’m disappointed. It’s just not right for a twentysomething guy to be cooped up in the house for years. How long until all of that isolation turns him into one of those weird hermits who can’t function in normal society even if he wanted to?

I’m parked outside of Frenchy’s. I want to turn right back around and go home, but Lindy’s lecture from earlier that afternoon is still rattling around in my brain. Just because he wants to pretend he’s dead doesn’t mean you have to. We may not be New York City, but we have good people here. Work your thing, sister.

Okay, so the talk had been half sweet, half awkward, but Lindy made a good point. I don’t want to end up like Paul: socially stunted and on a one-way street toward freakdom.

I get out of the car.

From the outside, Frenchy’s—I assume the name comes from its location on Frenchman Bay—looks like a combination of ski lodge and roadside dive. The wood beams give it a homey, welcoming feeling, while the smattering of neon beer signs in the windows lends just the right amount of bar vibe. On the right side of the building is a covered deck, which I imagine is the place to be on a clear summer’s day, but in late September it’s deserted. However, the faint thump of music shows that inside, at least, there’s some activity.

I take a deep breath and open the door.

My worst-case scenario is that the entire place falls silent as everyone turns to stare at the newcomer. Best case is nobody notices me and I can find a bar stool, preferably on the end, where I can sit and get my bearings.

The reality is somewhere in between. The old-school rock music rocks on as I step inside, and although the majority of the clientele is far enough along in whiskey and beer to be oblivious to my arrival, people at the handful of tables nearest the door turn to glance at me. And then glance a second time.

Lindy assured me that this was a local hangout, a place where I’d fit right in, but I think she may have been forgetting the not-so-tiny detail that I’m not exactly a local. I don’t fit right in. Not even a tiny bit.

Even if my clothes don’t scream city girl (which they do), I stand out just by virtue of being a girl at all. I count maybe five women, sure, but the majority of the clientele is men. Fishermen, judging from the attire.

Still, it’s not quite the painful scene I was fearing. It’s uncomfortable, sure, but most of the looks are curious, not lecherous or leering. I give a tentative smile at a middle-aged couple, and the woman gives me a half smile back as her companion turns back to his phone and beer, totally disinterested.

Although there are plenty of available tables, sitting alone at a table somehow seems a little too lonely considering I’m after human companionship, so I make my way to a cluster of empty bar stools.

Almost immediately a glass of water is in front of me, followed by a white paper coaster with Frenchy’s scribbled across the middle in a no-nonsense font.

“What can I get ya?” asks a friendly voice.

The bartender is a cute brunette with freckles and warm honey-brown eyes. Her hair’s pulled up in one of those messy buns that some girls make look adorable. She’s one of those girls.

“Um, white wine?” I ask, hoping it’s not a terrible faux pas in a place like this.

“I’ve got a chardonnay or a pinot grigio. The chard’s way better.”

“I’ll have that, then,” I say, returning her friendly smile.

She plunks a glass in front of me before heading to the fridge and pulling out the wine bottle.

“Not a lot of wine drinkers?” I ask, noticing that the bottle is unopened.

She shrugs. “Beer’s definitely the drink of choice, but more people are getting wine now that I got rid of the sugary swill they used to serve here.”

“Oh, wow,” I say as she fills my glass way beyond the typical pour.

“You look like you need it,” she says with a wink before sliding back down the bar to check on the other patrons.

She’s right on two fronts—the chardonnay is delicious, and I do need it.

I watch the bartender out of the corner of my eye as she chats up an old guy at the end of the bar, her laugh long and genuine as he tells her some story about his grandson’s antics.

Lindy didn’t describe the mysterious Kali to me beyond saying that she’s a “good sort,” but the age is about right, and I wonder if this is Paul’s childhood summer friend.

When she makes her way toward me again to refill my water, I get up the nerve to ask.

“Yeah, I’m Kali,” she says, looking a little surprised by the question. “Have we met?”

“Nope, I’m new to the area.”

“Yeah, I guessed that by the silk shirt,” she says in a confidential whisper. “I’m betting it costs more than a car payment for most of us in here. Tourist?”

“Sort of,” I hedge. “I’m working over at the Langdon house.”

Her smile slips. “Paul’s place?”

“Yeah.”

She stands up straighter, her palms flat against the bar as she studies me, almost protective. “You don’t look like Langdon employee material.”

Her tone isn’t unkind, but it’s clear I’m being evaluated. “What do I look like?”

She shrugs. “A few years ago I would have pegged you as girlfriend material for Paul. But now…”

We make eye contact and have one of those weird moments of female understanding. We both know he doesn’t do girlfriends anymore. “I’m the new caregiver,” I say quietly. “Although that word never quite feels right.”

“Yeah, Paul’s never really been one to be taken care of. At least, not as I remember him.”

I lean forward a little, desperate to keep her talking, but not wanting to come off as prying. “You haven’t seen him since he came back?”

She shakes her head and needlessly tops off my wineglass—a good sign that she’s not trying to get rid of me. “Nah. My folks’ place isn’t too far from his house. The Langdons used to rent that place where they live, you know. Paul’s father only bought it a couple of years ago when he needed a full-time, um, retreat for Paul. I live closer to town now, but back when we were kids I lived for the day when Paul would show up for those couple of weeks in the summer.”

I quickly stamp down the surge of jealousy. They were just kids, for God’s sake. Friends. At least I think they were just friends. And not that it’s any of my business if they were more.

“He know you’re here tonight?” she asks, her tone casual. Too casual. I know what she’s really asking: Why hasn’t he come to see me?

“He, um…he’s not so much the social type,” I say.

“Yeah,” she mutters. “I gathered that after getting turned away at the door every day for a month after he moved in.”

My heart twists a little at the sadness in her voice.

What the hell, Paul? It’s clear to me now that he’s friendless and alone because he wants to be. Not because everybody shunned him.

“How’s he doing?” she asks. “I mean, we all hear things, but you know small towns and their rumors. It’s hard to pull out the facts.”

“He’s probably about like you’ve heard,” I say, maintaining eye contact. “Rude, angry, and generally unpleasant.”

“Well now,” a low voice says from behind me. “There’s something to make a guy’s heart skip a beat.”

I freeze at the familiar voice. Too late I realize that the place has grown mostly quiet, save for the music. I turn around and realize that the awkward staring I’ve been expecting has finally commenced.

Only they’re not staring at me.

They’re staring at Paul.

His eyes hold mine for several seconds, his thumb doing that slow stroking over the head of his cane before his eyes move over my shoulder and lock on the girl behind the bar. “Hey, Kali.”

Please don’t reject him, I silently beg of her. Please understand how big a moment this is for him.

I don’t know if she hears my unspoken plea or if she’s just a really, really good sort of person, because she doesn’t throw a beer in his face or make any kind of snotty remark. Instead she launches herself across the bar and winds her arms around his neck. It’s a hug. The stunned look of pleasure on his face almost breaks my heart.

When Kali releases him, Paul gives an almost shy smile and starts to sit on the stool to my right, but then inexplicably moves around to sit on the other side of me.

The pressure in my chest tightens as I realize what he’s just done. He’s intentionally sat with the scarred side of his face toward me, his good side facing everyone else.

He trusts me.

The realization makes me ridiculously warm.

“What can I get you?” Kali asks. “Last time we drank together, it was sneaking citrus vodka out of your dad’s liquor cabinet.”

Paul laughs. “I’ve graduated. How about whiskey and Coke?”

Kali plops the drink down in front of him before reluctantly moving back down the bar to attend to a gesturing patron.

Several people are still looking our way and whispering, but Paul seems determined to ignore them, and I follow suit.

“So my chili was that bad?” I ask, taking a sip of my wine.

He stabs at his ice with the stir stick. “I had some. It wasn’t awful.”

“It was amazing, and you know it. Take back what you said about me not being able to cook.”

The corner of his mouth turns up slightly. “I found a sandwich in the fridge. I’m guessing you made it for lunch and then took it away because I was hiding like a little bitch?”

I tap my nose. Bingo.

He smirks. “Well, I had a bite of the sandwich. Completely pedestrian.”

“It was turkey and cheddar on wheat. What the hell were you expecting for lunch, some sort of asiago soufflé and escarole salad?”

Paul snorts. “Your New York is showing.”

He has a point. I’ve long been part of the high-priced wine bar and froufrou café set. Asiago soufflés used to be part of an average Wednesday. Even though I’ve been holed up here in Maine for all of a few weeks, those days feel like they were forever ago. It somehow feels exactly right to be perched on this worn leather stool at a wooden bar that looks older than I am, sitting next to a guy who’s one part beautiful mystery and one part unpredictable beast.

“You can relax,” I say quietly. “Everyone’s gone back to their business.”

“Only because they can’t see the scars from this angle. If they could, they’d be heading toward the door or puking up their onion rings.”

“I see them, and I’m not running toward the door.”

His eyes flick to mine then, and for a second there’s this moment between us.

Kali comes back and the moment’s gone. I don’t resent her. Not really. She represents a normal side of Paul that I haven’t been able to access—his pre-Afghanistan self. And her response to his new appearance couldn’t have been more perfect.

But that doesn’t mean I have to like the way he keeps laughing at every other thing she says, or the way they’re both dropping names of mutual friends I’ve never heard of. Five minutes ago I thought Kali was just about the cutest, nicest thing on the planet—definite Maine BFF material. Now I hate that she’s the cutest, nicest thing on the planet. I also hate the way Paul is smiling so easily around her. He never smiles like that around me.

Pull it together, Olivia. This is what I want for him. A normal social life. Human interaction. Cute girls who can see beyond his scars.

Annnnnnnd now Kali’s hand is on his arm. And he’s not removing it. Awesome. I take a huge sip of wine before leaning in and breaking up the sweet little tête-à-tête.

“Hey, Kali, ladies’ room?” I ask.

She shifts her friendly smile over to me and removes her hand from Paul’s arm—good girl—to point me in the right direction. “Follow the bar along this way, and then take a left. Ladies’ room is at the end of the hall on the right.”

Since the restrooms are in the opposite direction of the front door, I pass a whole new set of tables and realize I may have been a little bit hasty in my assumption that I’d avoided the worst of people staring at the “new girl.” There’s a couple of middle-aged men in the corner who do that up-and-down leer and are either too crass or too inebriated to care how obvious they are. Whatever. We have those kinds of creeps in New York, too. I move on.

At the table next to them is a group of older women who also give me the once-over, but more with an envious oh-to-be-young-again expression. It’s pretty universal female language, and I give them a friendly smile.

The last table before the bathroom is the rowdiest. It’s a group of guys, close to my own age. They’re all wearing matching sweatshirts with their college name, although by the time I pass their table (to a few tacky whistles, I might add), I still haven’t figured out what the little logo on their sleeve is supposed to be. Crew, maybe? Alas, sports have never been my thing, and I don’t give it another thought.

The guys, however, aren’t as quick to forget me as I am to forget them. I barely make it back into the main room of the bar after going to pee before three of them have me cornered against the wall. Not in a threatening way, not really. They seem more drunk and stupid than menacing, but I’m so not in the mood.

I start to push through when a good-looking guy with an admittedly great—if sharkish—smile gently puts a hand on my arm. “Hey, can we buy you a drink?”

My eyes flick to the table, where there are several half-empty pitchers of beer. “No thanks.” I give him my best not-interested smile and start to walk away again, but he moves so he’s still in front of me. Still not threatening, but increasingly annoying.

I glance around as though surprised. “Oh, I’m sorry. Did I somehow give off the vibe that I came back here to be harassed by a group of boys?” It’s a low blow, considering they’re probably about the same age as me, but I mean it to be insulting.

The handsome one’s eyes narrow. “No need to get bitchy.”

“Actually, there’s every need if you don’t let me get back to my date.”

“Date, huh?” He folds his arms over his chest. “What kind of date can a girl like you find in a place like this?”

“The worst kind,” comes a low voice from behind my harasser. Paul.

I immediately start to tell him it’s no big deal, that these boys were just about to let me pass, but then I see his face. This isn’t the friendly, at-ease Paul who was talking to Kali at the bar. This is the other Paul. The Marine Corps Paul whose anger at the world is wound so tightly that the merest spark will set him off in a dangerous way.

And then it gets worse.

The stupid kid turns around and visibly blanches at the sight of Paul’s ravaged face. Then his face turns cruel as he lets out a mean laugh.

“This is your date?” he asks me, walking around Paul as though circling a circus spectacle. “This freak?”

“Don’t,” I whisper, unsure if I’m talking to the jackass kid or Paul. Not that it matters, because neither of them pays attention to me.

“What are you, an extra on a horror set?” the kid says, egged on by the laughter of his stupid, drunk friends.

I close my eyes. This is why Paul doesn’t leave his house. This is what I forced him into.

I risk a glance at him, but he doesn’t look offended, wounded, or even fazed. In fact, he looks amused. Deadly amused.

Except the drunken assholes are too far gone to pick up on nuances, and they keep on, oblivious to the fact that the “cripple” in front of them could take them out with one swipe of his cane.

“Why don’t you come home with us, sweetheart?” the ringleader says, sliding an arm around my waist. “Don’t you want to be with someone that won’t make you lose your appetite?”

I start to put my hands on his shoulders to push him away, but Paul is faster. The handsy jerk is on the ground, howling in pain, before he’s even registered what happened. Acting on instinct, I start to kneel down beside the writhing kid, but I freeze when I see the look on Paul’s face: ice-cold rage.

My hands are shaking when I straighten back up, although I’m not sure if it’s from feeling cornered by the frat boys or because of this violent, out-of-control side of Paul.

But that’s not quite right. Violent, yes. But not out of control. I think I’d prefer it if he was, because this Paul is a lethal machine.

The kid on the ground apparently realizes he’s not as injured as he initially thought, and with a sneer he starts to dive at Paul’s bad leg. Again, Paul is faster. With one hand he jerks the kid to his feet seconds before his other fist collides with the frat boy’s nose.

The cane clatters to the ground, forgotten, and the swagger slowly fades from the rest of the drunken kids’ faces.

“Paul,” I whisper.

But he’s not done.

“Apologize.” He leans down to where the ringleader is wiping his bloody nose.

“Fuck you, dude. You’re a freak.”

Paul gets closer. “Apologize to her.”

“Why?” the idiot says. “I didn’t do anything she didn’t want.”

My eyes narrow, but before I can tell this little twerp to learn some manners and get the hell out of Kali’s bar, one of his buddies finally finds his balls enough to defend his idiot friend and throws a punch at Paul’s stomach.

A mistake.

The next moments pass in a blur, and before I can tell the lot of them to get their testosterone under control, the fists start flying in every direction. A couple appear to connect with Paul, but for the most part he seems to dominate. Even outnumbered, a seasoned soldier is no match for beer-soaked kids.

Finally, finally they back off, one by one. The idiot ringleader looks like he wants to get in one last jab despite the bloody nose and soon-to-be black eye, but all he can manage is one more sneer and a muttered “Freak!” before he leads his band of drunken morons from the bar. As they walk by Paul, a few of them do that shoulder-to-shoulder jab that guys do, but Paul doesn’t seem to notice. Or care.

Belatedly I realize that the entire bar has fallen silent. Everyone is staring. Paul doesn’t seem to notice that either.

I start to move toward Paul, but he cuts me with that ice-cold look before slowly bending down to pick up his cane.

He doesn’t use it as he walks away, but he’s limping. And although I’m dying to help him after what I’ve just dragged him into, the least I can do is let him walk out of here on his own. Reluctantly I let him go.

I close my eyes. Damn it.

Belatedly I realize we need to pay Kali, but when I look in her direction she gives a little shake of her head before waving me off. I owe her. She should be throwing us out, not paying our bill. But a quick look around shows that Kali’s not the only one on our side. A couple of other people catch my eye and give me a quick nod.

I realize then what I should have known all along: this is a small town. Paul may not let himself be friends with these people, but he’s one of them. For that, they let him have his moment.

I give a weak smile in gratitude as I follow Paul out into the night.

“Paul?” I call, looking around the half-empty parking lot.

I hear the chirp of his car as he unlocks, it, but he doesn’t look up.

“Paul!”

I move toward him, but the look he gives me is murderous and stone-cold. I stop in my tracks, my heart twisting at the sight of the blood on his face.

“I’ll come with you,” I say lamely.

Instead of answering he lowers himself into the driver’s seat and slams the door.

Thirty seconds later I’m standing alone in the middle of a deserted parking lot, wondering exactly how much damage I just did to an already broken soul.

Chapter Eighteen

Paul

By the time I pull into the garage and storm into the house, my self-hatred threatens to choke me. I hang on to the anger like it’s a lifeline, because the alternative is despair. And despair might kill me.

I let the damned cane go flying with an enraged howl the second I enter the library. If my leg is hurting, I don’t notice it over the fact that my face feels like someone split it open. One of those little punks landed a shot. Not a solid hit, but enough to hurt.

I should have been able to wipe the floor with them. Just a few years ago, I would have. As it is, I did some damage, but I didn’t exactly dominate.

Hell, I shouldn’t even have been there at all—at the bar or in the fight. But I was. Because of her. Some fucked-up mixture of chivalry and jealousy had me acting like a boyfriend when those kids cornered Olivia in the bar. She’s not mine to protect, but when I heard their laughter and saw the tension on her face, I sure as hell wasn’t thinking of her as my caregiver or an employee.

I was thinking of her as mine.

I pour a generous measure of Scotch and start to toss it back, but stop myself. Tonight I don’t want to go numb. I need to hold on to my anger. I need to remember this exact moment so I don’t make the same idiotic mistake again. I need to remember that I’m not normal. I’m not a guy who can go out to bars and have a drink with a pretty girl and catch up with an old friend.

That kid’s words keep running through my head. What are you, an extra on a horror set?

I’m not even mad. Not at the kid. That little shithead understands the way the world works. It’s Olivia who doesn’t get it. She thinks it’s no big deal for us to go grab a drink in a public place. But the worst part isn’t that she believes it. It’s that she temporarily lured me into that dream.

I should have trusted my gut. I should have listened to the part of me that knows people aren’t kind and good.

I take another sip of my drink. It’s tinged with the metallic taste of blood courtesy of my split lip, but I don’t bother going into the bathroom to clean up. Like the pain, the blood is a good solid reminder of the lesson I just learned.

Never again. Even in my neighborhood bar, my very own goddamned backyard, there’ll be outsiders. They’ll look, they’ll stare, and they’ll remind me that people like me and people like Olivia do not belong together.

I’m tossing wood into the fireplace, slowly stoking the flames, when I hear her come in. It would be easy to turn my anger on her, but I’m learning that any emotion when it comes to Olivia is destructive. I’m better off ignoring her.

Easier said than done.

I brace myself for Oh my God, are you okay? But she doesn’t say anything.

I stay crouched in front of the fire, ignoring the fact that the position aggravates my leg. I do my best to ignore the pain in my face. I do my best to ignore her. I’m failing at the last one because, damn it, I want her to touch me.

I hear the familiar sound of the stopper being pulled off the decanter and liquid being sloshed into the glass. For a second I think she’s pouring me a glass, not realizing I already have one in hand, but instead she walks back out the door.

Thank God. She just wanted to help herself to a drink and leave the monster to his ugly brooding.

I tell myself I’m relieved, but the truth is, the only relief I feel is when I hear her come back. I keep my eyes on the flames, but I hear the familiar sounds of her curling up in what I’ve come to think of as her chair.

She sits there, silent, and I know what she’s doing. She’s waiting for me to let her in.

Fat fucking chance.

But I give her a slight glance over my shoulder anyway, for just a moment, and the sight of her takes my breath away. The firelight makes her hair glow gold, and her eyes are dark and steady as she watches me. Her legs are curled up beneath her the way she does when she’s reading, my favorite faux-fur blanket tucked around her like it’s hers to take.

But that’s not what bothers me. What bothers me is that I want her to be mine to take. And when she’s looking at me like that, I can almost believe it’s true. I can almost believe that all I have to do is reach out to pull her to me, to devour her…and that she’ll come willingly.

She continues to hold my gaze as she idly lifts the crystal glass to her lips, taking a tiny sip of Scotch. I vaguely register the clink of the ice cubes in her glass. Ah, so that’s why she left the room—to get ice. It’s sort of a crime, given how much this liquor costs, but I don’t give a shit because she’s here. She saw me at my worst, and she’s here.

I carefully stand before sitting in the seat across from her, and then, because I know I can around her, I close my eyes.

I lose track of how long we sit there in silence, with only the crackle of the fire and the occasional rattle of her ice cubes breaking up the quiet. Both of us know without talking that she’s not here as a caregiver. She’s here as…what? A friend? Something more?

No, not more. When I walked into that bar, she was happy to see me. But not in the way a woman hot for a man would be. She looked like she was fucking proud of me, for God’s sake. Worst of all, her expression when I came to her rescue wasn’t relief. It was worry.

Olivia Middleton cares for me, of that I am certain. She doesn’t want me to get hurt, and more than that, she wants me to heal. But she doesn’t care about me for me, for who I am. And for reasons I can’t bear to explore, that hurts more than my leg and bloody nose combined.

I don’t open my eyes when I hear the rustle of her standing up, nor when I hear the door close quietly behind her. Apparently her patience for sitting with a pathetic invalid has its limits.

I take a large swallow of Scotch and tell myself I don’t give a shit. I tell myself that I want to be alone and that I need to get used to being alone. Although I’m half terrified that if she leaves—when she leaves—being alone will no longer be a respite. It’ll simply be lonely.

Five minutes later the door opens again. I don’t look at her as she approaches. I don’t want her to read the relief there.

Olivia doesn’t reclaim her spot on her chair. This time she settles on the arm of my chair, her small, perfect ass just inches from my arm. I tense. What the hell is she up to?

It finally registers that she hasn’t come back in empty-handed. She takes my drink from my hand and sets it on the table. I let her.

My eyes watch her hands as they dunk a clean white washcloth into a bowl of steaming water. I watch her long fingers wring it out. I’m bracing myself for what’s to come, even as I long for it.

Neither of us meets the other’s eyes as she slowly reaches out a hand,

She hesitates an inch away from my face before softly, carefully setting the warm washcloth against my skin. I let my eyes close once more.

She wipes gently at the cut before dipping the cloth back into the bowl. The process repeats. Dunk. Wring. Hesitate. Touch.

I don’t miss the fact that she’s careful not to touch my scars. I don’t blame her.

Finally she drops the cloth back into the bowl, although she doesn’t move off my chair. “I don’t think your nose is broken,” she says, finally ending our silence. “But I’ll get you some ice.”

She shifts her weight as if to get up, and I’m shocked to feel myself reach out with a quick, desperate touch to her leg. Stay. She stays.

The relief I feel at her continued presence doesn’t prepare me for what happens next.

She touches me. Not with the cloth, but with warm, gentle fingers. It’s harmless at first. Just a soft stroke along my hairline. She traces my eyebrow. My cheekbone. She cups my jaw, and I let my cheek turn toward the warmth of her hand. It’s been so long since someone’s touched me. As long as she stays on the left side of my face—my good side—I’d let her touch me forever.

But she doesn’t stay on the left side. My heart stops when I feel her other hand touch my right temple.

I try to jerk away, but now she’s cupping my face. Don’t, I silently beg her.

She does.

I suck in a breath as she tenderly, reverently runs one gentle finger over the top of my right cheekbone. Then lower.

She’s touching my scars. And I’m letting her.

The three lines running down my face have always reminded me of a wolverine slash. As though some clawed animal swiped at my face instead of a cruel Afghani with a blade and an agenda. She traces each one gently, thoughtfully, as though she can heal them with her touch.

The touches finally stop, and I feel the loss acutely as her hands drop away from her face. I feel it even more when she stands, starting to gather the bowl of bloodied water.

“I’ll get you that ice.”

I touch her again, this time on the wrist, like before silently begging her to stay, but this time she gently pulls away, and I let her go.

I get up and walk to the fire, staring quietly into the flames, lost in thoughts of Olivia and the danger she represents.

This time, when she comes back, I’m ready for her.

She stands before me, offering the ice pack. When I ignore it she frowns a little, as though I’m a petulant child disobeying his nanny’s instructions.

Fuck that. I knock the ice pack out of her hand, and before it even hits the ground, one hand finds the back of her waist, pulling her gently but firmly toward me. The other hand slides gently beneath her hair, settling against the smooth skin of the back of her neck.

I’ve told myself over and over that I won’t kiss her again. That she’ll kiss me.

But I’m not above luring her in. I want her. I want her so badly it hurts.

My eyes meet hers, watching as her shock fades to desire. She wants me too.

I purposely move my gaze to her mouth. Kiss me, I silently beg. And then I say it out loud. “Kiss me, Olivia.”

She shakes her head once.

“Please,” I whisper. I don’t care if I’m begging. I don’t care if she kisses me out of pity. I need her.

Her eyes go dark, and I brace myself for her to pull away.

Instead she moves closer until we’re chest to chest, her eyes level with my chin. My arm goes more firmly around her back, my other hand toying with the soft hair at the base of her neck.

Her hands move to my hips, and my heart beats harder.

Slowly, slowly, she lifts her head, her eyes moving from my chin to my mouth.

I can’t wait any longer. I dip my head, tilting it to the right just slightly as I press my lips to hers, just briefly. Then again, longer this time.

When I move in the third time, her mouth collides with mine.

The kiss is hot and hungry, somehow managing to be slow and frantic at the same time. At my hips, her hands pull at the fabric of my T-shirt, holding me closer, and my arm is all the way around her now as my other hand presses at the back of her neck, keeping her lips fused to mine.

I dip my knees just slightly, bending to her height, wanting to get closer, but it’s not close enough. My tongue seeks and finds hers, shy at first, then bolder as the kiss becomes explosive.

My palms are itching to roam. I want to touch her everywhere. I want her naked by the fire. But for now, I let this be enough. It has to be enough.

Finally she pulls back, and I let her. Her breathing is low and raspy, her chest rising and falling as though she can’t catch her breath.

I sure as hell know I can’t catch mine. She makes me forget to breathe. She makes me forget everything.

“That was…” She breaks off.

I silently fill in the blanks for her. Stupid. Irresponsible. Crazy.

Amazing.

She says none of those things, instead shaking her head as if to clear it.

“I’ve got to go,” she says, her hands abruptly leaving my waist as though she can’t bear to touch me.

I release her instantly, even though I ache to pull her back, just to hold her.

She starts to turn away, but first bends down to get the ice pack. The hand holding the ice moves toward my face; she pauses a moment and starts to pull her hand back, but then she frowns and decisively but gently places the ice against my nose.

“Ice that for thirty minutes,” she says, her voice soft and bossy at the same time.

“Will do,” I say gruffly. “Wouldn’t want a swollen nose to mar my otherwise perfect features.”

“No,” she says, giving me a little smile. “We wouldn’t want that.”

She turns away, and I stand like a fool, holding an ice pack to the center of my face as I watch her walk away from me.

“Olivia,” I say, the word out of my mouth before I can even register what it is I want to say.

She stops. Turns back.

Fuck. Double fuck.

I have no idea what I want to say to her. Actually, a part of me does know, which makes it even more imperative that I say nothing. This kiss needs to be a fluke. For both our sakes.

“Yeah?” she asks, the word just slightly impatient as I stand there staring at her.

Keep it light, fool. Let her know this was nothing.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” I say.

Idiot.

She rolls her eyes. “Yup.”

“Five A.M.? By the trail?”

“Same as every other day, except when you’re having a tantrum.”

“Cute,” I mutter. “And hey—”

“Yes, Paul?” she says in her impatient schoolteacher voice.

“What did you think of Kali?”

Bam. There goes her smile. And the confidence. I hate myself for relishing her discomfort.

“She’s great,” Olivia chirps. “Super cute. Very sweet.”

“Very,” I say, my tone thoughtful. “Well, good night.”

I turn back toward the fire to hide my smile at her disgruntled huff.

Chapter Nineteen

Olivia

I kissed Paul. I kissed Paul, I kissed Paul, I kissed Paul.

It wasn’t the first time, of course. But this time was different. The first two times, he’d initiated with the intent to drive me away.

But this time it was softer. Hotter. And infinitely more dangerous to both of us.

See, the worst part isn’t even that I kissed the guy I’m supposed to be caring for. The worst part is that I want to kiss Paul again. And again…

I’m lying in bed, trying to convince myself that the reason I let the kiss happen was to undo some of the damage done by that jackass in the bar. I wanted to show him that he’s not a monster. That he’s not a thing to be laughed at. I wanted him to know that he is desirable, even with scars.

But I’m lying to myself.

I wasn’t thinking about any of that when we were standing toe-to-toe in front of that fireplace. I wasn’t thinking about his issues, or my issues, or anything other than the fact that I wanted him.

I still want him.

I put my hand over my eyes and groan as the mother of all understatements rolls through my head. This is not ideal.

I don’t know when I finally fall asleep, but when my alarm goes off at five, the early wake-up call is even more brutal than usual. I swipe at the alarm, forcing myself to swing my legs over the side of the bed before I can fall back asleep. My eyes have that gritty lack-of-sleep feeling, but I barely notice, because now I can’t stop thinking about the fact that Paul’s been sleeping just down the hall, wearing nothing but boxers, and the thought makes me decidedly not sleepy.

Switching on the lamp, I move toward the dresser drawer that holds my workout gear. Suddenly a box by the door catches my eye.

A shoe box.

There’s only one other person in the house, which means there’s only one person who could have slipped the box inside the door. I picture Paul slipping into my bedroom, all muscled abs and strong arms.

Get it together.

I pick it up the box. A quick shake confirms it: definitely shoes. But not oh-so-sexy Louboutins. These are running shoes. Plain, ugly white sneakers.

A sticky note sits on top of them. On it, written in messy, guyish scrawl, is: Since you refuse to actually be fitted by the experts, I did my best to find shoes for your gait. Sorry I couldn’t find any pink ones.

Is it ridiculous that I feel all mushy inside because a guy bought me the world’s ugliest shoes? It is. I know it is.

But that doesn’t do anything to get rid of the goofy grin on my face.

A glance at the clock tells me I’ll be late for our run. He won’t be surprised—I’m always late. But I dress in a hurry anyway. Not all of my workout stuff is pink, but I go out of my way to ensure that every item I don today is, from the sports bra to the pants and right down to the socks.

I put on the shoes, which are exactly my size. The boy must have done some creeping.

The new shoes seem to fit pretty much the same as my cute pink ones, but maybe I’ll feel a difference after a couple of miles in them. Paul is always squawking about the importance of injury prevention, and supposedly the right shoes will keep me from shin splits, stress fractures, and “all sorts of other bullshit.”

As expected, Paul’s waiting, his back to me as he stares out at the predawn darkness toward the water. He’s wearing a long-sleeved navy shirt and matching workout pants. He looks like a fit twentysomething ex-Marine who should take off at a run any second.

And then there’s a cane. A cane I’m still not entirely sure he needs. Still, one thing is certain: This is not a guy who’s about to start running.

“Hey,” I say softly.

I’m braced for him to be at his worst. After his stupid, clichéd “What’d you think of Kali?” move last night, I’m fully prepared for him to do whatever he can to push me away.

He turns. He’s not smiling—shocker—but his eyes are warm. And they grow warmer when they drift down my body, lingering on the right spots before settling on my feet.

“How are they?” he asks, jerking his chin in the direction of the new shoes.

Okay, then—guess we’re not going to talk about the kiss. But at least he’s not being a dick, which is more than I expected given the fact that the man’s emotional armor is thick.

“They’re hideous, exactly as you planned.”

“They’ll keep your feet from rolling in. You’ll thank me when you’re older.”

I choke out a little laugh. “Gosh, that’s romantic.”

His face goes blank, and I realize my mistake immediately. He can exercise with his caregiver, read with his caregiver, even flirt with and kiss the caregiver…but there’s no room for romance. Not with us.

And although I didn’t mean anything by it, words like romance are lethal to a guy like Paul.

To a girl like me too. I once had all the romance in the world with Ethan, and I managed to screw it all up. Maybe some people just aren’t meant for relationships.

Paul’s expression goes from wary to bemused. “Okay then.”

“What?”

He gives a little smile, and my heart twists when I see a flash of sadness. “I was about to put up all sorts of warning signs about how I’m not looking for a girlfriend,” he says ruefully. “But judging from the look of disgust on your face, I don’t have to.”

“No!” I burst out. God, he thinks my disgust is directed at him? I ache to tell him that whatever issues he has, he’s a good deal less toxic on the inside than I am. But I lack the guts. “I just—do you really want to talk about this?” I ask, throwing my hands up in the air.

He studies me for a second before glancing down at where his hand rests on the cane. “I don’t.”

I force a smile. “So…is there any trick I should know about these shoes? Do I need to mutter a secret code, or do they just work their magic by themselves?”

Paul rolls his eyes and uses his cane to gesture in the direction we usually start our run. “Go forth and trot. Try not to trip, waddle, or otherwise embarrass my tutelage.”

“Tutelage? Is that what you call it?” I ask. “Because it feels a lot more like sanctimonious lecturing.” Stalling, I start to stretch.

The tip of his cane gently taps my knee. “The latest word on the running circuit is that pre-run stretching doesn’t help prevent injury.”

I drop my foot back to the ground. “But magic shoes do?”

His lips twist in what’s almost a smile. “They do.”

“I hope nobody sees me,” I mutter good-naturedly. “Although on the plus side, I hope these shoes last me a long time, because they’ll fit in great at the nursing home.”

“Bet you’ll drive the old guys crazy.”

Do I drive you crazy? I want to ask. What I actually say is, “Okay, let’s do this.” I’m not sure if I’m talking about the run or something infinitely more treacherous.

He nods once.

I make it about five steps before a forbidden thought crosses my mind. When I turn back, I find him watching me, and the longing look on his face prompts me to ask the bold question.

“Have you tried running? Even a couple of steps? You know…since?”

Pain rolls over his face before all expression shuts down completely. “Run, Olivia? I can’t even walk without assistance.”

I cock my head a little to the side. “Can’t you?”

With that, I turn on the heels of my ugly new shoes and take off at a trot. I try to concentrate on the breathing techniques Paul’s always yammering about, but the last thing I care about at the moment is breathing from my diaphragm. I’m too lost in thought about the gorgeous disaster that is Paul.

I lose track of how long I run, but I slow down when I start to see unfamiliar sights. I’ve come farther than I usually do. As expected, Paul’s nowhere to be seen when I turn around, but unlike every other day, I don’t see him on my return run either. I pushed him too far with my question about running, and he retreated.

I head into the house, determined not to be disappointed. What did I expect, that all it would take was just a late-night kiss and the mere suggestion that he try running, and all of a sudden he’d be striding along beside me in all of his prewar glory?

My guilt isn’t exactly assuaged by the belated realization that Lindy is still in Portland and that I’m supposed to be on kitchen duty. Not only am I reminding the guy of all the things he can’t do, but now I’m starving him as well. Granted, the guy can spread cream cheese on a bagel by himself, but I’m getting paid to do it—something I’d do well to start remembering.

I hurriedly shower, throwing on yoga pants and a fuzzy blue sweater and pulling my wet hair into a messy knot at the top before dashing off to the kitchen.

I’ve never been much of a breakfast eater, and usually I just help myself to an English muffin or cereal, but this morning my stomach is rumbling for something more substantial. Probably because my “dinner” last night was a jumbo glass of white wine, followed by a few sips of Scotch.

I scramble up enough eggs for two, throw in some cheddar cheese and mushrooms, and add two glasses of orange juice to the tray. I know Paul has a coffeepot in the library, but I’m betting that he keeps only one mug in there, so I place a mug for myself on the tray as well. As an afterthought I slice up some berries and put those in a pretty crystal bowl.

Paul and I eat dinner together most nights—mostly because I leave him no choice—but usually I eat breakfast in the kitchen with Lindy while we chat about the Today show, or whatever. Come to think of it, I’ve been here about a month, and this is the first time Paul and I will eat breakfast together.

There’s something surprisingly intimate about sharing breakfast with a guy. Maybe because of the whole morning-after connection. Or maybe it’s just that it’s Paul, and I’m remembering last night’s kiss a little too clearly as I carefully carry the tray in the direction of the office.

My footsteps slow when I hear an unfamiliar noise. Voices, plural.

One is definitely Paul’s, but the other is unfamiliar. I pause outside the door. The other voice is decidedly male, which is a good thing. Despite the fact that I don’t think there’s anything remotely flirtatious between Kali and Paul, I have a brief vision of Kali in all of her freckled cuteness sitting in my chair in front of the fire.

But no, it’s definitely a man’s voice.

My hands are full, so I can’t knock. Instead I clear my throat loudly as I use my hip to bump open the library door the rest of the way. My eyes immediately make out the two figures standing tensely in front of the desk.

Shit. Oh, shit. The man standing toe-to-toe with Paul, face contorted in anger, is none other than Harry Langdon.

The prodigal father has returned.

Chapter Twenty

Paul

“I still don’t understand what the hell you were thinking, pulling a stunt like that.” My dad is pissed.

“It wasn’t a stunt. It was going to get a drink at a bar. A drink, I might add.”

Dad pulls a hand over his face as he stares at me. “It’s not the drink part that bothers me, it’s the bar part. Since when after getting back from Afghanistan have you willingly put yourself in front of people?”

Since Olivia.

I don’t say it, of course. I’m confused enough about my feelings around that girl. The last thing I need is to have my dad get wise to the fact that the reason that she’s stayed around longer than any other caregiver has nothing to do with his stupid ultimatum and everything to do with the fact that I don’t want to let her go.

Not yet.

“What’s the problem?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest, hating that he makes me feel defensive. “You’ve been badgering me to be normal for years. Now when I actually try, you act like I’ve tarnished the family honor.”

Deny it, I silently plead. Deny the fact that you’re here because one of your friends saw my hideousness at the bar and called you to complain about it.

“Rick called me last night,” Dad says, confirming my worst suspicions. “Said you got in a fight.”

“He’s wrong.”

“Right,” he snorts. “So your nose has always looked like that?”

“Look, some frat boys were giving Olivia shit. They were drunk. I stepped in, and one of them landed a punch.”

“Of course one of them landed a punch!” Dad explodes. “You’re not exactly in fighting shape, Paul!”

I take a half step closer, getting in his face. “You sure about that?”

His face wrinkles in confusion and surprise, and I realize it’s the first time I’ve ever tried to paint myself as anything other than a victim. My father takes a step back, and I’m both ashamed and gratified—ashamed that he thinks I’d actually go after him, gratified that he recognizes that I’m not some frail invalid.

“The girl’s okay?” His voice is quieter. Calmer.

“Yeah, she’s fine,” I mutter, running a hand over my hair agitatedly as I turn back toward the desk. “She probably didn’t even need my help.”

“Yes, I did.”

Dad and I both turn to see Olivia watching us from just inside the door. Both of us glance at the tray in her hands, and I inwardly groan. Her hair is wet and her clothes casual. There are two plates, two glasses of juice, and God…is that a bowl of fruit? I hate fruit. This is not at all what it looks like when a proper employee brings a balanced meal to her charge. This is a cozy breakfast-for-two scene.

Shit.

“Ms. Middleton,” my father says, giving her his best business smile. “Nice to finally meet you in person.”

“Mr. Langdon,” she says quietly.

Dad moves toward her, already reaching out for the tray. “Lindy told me you were helping with the kitchen duties this weekend. Thanks, we really appreciate it.”

“Of course.”

“Although,” my dad says, looking down at the tray, “I hate doing this to you, but my doctor has been on my case lately about cholesterol. Any chance I could talk you into making one of these plates egg whites only?”

Fucking shit. He wants Olivia to cook for him?

I see the dismay war with relief on Olivia’s face at the misunderstanding. “Oh! I’m sorry. Yes, definitely,” she says. “Cheese okay?”

“Extra,” my dad says with a wink.

A wink? A fucking wink? I push my fingers into my eyes. Christ. My father is flirting with my…

She’s your caregiver, my brain screams at me. Your father hired her to be nice to you because he thinks you’re going to slit your wrists, or punch a baby, or drown yourself.

Olivia backs out of the room without looking at me.

Damn it. It’s been a while since I’ve been involved with a girl, but I know that look. She’s doing that weird girly thing where they go into shutdown mode so they can overanalyze everything.

“She’s even prettier than she was in her picture,” my dad says, mostly to himself.

“So you knew what she looked like when you hired her?” I ask, curiosity getting the best of me.

“Knew she looked like what?” Dad asks innocently.

I give him a dark look, and I swear he hides a smile. At least I know now that it’s no coincidence that Olivia isn’t like the rest of the graying, frumpy caretakers in the past. My father wanted to remind me that I’m a hot-blooded male.

Well played, Daddy dearest.

“What is it that you want?” I demand. “Am I supposed to stay here as a recluse so I don’t embarrass you, or am I supposed to reenter the world and pretend I don’t look like a freak? You’ll have to forgive me for not knowing how to read your mixed signals.”

My father sighs and goes to the window. “I’m not embarrassed by you, Paul. I just don’t want you to be embarrassed. Going toe-to-toe with a bunch of healthy, able-bodied kids isn’t going to do much for your recovery.”

Able-bodied. Something I’m not.

Abruptly Olivia’s gentle taunt from this morning comes to mind. Have you ever tried running? Even a few steps? She expects things from me. Better things than my father expects. Or even Lindy or Mick. Olivia certainly demands more from me than I demand of myself. I don’t know if it’s because she’s only known me for a month and as a result is completely clueless as to what I’m capable of, or if her fresh perspective means she sees potential the rest of us don’t. And if it’s the latter, what happens when I disappoint her?

“So this is why you came all the way up here?” I ask my father. “To tell me not to embarrass myself with my ugly face in front of some adolescent morons?”

“I came up to see if you were okay.”

I pull my cellphone out of my pocket and wave it at him. “Phones are good for that. Also, isn’t that what you hired Olivia for? To tend to my boo-boos and feed me soup and wipe my ass?”

“I hired Olivia to bring you back to the world of the living,” he snaps. “But I can see that she’s done nothing to improve your disposition.”

“It’ll take more than nice tits and a great ass to achieve that.”

“Don’t be crass.”

“Sure. I know how to fire every gun on the planet, I’ve watched people blow up in front of my face, and you’ve all but told me that you just hired a girl with the sole purpose of seeing if your son could still get a boner. But by all means, let’s not be crass. Shall I get us some motherfucking tea?”

“I never said that’s why I hired Olivia.” But Dad’s face looks guilty.

“Well, it’s sure as hell not because of her skill set. You might as well have bought me a puppy or a hooker, for all the use she’s been.”

There’s a long beat of silence, and I realize my dad’s eyes aren’t on me.

My stomach drops even before I see the regretful twist of my father’s mouth. This is like one of those wretched movie scenes come to life. You know, the one where the dickhead guy says something cruel about the girl who’s standing behind him?

My chin dips down and rests on my chest in defeat. I can’t turn around. I can’t make myself look at her face. But the little hurt noise she makes tears at me anyway.

“I made your eggs, Mr. Langdon.” Her voice wavers just the tiniest bit. “I’ll just leave them here on the desk.”

She moves toward us, and she and I are standing shoulder to shoulder as she sets down the tray, although neither of us looks at the other. I keep my eyes locked on my cane, while she looks only at my father.

“Will there be anything else?” she asks, her voice steadier.

“No, we’re good,” Dad says quietly. “Why don’t you take the rest of the day off, Olivia? I’ll take care of Paul.”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to say that I don’t need anyone to take care of me. But I want Olivia to tell him that. I want her to tell him that she’s here with me because she wants to be, not because he’s paying her. I want her to tell him the truth about the breakfast, and last night.

Of course, she says nothing. And can I really be surprised after what she overheard me telling my father? You might as well have bought me a puppy or a hooker, for all the use she’s been.

It was an asshole thing to say, and yet…I wasn’t that far off. All of her kindness, her posing as the agreeable workout buddy, all that cozy reading by the fire, even the kissing—those moments are for my sake, aren’t they? It’s clear to everyone in this room that I need her a hell of a lot more than she needs me.

I risk a sidelong glance at her, and the relief on her face at my father’s offer of a day off is obvious. “Thanks. I’d like that.”

And suddenly, just for a moment, I hate her. I hate both of them.

“Enjoy your day off,” I say, idly tapping my cane against my foot. She turns her eyes to me then, and I go for the kill. “You know, since you have some time to yourself, maybe you should catch up on the social life you left back in New York. Maybe call some old friends? What’s Ethan up to? I bet he could use a little dose of your special TLC.”

I regret the words as soon as they’re out of my mouth. I may not know what the hell happened with her and Ethan, but I know it’s a painful topic, and I very deliberately dumped salt into that wound.

I’m no stranger to being mean these past few years, but I’m pretty sure I just hopped over the line into barbaric territory. I deserve a slap, but the flash of raw pain in her eyes is so much worse. She’s out the door before I can apologize.

All of a sudden, everything hurts. Leg, nose, head. Heart.

“What was that about?” my father asks, looking nervous. I wonder if he’s starting to realize that his conniving plan to “fix” me using a blond princess might be doing more harm than good.

“Nothing,” I mutter. Just me being a monster, as usual.

My father leaves that afternoon. I don’t know why he bothers coming at all. It takes him longer to fly from Boston to Portland than it does for him to dole out whatever gloomy, sanctimonious message he’s feeling I need at the moment.

I grunt out some half-assed agreement that I’ll “think twice” before going to Frenchy’s in my “condition.” I don’t bother to tell him that walking into that bar after years of solitude was the most human thing I’ve done in a long time. I certainly don’t tell him that I worry it had nothing to do with the bar and everything to do with the girl waiting in the bar.

I don’t see Olivia for the rest of the day. I keep the door cracked so I’ll know if she goes out, but as far as I can tell, she doesn’t leave her room.

My dad texts me from the airport. Don’t forget I gave Olivia the day off. You’re on your own for dinner.

I snarl. Why is it everyone seems to think that I was once fit to defend the country, but now I’m unable to make a sandwich?

I think about telling Olivia about Amanda and Lily. I think about telling her everything: about the war, about how Alex is dead because of me, about how his wife and daughter are all alone…But if I tell her now, it’ll sound like an excuse. A sympathy ploy.

And nobody knows about those monthly checks to the Skinners. I don’t want anyone getting the wrong idea. I don’t want Olivia thinking I’m a hero. She’ll only be disappointed.

I’m not much in the kitchen, but I throw together a sandwich and open a can of soup. For the first time since Olivia’s come to Maine, I eat dinner by myself, a sad, lonely affair at the kitchen counter.

After I clean up my dishes, I pour the rest of the soup into a bowl and make another sandwich. Turkey, no mayo, lots of cheese, the way I know Olivia likes it, as well as a bottle of water.

As far as peace offerings go, it’s pathetic. I take the sandwich upstairs anyway. The closed door doesn’t bother me.

But the sound of soft sobbing nearly kills me.

Chapter Twenty-One

Olivia

Paul and I don’t talk about what happened.

It’s been nearly two weeks since his father visited. Two weeks since he lost control of his inner bully and my inner patheticness fell victim to it.

Things are weird. I know he thinks I’m mad at him. After so many years in a relationship with Ethan, I can read the signals. There’s a carefulness in the way he talks, as though he’s bracing for me to lose my shit and call him out on something long past.

But while the signals Paul’s giving off are pretty standard guy, this is different from any spat I ever had with Ethan about how he talked to that super-flirty girl with the huge boobs for twenty minutes longer than necessary, or how he was late to pick me up because he and Michael were playing Call of Duty—again. With Ethan, it was as though he was always bracing for a fight. We both knew a mini-explosion was coming and were putting our respective boxing gloves on.

With Paul…there’s a haunted quality to his wariness. Like he’s not just expecting me to lose my shit and throw my eyelash curler in a fit of righteous female rage. No, Paul is braced for something else.

It’s like he’s bracing for me to leave.

We’ve both done our best to pretend that afternoon never happened. We pretend he didn’t belittle my very existence in front of his dad, as though he didn’t say outright that I was a fluffy piece of ass with absolutely zero value to him. I pretend not to care. He pretends not to care that I don’t care.

But like I said, things are weird. Strained. Awful.

Lost in thought, I rinse the lunch dishes and put them into the dishwasher.

“Want to talk about it?”

Startled, I almost drop a water glass. “Lindy! Sorry, I didn’t know anyone was in here.”

The older woman sniffs. “Probably because you’ve been avoiding me. And Mick.”

I don’t bother to deny it.

“So that’s a no on the talking about it, then?” she asks.

I shrug. We’re silent for several seconds as she goes through the now familiar routine of setting up her KitchenAid mixer and pulling out flour and sugar.

“I’m in a baking mood,” she says. “You pick.”

She doesn’t have to twist my arm. “Chocolate chip?”

Lindy rolls her eyes but smiles. “Boring but easy. Back when I used to let Mr. Paul pick, it was always some complicated tart, or a cake with three different fillings.”

“Really?” I ask, struggling to reconcile the guy who seems to exist on sandwiches and whiskey with someone preferring elaborate sweets.

“Yes, well, that was before he went away,” she says, her smile fading a little. “I’m not sure he’d even notice if I made him a cake now.”

She looks so sad. I wish I could comfort her, but there’s not much to say beyond He’s an ass.

I take up my usual perch at the counter, and we sit in silence for several minutes. Lindy doesn’t reference a recipe as she makes the cookies. The process of measuring flour and sugar and salt seems as natural to her as brushing our teeth is to the rest of us.

“Hey, so I never asked,” I say, reaching out a finger to trace through a pile of spilled flour. “How was your and Mick’s vacation?”

She lifts her eyebrows. “It’s taken you two weeks to ask?”

Busted. “Sorry. I’ve been sort of wrapped up in my own stuff, I guess.”

“It happens,” she says, letting me off the hook. “But our vacation was nice. Really nice.”

This time it’s my eyebrows that lift at the inflection in her voice. I lean forward a little, and now it’s my turn to ask: “Want to talk about it?” Then I stifle a laugh, because Lindy actually blushes.

“So it’s like that, then,” I say.

“Like what?”

“No separate rooms, I take it?”

“Do I ask about your love life?” she says primly. Nice. Turning the tables.

“I don’t have a love life.” Not a healthy one, anyway.

“Don’t you?”

I narrow my eyes. “Nope.”

Is it my imagination, or does she look disappointed?

Curiosity gets the best of me. “Hey, Lindy, did you know before I came that I was younger than the other caregivers?”

“You mean did I know you were young and pretty?” She shakes her head. “Nope. Mr. Langdon is a good, fair boss, but he’s not the chatty, confiding type. Mick and I don’t get more information than is strictly necessary. A name, arrival date, et cetera.”

I nod. I figured as much. We’re silent as she cracks eggs into the batter, but she studies me as she lets the mixer do its blendy thing. “What happened that weekend while we were gone? Mick was appalled that Mr. Langdon drove himself here from the airport, but he’s never come without warning before….”

She trails off, leaving room for me to fill in the blanks. I fiddle with my earring. “I’m not sure it’s my story to tell.”

“Ah,” she says. “So there is a story.”

Isn’t there always?

Lindy opens the bag of chocolate chips and surprises me by popping several in her mouth and chewing thoughtfully before offering me the bag. I take out a few myself, eating them one by one as we study each other.

“I’ll tell you if you tell me,” I say, the words coming out in a rush.

Her chewing slows. “What is it you think I know?”

“What happened to Paul. I mean, what actually happened to him while he was over there. I’m not an idiot. His leg’s not that bad, and his scars aren’t debilitating. All of the other caregivers and I aren’t brought here to care for him physically. The damage is all up here.” I tap my temple.

“I see. And I’d be giving you this information in exchange for what?”

“Why Harry Langdon showed up out of the blue that Saturday. Why Paul and I have been on eggshells since then.”

Lindy gives me a look. “I admit I’m curious as to why you and Mr. Paul have lost that easy camaraderie you were just starting to build, but that’s hardly a fair trade.”

She has me there. The story of Paul’s bar fight is hardly on the same level as figuring out what happened to Paul in Afghanistan.

“Worth a shot,” I say, giving a sheepish little smile as I scoop a fingerful of cookie dough. And then I proceed to tell Lindy the story anyway.

I tell her about how I naively thought it would be a good idea for Paul to get out of the house and see some real people, especially Kali. I tell her about the jerks from the bar, and the fight, and the name-calling. I skip the part about the kiss, obviously. And then I tell her about walking in and hearing Harry chastise his son for going out in public and exposing himself to ridicule.

I mean to stop there, but then I hear myself repeating Paul’s words: You might as well have bought me a puppy or a hooker, for all the use she’s been.

And then, because I really don’t know when to shut up, I mention the fact that he threw Ethan in my face.

Her brow wrinkles in confusion. “Who’s Ethan?”

“My ex.”

“Ah,” she says, her tone full of something I can’t identify.

“You seem to have gotten an awful lot of information from those two words,” I say.

“I was married, twice, and divorced, twice. I know my way around exes. I take it things didn’t end well?”

“Eh, let’s just say I’m still getting over it.”

Lindy surprises me by laughing.

“What?” My tone is a little testy.

“That bothers him.”

“What bothers who?”

Lindy pauses in dropping balls of dough on the cookie sheet. “It bothers Paul that you don’t feel good about your breakup. It bothers him that you’re still hung up on this Ethan guy.”

“I didn’t say I was hung up on Ethan. But even if I were, that wouldn’t bother Paul.”

“Uh-huh,” she says, licking dough from her finger. “Don’t you dare be that girl who plays dumb. You know what I’m talking about.”

Oh gawd. She knows. “So you, um, know that things haven’t been entirely professional?”

“You mean, have I been alive long enough to know when two attractive twentysomethings are setting off enough sexual sparks to burn down the house? I do, yes.”

“Awesome,” I mutter. “Do you think Mick knows?”

“Definitely.”

Shit.

“Mr. Langdon?”

“Probably.”

Double shit.

“Well,” I say, pushing back from the counter, “good talk. I’m going to go drown myself now.”

She wiggles her fingers in a sassy little wave, looking way too pleased with herself. “Cookies will be ready to eat in fifteen. Oh, and Olivia?”

“Yah?”

“I’d tell you, you know. About Paul. If I knew.”

It takes my brain a second to catch up. “About Afghanistan, you mean?”

She nods. “I know about the effects, of course. The leg. The scars. The nightmares. But I don’t know what actually happened. I don’t know that anyone does.”

Huh.

“What does he say when people ask?”

She gives me a funny look. “They don’t.”

I come to a halt in the doorway as the implications of that roll over me. “Nobody? Nobody’s asked?”

“Well, I’m sure plenty of people asked him right after it happened, but he was too messed up to talk about it. For the last year or so, I think we’ve all just given him his space.”

I chew the inside of my cheek as I think about this. Maybe there’s such a thing as too much space. Maybe getting real crowded is exactly what he needs to heal from the inside out.

I’ve been avoiding him lately because I need the distance. But it’s time to remember what I’m doing here. I’m here to fix Paul, first and foremost.

And despite what he thinks, distance isn’t what he needs.

The prospect makes me almost giddy. Brace yourself, Paul Langdon. Shit’s about to get real messy for you.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Paul

It’s official: I don’t get women.

Olivia should be pissed at me. Just a few hours ago, I would have sworn that she was. But now she’s changing it up, and I don’t like it at all. I don’t trust forgiveness I didn’t earn.

The weird thing is, I never used to be so clueless with girls. I won’t pretend that I’m a mind reader or anything, but of course I know that fine never means fine, and if you ask a girl if you can skip a date to go to a Red Sox game with your friends, she will probably say, “Go ahead,” which means you’re a dead man.

I’ve had a few girlfriends. Only one was serious. Serious enough that we did the long-distance thing when I went to Afghanistan. When I got back, a well-meaning nurse told me that Ashley had come by to see me.

Once.

Honestly, I don’t blame her for not sticking around after she saw my mangled face. My scars are ugly now, but early on when the wounds were fresh, I was downright grotesque.

My dad mentioned that Ashley got married to the son of one of his vice presidents and had twins. I don’t know if he meant it to be a wake-up call or what, but the truth is I didn’t feel much of anything when he told me.

The point is, I used to know girls. But this thing with Olivia is a whole other ball game.

Sometime in the past hour she’s gone from acting like I’m a ticking bomb to being, well, friendly. Which is not to say that she’s been unfriendly. In the couple of weeks since I basically called her a useless hooker and then threw her ex-boyfriend in her face, leaving her to cry alone at night (is there a gold medal for assholes? I’ve earned it), Olivia hasn’t done the prissy silent treatment thing, and I give her props for that.

But even though she’s been perfectly civil, things have been different. Conversation is shallower. She never touches me anymore, not even accidentally. More often than not she avoids prolonged eye contact, and she’s taken to “reading alone” in the afternoons so she can concentrate.

I should be thrilled. I accomplished my goal of distance quite easily. It’s supposed to feel like a reward. Instead, it feels an awful lot like punishment.

I miss her.

But that’s not to say that there aren’t alarm bells going off in my head right now. Because without warning, the old Olivia is back. And I’m way too relieved for comfort.

Her long, slim fingers appear in front of my face and she snaps rapidly, three times. “Yo. Langdon. A toddler can do more squats than you. Focus.”

See what I mean? Old Olivia. The sassy version who doesn’t treat me like an invalid. We’re in the gym, and she’s doing her tough-love personal trainer thing, which is both annoying and cute as hell.

Her hair is pulled into a high, perky fountain, reminding me a little of a cheerleader, and she’s wearing purple instead of the usual pink. Except for the shoes. The shoes are still pink. She insists on wearing the old pink ones when she isn’t running because she has a limit on how many days per week she’s willing to look like, and I quote, “a freaking hobo.”

What she’s wearing doesn’t really matter, though. Because she’s got me right where she wants me.

I’m doing squats.

With weight. Not much weight, and nothing even close to what I was managing before the ambush. But the steady, repetitive bend-and-straighten motion isn’t something I imagined doing ever again in any capacity. My leg doesn’t even hurt. Much.

I refocus my efforts, and with Olivia looking on, I finish the last set of reps.

She grins, making it all worth it. “How’d it feel?”

“Shitty,” I say, doing my best to resist her good mood.

She takes a step closer. I step back, but I’m penned in by the weight machine. The little minx has me cornered. She scoots up nice and close. In other words, torment.

“Liar,” she says. “It feels good, and you know it.”

Christ. Is she talking about the exercise or her nearness? Because one felt great, but the other is bittersweet agony.

Her eyes flick to my lips just briefly before she takes a step back.

My eyes narrow. She’s up to something.

“I don’t suppose I could talk you into doing my yoga routine with me?” she asks, rolling her shoulders as though to loosen them.

“Hell, no,” I mutter. “I’ve got nothing against yoga. It’s just that watching you do yoga is a good deal more interesting than participating.”

Her eyes go dark, and I smile in satisfaction. Two can play at this game.

But by the time she unrolls her yoga mat—pink—and starts with the now familiar poses, it’s clear that she’s winning. Watching Olivia do yoga is in fact interesting, but it’s also torment. Is it just my imagination, or is she holding that downward-facing dog position just a second longer than necessary? And I’m pretty sure I don’t remember that position where she arches her back quite like that from previous days.

Those damned tight yoga pants girls like to wear are tempting enough when they’re not actually doing yoga. But when her butt’s in the air all tight and cute?

Shit. By the time she contorts herself into something that’s basically her grabbing her ankles, I’m fucking sweating.

Is there a yoga position that involves her beneath me, hands pinned above her head, clothing optional? Because then I might rethink her yoga offer. By the time she’s finished, I’m hard, even though I’ve been pretending to be adjusting the weights on one of the machines. She carefully ignores me. I ignore her right back as I move to refill my water bottle.

She tucks her yoga mat under her arm and we move toward the door together.

“So…” she says, her voice easy and sweet. Too sweet. I instantly go on guard as I hold the gym door open for her. Here it comes. Whatever she’s been working up to is finally coming to light.

“Any nightmares lately?” she asks.

I tense even further. “Nope.”

That’s a lie, and I can tell immediately that she knows it. Her lips flatten a little in disappointment that I don’t confide further, but what the hell does she expect? That she just has to wiggle her butt around and badger me into exercising and I’ll suddenly go all “Dear Diary” on her?

She recovers quickly. “Okay. Next question. Why’d you say that thing about Ethan when your dad was here?”

I almost choke on my water. Talk about a subject change.

“I’m an ass,” I say, glancing briefly at her profile.

“Finally, a true statement,” she says as we get closer to the house.

She’s probably waiting for an apology, but I’m not really in the mood.

Olivia doesn’t ask anything more, but I’m still tense, certain that I’m missing something. Two unrelated questions delivered back to back, but with no push for a real answer? It’s all very un-female—very un-Olivia. What the hell is she up to this time?

Once inside the main house, she immediately starts up the stairs. Still lost in thought, I start to follow her up, my eyes still sort of checking out her ass, because, you know, yoga pants. That and more than two years of celibacy. My dad knew exactly what he was doing, sending a twentysomething in here for my “recovery.”

Olivia turns around abruptly, and I’m caught staring, but I don’t really care. She’s a step in front of me, so I’m looking up at her, and I lift my eyebrows in question, bracing.

Here it comes. Her trump card.

“Hey, I just realized something,” she says.

I roll my eyes. Sure you did. “Okay?”

Her eyes sparkle in triumph. “Your cane. You left it in the gym.”

Her casual observation has me taking a full step backward on the stairs. She’s right. What. The. Hell.

I stand there long after she’s skipped up the steps. I’m unable to move. Almost unable to breathe.

She’s right. I walked the entire way, not only without my cane but without even realizing I didn’t have my cane.

The thought should elate me, but I can’t shake the dark sense of foreboding. No matter where I look, my walls are crumbling, and this damned girl keeps presenting me with the most dangerous element of all.

Hope.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Olivia

On some level, I guess I must be bracing for his nightmares. My bedroom is on the same floor as Paul’s but not exactly next door, so I’m not sure I’d hear his shouts through two closed doors if I wasn’t listening for them.

But I am listening for them.

I’ve heard them the past couple of nights too, but things have been so weird between us that I knew my presence was the last thing that would be of comfort to him.

Tonight, however, instinct leads me in a different direction. It leads me straight to Paul.

My feet are on the floor the second I hear his first cry. Knowing that he sleeps almost naked, this time I grab my robe and pull it over my boxers and tank top, knotting the belt as I move down the hall.

I hesitate outside his door, torn between wanting to allow him privacy and give him comfort. God knows that the last time I went barging in there in the middle of the night, it didn’t exactly end well for my pride.

I hear a low moan.

Then “Alex. Alex, no…”

Screw it. He needs me.

The sheets are down around his waist, and there’s just enough light to make out that he’s definitely shirtless. Oh boy.

I take a deep breath and move toward the bed. One arm is flung up over his head, the other fisted at his side as his fingers flex against the bedding.

Moving slowly, I reach for his hand, taking it in mine as I sit beside the bed. I feel a little silly. The whole thing is very Florence Nightingale, but the need to comfort is almost overwhelming.

He makes another moaning noise.

Do I wake him? I did that last time, and he flipped his shit. But letting him stay in whatever hell his sleeping mind’s taken him seems cruel.

“Paul.”

He twitches.

“Paul.” Louder this time.

He stills, but his body’s still rigid.

Gently I put a hand against his shoulder, trying to shut out the shock waves that go through me at the contact of skin on skin. It’s just a shoulder, Olivia.

“Wake up,” I say softly.

He’s stopped crying out, but his breathing is harsh and ragged.

“Paul!” I shake him now.

His eyes fly open, and he lies perfectly still.

I stay still too, letting him get his bearings. I wait for the tension to ease and his breathing to become more regular, but it’s almost as though the air becomes electric as he realizes my presence.

His eyes meet mine, and the mood goes from tense to intoxicating.

“This better still be part of my dream,” he says, his voice raspy.

I shake my head, afraid that if I talk, I’ll break the moment. That he’ll go ballistic like he did last time, drinking booze like it’s going out of style and doling out bruising kisses like they’re punishments.

If he kisses me tonight, I don’t want it to be about pushing me away. I want it to be about bringing me closer.

I don’t know who moves first. One second I’m trying so hard not to look at his mouth, working up the courage to ask him about his dream, and the next second I’m beneath him.

I should be shocked, but I’m not. I think I knew as soon as I left the safety of my bedroom that I would somehow end up here, on Paul Langdon’s rumpled bed with him braced above me.

His weight on his left arm, he uses his right hand to trace a line from my temple down around my ear. His finger continues its slow downward movement, skimming across my collarbone. He pauses when he reaches the edge of my robe.

“You shouldn’t have come,” he whispers, his eyes following the slow motion of his finger.

I swallow. “I heard you. You sounded…” Like you need me.

He shakes his head once, as though to tell both of us that he doesn’t need anyone, but we both know better.

I lie there, silent, wondering whether I dare to ask outright. Ever since that conversation with Lindy about how nobody had ever actually asked him point-blank about what happened overseas, I’ve known that the time will come when I have to be the one to ask. He needs to talk about it; he’s just never been given the chance. Not really.

But I have to move slowly. It’s been buried inside him for so long that prying will only result in his pushing me away. Just like he has with his father and anyone else who’s ever cared about him.

Maybe now isn’t the time.

Because tonight…tonight he doesn’t look like he wants to talk. And when he’s staring at me with hot, burning eyes, I don’t really want to talk either.

Blue eyes ask the words that he won’t voice out loud. Do you want me?

My answer is also wordless.

But I make sure I’m very, very clear about what I want.

I slip my hand around the back of his neck, relishing the crispness of his ruthlessly short haircut against my palm.

I tug his face downward. He’s already in motion.

There’s no teasing this time as his lips quickly nudge mine open, his tongue sliding in to claim mine. I let out a tiny moan, wrapping both arms around his neck as he rolls more firmly on top of me, pressing me against the softness of the mattress.

Our mouths move frantically, restlessly, as we struggle to get closer. One or both of us kicks the tangled sheet out of the way, and we both groan as his hips settle between my thighs.

My robe is pointless now. It’s barely on my shoulders and the haphazardly tied knot is no match for the way our bodies seem determined to get as close as possible. The robe falls open.

His hand finds my waist, caressing me slowly over the thin fabric of my shirt, and it’s harder to breathe. Paul shows a restraint I wouldn’t have expected, never touching where I need to be touched, only torturing me with lingering strokes on my hip, my waist.

My own hands roam restlessly over his shoulders and the lines of his back, loving the way his muscles bunch and release as he moves over me.

When his fingers finally slip beneath my shirt at the waist, my back arches in want, and his hand slides around so his palm is against the small of my back. His fingers are warm, and the simple touch feels anything but tame.

“Jesus,” he mutters, his mouth sliding down to my neck. “Why do you feel so good?”

I try to tell him that he feels good too—more than good—but his mouth is on mine again, and he kisses me in long, drugging kisses until I can barely think, much less speak.

He moves his lower body, and my eyes fly open as I fully register what I’ve only been dimly aware of. Paul Langdon is hard and ready, and we are exactly two very thin layers away from crossing an earth-shattering line.

And I want to cross it. I really, really want to sleep with Paul, even though it’s all kinds of screwed-up given the fact that his father is paying me to be here in this house. I’m pretty sure that despite Paul’s crass words to his father that afternoon, Harry Langdon does not, in fact, want me to screw his son.

But that’s not why my hands find his shoulders and push. I push him back for his own good. Not mine. “Paul.”

“Olivia,” he whispers back, reverently, his lips skimming my cheekbone. My heart clenches. God, why do I have to be so fucked up?

“Paul.” My voice is firmer, as are my hands on his shoulders. “We have to stop.”

“Why?” His tongue flicks my collarbone, and I nearly lose all resolve.

“You know why,” I say.

He rotates his hips just slightly and we both groan. “Actually, for the life of me, I can’t think of why I’d want to be anywhere else.”

Because I’m not meant to be with anyone. Not like this. The last thing I want is to hurt this fragile soul the way I hurt Ethan. And unlike with Ethan, there will be no Stephanie to mend Paul’s heart.

Paul lifts his head slightly, and the expression on his face veers so close to tender that I have to close my eyes to block it out.

But closing my eyes is a mistake too, because now the only thing I can see is Ethan’s face when he walks into my room, the way he’s done a million times in the past. In this vision, though, I’m not alone. This time Michael is with me. This time Ethan doesn’t see the perfect girlfriend. He sees the cheating lover.

Oh God.

“Stop!” I dig my nails into Paul now. “Stop!”

He pulls back immediately. Concern flickers across his face, and I see him reach for me.

I jerk up into a sitting position and scoot away from him, and my heart sinks as I see him misinterpret my movement.

His smile evaporates, and in its place is a cynical sneer. He thinks I’m rejecting him.

“No,” I say, reaching out a hand. This time it’s Paul who backs away, and for a crazy second I almost want to laugh at how messed up we are. Two completely shattered souls doing a weird approach-and-recoil dance around each other.

“Paul,” I say, grabbing his hand and waiting until he meets my eyes. “Whatever it is you’re thinking, you’re wrong.”

“Sure.” He keeps his face averted, as though to hide his scars from me.

Crap. This is why I shouldn’t let my hormones take hold of me. Every time I do, I do more damage than good.

“It’s me, okay?” I say, releasing his hand and smoothing my tangled hair. “I’m the mess, not you.”

He’s silent for several seconds, his gaze studying my face. I see the exact moment he realizes I’m telling the truth. The second he realizes that he’s not the only one with issues. That he’s not the only one in need of healing.

“Well,” he says, his voice gentle, almost teasing, “that is true. You are a mess. Your hair looks like a nest, and I’m pretty sure your tank top is on inside out.”

I give him an incredulous look, then glance down at my tank top. It looks fine to me, but it’s dark, and I didn’t have my hands all over it the way he did.

“You also don’t look great in red,” he says, getting really into it now as he gestures to my robe. “Stick with pink.”

I let out a horrified laugh. “Seriously?”

He shrugs, although I think I see a hint of a smile.

I lift my eyebrows. “Next time I decide to come save you from nightmare-land, I’ll be sure to wiggle into a cocktail dress and fix my hair.”

He ignores this. “You know what doesn’t look good on me?” he says as he stretches out on his side.

My eyes skim his bare torso. Clothes?

He winks, as though to say he knows exactly what I’m thinking. I blush.

“Blue balls. Blue balls don’t look good on me,” he responds.

I can’t help it. I laugh a little. “Yeah. Sorry about that. Things got, um…”

“Hot,” he finishes for me. “Things got hot as hell.”

I meet his eyes. “Yes. They did.”

“And we stopped because…?”

“Paul—”

“Don’t,” he says on a groan. “I can already tell you’re not going to give me the real story about why you got scared, so just forget it.”

I take a deep breath. “I’ll tell you my issues if you tell me what your dream is about.”

His smile fades. “Don’t. Don’t act like our secrets are the same thing, or a fair trade.”

I press past this. “Have you ever told anyone?”

In answer he flops back onto his back, and I sigh, recognizing the signs of him shutting down.

But he surprises me. “No.” His voice is quiet. “I’ve never told anyone.”

“You’ll feel better if you talk about it.”

He turns his head toward me. “So I’ll feel better if I talk about my bullshit, but you get to keep your issues locked in the vault?”

I open my mouth to argue, but he has a point. “My issues are fresher,” I respond finally.

He snorts. “Well, take it from someone whose issues have been left on the shelf too long. The longer they rot, the more important it becomes that you keep the lid on.”

I feel a little burst of gratification. He’s not exactly opening up, but neither is he tensing up when I get close to touchy topics. And although I’m desperate to keep pressing, I figure it’s better to quit while I’m ahead. I need to draw him out slowly.

So instead of going all shrink-mode on him like I want to, I give him a little smile and start to move toward the edge of the bed. I need to get out of this room before we make a mistake.

His hand touches my knee and I freeze, because the touch is gentle and pleading.

I raise my eyebrows questioningly, but he looks away, pulling back before he can say whatever he’s trying to. I take a guess.

“You don’t want to go back to sleep?” I ask, knowing that asking a twenty-four-year-old guy if he’s afraid of bad dreams is likely to earn me the middle finger.

Paul doesn’t answer. Not with words. But when his eyes meet mine, I know. He doesn’t want to be alone. I let him have his manly pride, though, and don’t force him to say it out loud. Neither can I leave him. Not now. I move again, reaching toward the foot of the bed to grab for the sheets, which are all tangled at his feet.

“First things first.” I keep my voice matter-of-fact. “You should know that I’m a terrible cuddler.”

“There’s no such thing,” he says.

“No, there is. I thrash and stuff,” I say, tapping my fingers against his knee to get him to lift his leg so I can pull the blanket all the way up.

He tenses a little, and I belatedly realize what I just did. I touched his leg—his bad leg. I was so busy trying not to stare at his junk that I completely forgot.

My eyes fly to his face, but his expression is unreadable. Typical. But at least he’s not flipping out.

I snatch my hand back, but I let my eyes return to his leg. I don’t know what I was expecting. Bones sticking out every which way and covered with alien skin, or something.

But it just looks…different. Like the skin is a different texture on one side of his thigh. Skin graft, maybe?

“You should have seen the other guy,” he says softly.

I let out a little laugh, even though it’s not funny. He’s talking about it. And he’s letting me look.

As a reward for his baby steps, I change the subject again. “Listen, soldier, if you start wailing in your sleep again, this cuddle deal is off the table.”

“I don’t remember making a cuddle deal.”

“You did,” I say confidently. “With your eyes.”

“A girlish delusion, clearly,” he says. But he lifts his arm to make room for me anyway, and I hunker down before he can change his mind.

As far as crossing the line goes, cuddling’s almost as bad as making out with him, but there’s nothing in the world that could make me leave this bed.

I hesitate only a second before resting my head against his shoulder. I shouldn’t touch him. After what happened—almost happened—I really shouldn’t touch him. But I can’t seem to stop my hand from skimming over his shoulder and then along to his biceps. I start to trace my fingers down his forearm to his wrist when he jerks and tenses.

I glance up at him in surprise, but he’s still staring straight up at the ceiling. He lets out a long, intentional breath, and I realize he’s trying to force himself to relax. To not freak out about…

My eyes move to where my hand rests on his lower arm.

The marks aren’t obvious. Nothing like the scars on his face. But something happened to his wrists. Something inhuman and brutal.

I swallow. “Do you want to talk?” I ask.

His fingers graze over my upper arm. Not sexually. Just…nicely.

“God, no,” he says gently.

“So what, we just lie here?” I say, even though that sounds like heaven to me.

“That’s the plan. I’m counting on your shitty cuddling skills to keep the nightmares away.”

I snuggle closer. “Done. And in exchange, you can take back what you said about my hair and my pajamas.”

His fingers toy with the tips of my hair. “I’ll admit that bedhead has a certain sexy appeal. But I stand by what I said about your tank top. It’s ugly and inside out.”

“But hey, it is a tank top,” I say, “So at least you got to see the boobs.”

“See, but not touch,” he grumbles.

In my flirty, relaxed mood, it’s on the tip of my tongue to say “next time,” but I catch myself before the words get out. Still, for the next hour I’m definitely thinking about next time.

And if his agitated breath is any indication, so is he.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Paul

Olivia wasn’t kidding. She really is a terrible cuddler.

For the first twenty minutes or so after she curls up at my side, it’s nice. Really nice. Then, about five minutes after her breathing becomes regular and I’m just starting to drift off, her hand jerks, karate-chopping my jugular. I’m still recovering when she abruptly flops over onto her back, hitting my still-sore nose with the back of her hand.

Luckily, I catch her knee before it nails my nuts. Barely. She makes a little huff of irritation before spreading her arms out to the sides as if the king-size bed is all hers for the taking.

Which, of course, it is.

More alarming is that I’m afraid I’m becoming hers for the taking.

I roll onto my side to face her, although I keep my distance from her flailing limbs. For now, it’s enough to be close to her. Never before was I so tempted to tell someone about my dreams. To lay my head against her and just talk. About Alex. About that day. About the godforsaken war that ruined my life and took so many others. About the Afghani insurgents and their lethal knives. About the fact that my best friend, bloody and barely breathing, used the last of his life to save mine.

I reach out a hand, resting my fingers against her palm as she sleeps, and try to let the simple contact with another person take away all of the bad memories. At least for now.

It apparently works, because when I wake up, it’s nearly dawn.

I smile to realize that Olivia’s still in my bed, although this isn’t one of those sexy scenarios where the guy and girl fall asleep only to wake up tangled in each other. Nope. This is more her stretched in every direction while I get a tiny sliver of my own bed.

It’s worth it, though, especially because my fingers linked with hers sometime during the night.

I ease my hand away and sit up, and she immediately scoots over to take up the newly opened space. I smile, and for the first time in a long time, the smile is easy. Genuine.

I pull out one of my workout T-shirts and reach for one of my many pairs of workout pants, but then I pause. I open a different drawer instead, and pull out gym shorts.

There’s this weird thing I used to have about working out in shorts. No matter the time of year, except on the very coldest of Boston days, I liked to wear shorts. After I got back from Afghanistan, that, along with about a million other elements of the “old me,” disappeared. I couldn’t bear to look at the skin of my own leg, much less watch other people’s reaction to it.

But last night Olivia looked. And touched. And there wasn’t an ounce of disgust or pity or morbid curiosity. It was merely an observation, like, Oh, so that’s what that looks like.

I take a deep breath and put on the shorts. Maybe it’s time to let the old Paul back in, even in a tiny, insignificant way.

I sit on the edge of the bed as I tie my tennis shoes. Olivia rolls onto her side, her body sort of curling around me, although she doesn’t wake up. For a moment I contemplate waking her for her morning run. She’ll be pissed that I didn’t. But it’s my fault she didn’t get much sleep.

That, and because I want to be alone for what I’m about to do. If I fail miserably, as I’m likely to do, I don’t want there to be any witnesses.

Gently unfolding her fingers from where they’re tangled in the fabric of my shorts, I slip out of the room with only the briefest of glances at the cane in the corner.

I’m about to head down the stairs when I hear a sharp beeping coming from Olivia’s room. An alarm clock. It makes me smile to know that she’s not naturally an early riser the way I am. It means that she very deliberately sets her alarm to make our daily walk/runs together.

I enter her bedroom. She uses her cellphone as an alarm, and it’s going crazy on the nightstand. I pick it up, sliding my finger across the screen to turn it off.

She has eight new text messages.

Eight?

Somehow I’ve let myself forget that just because I’m cut off from the outside world, it doesn’t mean she is. Of course she’d stay in contact with friends and family.

I’m tempted to read the messages.

I want to know if she tells her friends and family that she’s happy here.

I want to know if she says anything about me.

I want…

Pull yourself together, Langdon.

And then, God help me, I’m unlocking her phone. Not to read the messages, just to scan who they’re from.

My eyes catch the names Bella and Mom and Michael. Who’s Michael? She’s never mentioned him. She’s allowed male friends, of course, but…what the hell. I’m resigned to the fact that I’m no longer one of the good guys. Might as well act on it.

I open the message, ignoring the jab of guilt that tells me I’m a sick son of a bitch.

I miss you.

The short text says volumes, and the jealousy that rips through my gut is as foreign as it is unwelcome. There are no other texts to or from this Michael, which either means it’s the first time he’s contacted her in quite a while or she’s deleted previous messages. I want to know why.

When it comes to Olivia, I want to know everything, but I want to know because she tells me about it, not because I went snooping.

I close my eyes briefly as I realize what I need to do. If I want her to trust me, I need to start by trusting her. I need to tell her everything.

I slowly put the phone back on the nightstand. With any luck, her groggy morning self won’t register that it’s already been read, and if she does, I’ll come clean. The alternative is deleting the message altogether, and that’s a line even I won’t cross.

It’s misty outside, and there’s a definite nip in the air. It’s October, after all. But I stand perfectly still for several minutes, relishing the feel of the cold air against my bare legs. How long has it been since I did something as simple as wear shorts? Too long.

It’s been way too fucking long in so many areas of my life.

I walk toward the path, waiting for the twinge in my leg that will halt my plans in their tracks. But there’s no pain. There’s nothing but the glorious feel of damp sea air against my damaged skin.

I start to walk a little faster now, still giving the leg a chance to protest the lack of support from my cane. And although I do feel a little off balance, I can’t tell if I’m actually limping or just mentally limping.

A lone seagull cry pierces the perfect quiet of the early morning. I increase my pace.

A drop of water runs down the center of my forehead, and I realize that the mist has turned to rain.

And then my walk turns into a run.

I’m running.

For the first time in three years, I’m running.

Not a fast run. To anyone else, it probably looks like some awkward speed walk or failed jog. But I know the importance of it. I’m running.

It’s raining harder now, and I don’t care. Hell, I barely notice.

I’m concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other, careful to make sure that my left leg hits the ground squarely each time. I still feel a little off balance. My good leg is doing more of the work, and the shitty leg is definitely letting me know that it’s not used to this.

But I’m running. I’m fucking running.

Of course, I reach my limit quickly. I make it less than a mile before the slight awkwardness starts to dip into discomfort. Still, it’s a start. And that’s what really has me feeling like taking on the world. It’s the start to normalcy.

The leg’s never going to be pretty—I’m always going to get a stare or two on a beach vacation—but for the first time in a long time, normal seems within reach.

And I know exactly whom to thank.

I take my time walking back. The rain is heavier now, and I’m soaked but invigorated. Cheesy as it sounds, it’s one of those good-to-be-alive moments.

I pause inside the back door long enough to peel off my shoes and soaked socks. I need a shower, stat, but first, coffee.

I can’t help it. I grin when I see Olivia perched at the kitchen counter with her laptop. She’s changed into long flannel pajamas with pink and white stripes. Her hair’s still a mess, but she looks adorable. Lindy’s nowhere to be seen, and Olivia’s humming tells me she has her headphones in like she usually does when she’s checking email or shopping online.

Still in a ridiculously good mood, I move up beside her, wanting to wrap my arms around her and beg her to take a chance. On me. On us.

There are things I need to tell her. Steps I need to take, admissions I need to make. Stories to tell, ghosts to expunge, and all that. I’m ready.

My smile slips as my eyes catch on her laptop. Thanks to the headphones, she doesn’t seem to realize I’m behind her. If she knew, she’d make every effort to hide what’s up on her screen.

All the euphoria running through my veins turns to ice water immediately as I register the headline of the story she’s reading. It’s old news, but achingly familiar. My heart feels lodged in my throat.

Olivia senses me then, spinning around with a gasp, even as she frantically slams the laptop shut. Her face crumples when she realizes she’s too late.

I take a step backward, unable to stop the images conjured up by the words in that painfully understated headline: “Weston-Area Soldier Lone Survivor in Afghanistan Torture Tragedy.”

“Paul.” She reaches out a hand, her expression a combination of regret and horror.

“I was going to tell you. I was going to tell you everything.” My voice is raspy.

Her face crumples. “I know. I just—”

“You just what?” I sneer. “Wanted to know exactly who you let cuddle up against you last night? Wanted to know who—no, what—you almost fucked?”

“Stop.” Her voice is firm, and her hand drops. “I just thought…You never want to talk about it, and—”

“You never asked!” I explode. “Nobody ever asks! Sure, you tiptoe around it. ‘Wanna talk about the dreams, Paul? Anything you wanna discuss?’ Everyone asks, from concerned nurse to poor victim, but nobody ever looks me in the eye over dinner and asks me, person to person, ‘What happened over there?’ You think I want to carry it around by myself? I don’t. I want to tell someone. I wanted to tell you. But not when you were looking at me like a damaged child.”

Her eyes fill with tears.

“It was mine to tell, Olivia. My story.”

“Then tell me.”

I jab my finger in the direction of the laptop. “No. You’ll have to satisfy yourself with that watered-down half-truth.”

“Paul.”

This time when she moves closer, both hands are outstretched, as though to pull me to her.

Damn it, I’m tempted to let her hold me, even after she belittled everything that I’ve gone through, all of the progress we’ve made by fucking Googling me.

My hands find her shoulders before she can touch me, and my fingers tighten briefly in the urge to pull her closer, before I very deliberately, almost roughly set her back. I don’t hurt her. I’d never hurt her, not physically, but the pain on her face tells me that my rejection hits something deeper.

Good.

“If it were up to me, you’d be on the first flight home to New York,” I say.

She gives me an incredulous look. “Oh, come on. Because I was reading a news article on you? News flash—I could have done that at any time.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t!” I hate the savage pain in my voice. “You waited until now, waited until I trusted you, to go behind my back. Waited until I wanted you.”

It’s hypocritical, of course. I read her text message. But somehow me reading one tiny text message from a guy she’s never even mentioned doesn’t feel as huge as what she’s done. We’re both guilty of snooping, true. But she knew this was something I wasn’t ready to share. She didn’t give me the chance.

“I didn’t know that! You’re being melodramatic and ridiculous, Paul.”

I shake my head. “You want to know the real reason you’re still here? The real reason that I didn’t throw you out on your tight ass the second you walked through the door, like I did the rest of them?”

Nervousness flits across her face. “Because we connected?”

I make a harsh buzzing noise. “Nope. See, Olivia, I have to tolerate you for three months or my dad throws me out.”

Her jaw slackens a little, telling me she definitely didn’t know about my father’s ultimatum.

“Yeah,” I said, feeling a little victorious at the pain on her face. “The cozy afternoons by the fire? All those painful, vapid dinners while I listened to you ramble about your childhood? Those were all carefully manufactured to make sure you stuck around long enough for me to get my inheritance.”

Her lips press together. “Stop.”

I don’t stop. I go in for the kill, moving closer and bending my knees just a little, so I’m in her face, eye to eye. “Oh, and about last night’s kiss? And that kiss by the fire? And every other time I’ve tolerated your girlish, boring touch?”

She turns her head away, but I place the tip of my finger against her chin and force her to look at me. “Those weren’t about us. I had to make sure you felt wanted to keep my dad from cutting me off.”

Her eyes go dark and furious as she meets my gaze, and this time it’s her turn to push back at me. “Poor, poor Paul! You mean your father actually expects you to be a contributing member of society instead of a sulking coward? I had no idea you were being so victimized!”

I feel rage roll over me. She doesn’t know anything. She doesn’t know about Lily’s leukemia, or the fact that only I know that Alex’s death wasn’t mercifully fast, or that the only way Amanda can afford to pay rent and the costs of Lily’s treatment is because I’ve sold out and taken my dad’s money.

“Get out,” I snarl.

She gives me a condescending look. “You sure you want to do that? It hasn’t even been two months. You kick me out now, you’ll actually have to make a living on your own like the rest of us.”

I bark out a laugh. “Like the rest of us? Exactly which of your possessions did you pay for yourself? Hmm? Which of those didn’t come from Daddy? We both know this is a token job. I don’t know how much my father is paying you, but I do know you’re not doing it for the money. I’d wager you haven’t even deposited a single paycheck.”

Her eyes flash guiltily, and I don’t know if I’m relieved she’s not doing it for the money or furious because it means she’s doing it for some other nefarious reason that I can’t yet figure out.

We stand there for several seconds, glaring. Two spoiled, damaged disasters.

“I’ll pack my stuff,” she says finally, starting to move around me.

I grab her elbow as she passes. We turn our heads toward each other just slightly, each breathing hard, neither meeting the other’s eyes. “Stay,” I say gruffly. “We’ve used each other for this long. Might as well see it through.”

“I’m not going to stick around because you want to mooch off your father.”

“Fine. Then stick around for whatever selfish reason you came here for. See it through. Finish using me like I’m using you. Then we can walk away unscathed.”

Green eyes meet mine, and I see what’s plainly written there. Bullshit.

She’s right. It’s gone on far too long for either of us to walk away unscathed, but I’m beyond caring at this point.

If my initial goal was to get Olivia Middleton to stick around, my new goal is far darker.

I’m going to break her the way she’s breaking me.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Olivia

Okay, so I’m just going to come right out and say it: Paul overreacted.

Yes, I overstepped a little by Googling him. Do I regret it? Most definitely.

But he’s acting like I went snooping through his drawers in the middle of the night. This isn’t Paul’s diary we’re talking about. Like he’d even keep a diary. (Although he should. Maybe then he’d work through some of his issues and wouldn’t always act like his python cane is all the way up his ass.)

That news story I read? Public information. It’s not like I even had to dig—it took about twelve seconds on Google. The thing that’s really pissing me off is that if I had half a brain, I would have looked all of this up before arriving in Maine, before even agreeing to the job.

Maybe if I had, I would have known that Paul Langdon was worryingly close to my own age. I would have seen that senior-year portrait from his high school yearbook and known that once upon a time he was almost painfully handsome.

Of course, none of that would have prepared me for the fact that the twenty-four-year-old Paul is even more alluring to me. No number of generic news articles would have prepared me for my fierce and automatic reaction to him.

But I would have known that his injuries weren’t just the result of a horrible IED incident or a wretched ambush. If I’d done my research, I’d have known what he really went through.

Torture.

I wish I’d known.

No, I wish he’d told me. Of course, I hadn’t given him a chance to do that, now had I? Okay, so maybe he’s right to be pissed at me. I just can’t figure out how we went from cuddling and sleeping together to wanting to kill each other in the kitchen over something so unimportant in the grand scheme of things. We can work through it.

Only he isn’t talking to me.

I toss the blob of bread dough onto the counter and brace my palms against the granite as I try to catch my breath and get control of my thoughts. Flour is everywhere, and I don’t care.

“You know you actually have to touch the dough to knead it, right?” Lindy says, coming back into the kitchen.

I halfheartedly began moving the dough around again as Lindy unloads the tray containing the remains of Paul’s lunch.

I glance at the tray out of the corner of my eye.

The pasta was barely touched. He’s not eating. I know only because I keep an eye on how much food Lindy throws out, not because I actually eat with Paul. I’ve barely seen the guy in the week since our confrontation. He’s made sure of that.

Lindy hasn’t asked me why Paul and I are at odds—again—nor has she complained that she has to bring him all of his food, when I’m getting paid to do it. I’ve tried to explain, but she just pats my shoulder and tells me that there’s a spare room in the small house if I need it.

If this keeps up, I will need it. Hearing Paul yell every night without being able to go to him is killing me. I tried once; the door was locked.

Lindy and Mick have to be wondering what I’m still doing here. A caregiver who has zero contact with the person she’s supposed to be caring for? It’s only a matter of time before Paul’s father comes swooping in here telling me I’m fired.

Oh, but wait. That won’t happen, will it? Because then Paul won’t be able to continue his pathetic existence of hiding from the world while not having to contribute a single thing to society.

Why should I care if Paul is so committed to never entering the world that he’ll enter into a childish bargain with his father?

I don’t.

Except I do. I care so much it that it feels like it’s almost physically eating at me. It’s the first thing I think about in the morning when I take lonely runs all by myself. It’s what I think about when I sip coffee alone, and when I have my solitary lunch. It’s what I think every time I take my big old Andrew Jackson biography down to the library, getting my hopes up that the door will be unlocked this time.

He’s shut me out completely, and a part of me wishes he’d just banish me already and get it over with. It’s becoming increasingly clear that Paul Langdon isn’t going to be the absolution I’m looking for. I came up here hoping to rediscover my humanity—to remind myself that I’m still a good person and that kissing my boyfriend’s best friend doesn’t make me irredeemable.

But if anything, my time in Maine is confirming my worst fears. I’m no good for other people. Paul may have been broken long before I came onto the scene, but I’m fairly sure that when I leave, he’ll be worse off. Almost as though I’d hoisted him halfway over the ledge toward redemption only to push him off again just as he was starting to feel hope.

All because I couldn’t just let him come to me himself.

Still…he’s acting like a damn baby about the whole thing.

Lindy appears at my side with a little sound of dismay and reaches for the bread dough that I’ve been mutilating for the past five minutes. “Okay, then. That’s about enough of your special kind of kneading.”

“I hate him.” I give the ball of dough one last slap. “I hate him!”

She uses her hip to bump me out of the way. “Well, from where I’m standing, you have a right to.”

I glance at her sharply. “You know what happened?”

“No. I never really know what’s going on with him. Or you,” she says, dropping the dough into a greased bowl, covering it with a clean towel, and then setting it aside to rise. “And I don’t want to know. Neither does Mick, because we know we’ll just end up wanting to knock some sense into the both of you. But that doesn’t mean I don’t see that by ignoring you, he’s hurting himself just as much as he is you. Maybe more.”

A little flutter of hope arises in my stomach. “Yeah?”

She gives me a knowing look. “Oh no. Don’t go fishing for intel, because that’s all I’m saying. But don’t you give up on him. Don’t you dare.”

I trace my finger though the extra flour on the counter. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do in the meantime until he comes around,” I say glumly. “Mr. Langdon isn’t exactly paying me to lurk around and destroy your homemade bread.”

“Mr. Langdon is paying you to bring his son back to the land of the living. And that’s exactly what you’re doing, even if the approach is indirect at the moment.”

“Okay, but…” I slump over, all of my weight on my forearms as I lean against the granite counter. “I’m bored, Lindy.”

“I thought you’ve been enjoying your nights out. I heard from Kali’s aunt that you guys are getting along great.”

It’s true. Kali and I have been getting along great. I’ve headed out to Frenchy’s a few times in the past week, partially because I needed a drink, but mostly because it was something to do while Paul the jackass stays locked away in his den like the freaking Unabomber or something. I even went over to Kali’s house last night. We ate frozen enchiladas, drank too much wine, and watched some really terrible television.

But I need to find something else to do with my time other than drink, mope, and try to slog through presidential biographies. I need a hobby, or a task, or…

“You could set the dining room table,” Lindy says, her voice muffled since her head’s buried in the fridge.

I stand up. “There’s a dining room?”

“Of course this house has a dining room.”

I roll my eyes. “Don’t act like it’s that obvious. Have you ever used it?”

“Of course not,” she says in that same matter-of-fact tone.

I can’t help the second eye roll. “So I’d be setting the table today, because…?”

Lindy emerges from the refrigerator, her arms full of what looks like a roast, some fancy-looking cheese, some milk, a box of butter, and some herbs. She uses her butt to shut the fridge door.

The pieces slowly click together even though my brain rejects what I’m seeing: the greater-than-normal amount of food, the use of the dining room, the fact that Lindy’s doing a weird smiling/humming thing that’s totally unlike her.

“Is someone coming over?” I ask.

“Yup,” she says, giving a smug smile as she deposits her ingredients on the counter and begins wiping away the mess from my lame attempt at making bread.

“Who?” I demand.

She shrugs. “Mr. Paul didn’t say.”

“ ‘Mr. Paul didn’t say,’ ” I mimic, exasperated. “Did you even ask him?”

“Not my business. I just need to know the number of people and any food restrictions.”

“It is too your business!” I say. “I’m guessing this is the first time this has happened, um, ever?”

“No,” she says simply. “He used to have friends over all the time when this was their summer home and this was just a seasonal job for me. You know. Before.”

“That’s sort of my point. What was normal for him before isn’t exactly run of the mill nowadays. Don’t you think this is weird? All of a sudden he’s all social?”

“There have been lots of changes in Mr. Paul lately,” she says, not looking at me. “As long as he keeps moving in the right direction, I’m not going to question it.”

She’s right, of course. It is a good sign that he’s having friends over.

It’s also suspicious as all hell. Something is going on.

“All right, I’ll set the table,” I mutter, realizing that Lindy has said all that she’s going to on the matter. “Should I assume I’m on my own for dinner tonight? I don’t want you to have to cook two meals.”

“You’ll be eating this,” she says, patting the huge hunk of beef.

“You mean, like leftovers?”

“No, I mean you’ll be sitting at the table along with Mr. Paul and his guest. He said there’d be three total. Including you.”

What the…

“Um, no,” I say. “I’m not joining him for dinner. That’s beyond inappropriate.”

“It’s not inappropriate if he requested it. Which he did. Specifically.”

I’m pretty much sweating now. Something weird is definitely going on. “He thinks I’ll be eating dinner with him and his mysterious dinner guest in the dining room I’ve never even set foot in?”

“Yup.”

I cross my arms. “Not going to happen.”

Lindy shrugs. “Fine. You go tell him that, then. But in the meantime, get out of my kitchen so I can work. I set out linens on the table, and after you get that set up, how about you do something about your hair other than the wet ponytail you’ve been sporting for the past two weeks?”

“Oh yes, by all means, let’s get gussied up for Mr. Paul and his enormous wagon of issues.”

She begins mincing garlic. “Okay, fine. I’m sure his friend will love that NYU sweatshirt with the hole in the sleeve you’ve worn for three days in a row.”

I grunt, tapping my fingernails against the counter now, my curiosity all but consuming me.

“Olivia,” Lindy says mildly.

“Yah?”

“I have an hour to cook my first real meal in years, plus I need to get something for Mick and myself, and your brooding is making me crazy.”

“I can help!”

“Out. Help me by setting the table.”

“Fine,” I mutter, relenting only because I’m desperate to do something to feel like I’m earning my paychecks—which, after that disastrous conversation with Paul about me being a daddy’s girl, are now all deposited in my very own savings account.

It pains me to say it, but Paul was right about that. I hadn’t done crap with my paychecks until two weeks ago. I’m guilty of the very thing I’d accused Paul of: living off my dad. We are pathetic, privileged monsters, and I, for one, am determined to change, even if he isn’t.

When this is over—whatever this is—I’ll get another job. And then another after that. There’ll be no more using my father’s credit cards, no more treating this as a little charity break from real life. This is my real life. And I’m determined to own every aspect of it. Even if that means wearing a lot more of my ugly NYU sweatshirt now that my clothing allowance is about to become nonexistent.

I find the dining room easily enough. It’s through a huge set of double doors I’m embarrassed to say I never bothered to open. The room’s about what I would have expected given the house: lots of dark wood, and a long wood table that’s the perfect combination of formal and rustic charm.

There is a stack of table linens on the table as promised, but wisely Lindy didn’t go all clichéd and formal with anything white and prissy. Instead there are merlot-colored placemats and cream-colored cloth napkins with contemporary silver napkin rings. Instead of fussy china, there’s a stack of the usual everyday dishware.

I set the table quickly and take a step back to make sure everything looks right. The table lacks a centerpiece. Flowers would be perfect, but since we don’t have any, I rummage around in cabinets until I find a bunch of pillar candles. They’re all mismatched in size and color, but I’ve arranged enough charity fund-raisers in my life to know that once they’re lit, it’ll look classy and modern, not hodgepodge.

I fuss with the candles as long as I can, knowing full well that I’m stalling. It’s decision time.

Am I going to play whatever game he’s setting up? Or am I going to do what he would do and lock myself in my bedroom, refusing to come out and be a pawn?

In the end, it comes down to curiosity. I’ll play along. But only because I’m dying to know who could motivate Paul to willingly end his own solitude.

It’s not likely his father—Lindy would have known if Harry was coming in.

So who?

Kali? No, she would have mentioned it. Wouldn’t she?

It had to be someone from his former life.

Oh God. What if it’s an ex-girlfriend? What if he’s trying to torture me that way? One hand flies to my damp ponytail as I glance down at the admittedly ugly sweatshirt Lindy frowned at. Maybe a little primping isn’t a horrible idea.

I race up the stairs, but once in the safety of my room, I take my time getting ready. My shower is long and hot, and I finally get around to shaving legs that have been just a wee bit neglected the past couple of weeks. I not only blow-dry my hair but also take a flat iron to it, giving it that extra bit of sleek shine. The ends are looking a little ragged, and I smile as I remember Bella’s concern about my hairdresser being inaccessible while I was on my Maine hiatus. It’s been only two months since my parents threw me that going-away party, but it feels like another lifetime.

My smile fades a little as I realize I haven’t heard from Bella in days. She’s dating some guy named Brian, who’s “a little short but makes up for it in every other way.” Apparently he keeps her very, very busy.

But as much as I try to tell myself that it’s just her new love life that has us drifting apart, I suspect it’s more than that. Our lives are never again going to overlap as effortlessly as they have in the past.

I pause in putting on mascara as it hits me that this is a part of post-college life that nobody ever warns you about. Your social life is no longer dropped into your lap by virtue of shared classes and extracurricular activities. Relationships, whether with friends, family, or romantic partners—from here on out, they’re going to take a lot more work. No more built-in friends at the sorority, or hollering down the stairs when I need my mom. It’s certainly not going to be as easy to meet guys now that I’m done with school. It’s not like I can just chat up the cute guy in econ class anymore.

Thinking about my romantic future inevitably leads my thoughts to Paul, and I make a little growling noise at my brain for even going there.

He’s not for you.

Going back to my makeup, I add more eyeliner than usual, going for a subtly smoky look. I also add lip gloss and blush, even though any guests of Paul the bastard barely deserve deodorant, much less makeup.

I have no idea when his guest is coming, so I sit down on the window seat and pretend to read my book. Really, though, I just do a lot of staring at the water and thinking. All the while I’m braced for a knock at the bedroom door. Surely Paul will tell me himself that my presence is expected, or even mandatory?

The knock never comes. Lindy’s order to freshen up is apparently the only invitation I deserve.

I tense when I hear the doorbell, but force myself to relax. It’ll be fine. My parents hosted more parties in a month than most families do in a lifetime. I can small-talk strangers in my sleep. With one last glance in the mirror, I open the door to my room.

I hear voices, but they’re too muffled to make out whether they’re male or female. As I descend the stairs, I listen more carefully. There’s Paul’s familiar timbre, but I can’t hear the other person.

Seriously, if it really is an ex-girlfriend, I—

I freeze when I hear it. A male voice. I know that voice. Why do I know it?

Recognition takes my breath away. Oh my God.

Somehow, even as I register the familiarity of it all, I’m not fully prepared for what I see when I round the corner into the foyer. I’m not sure anyone could ever be prepared.

My eyes lock on the dark-haired guy still standing in the doorway. The heated longing on his face when our gazes collide feels like a punch in the face. I close my eyes to block it out, and take a deep breath.

I swallow. “Michael.”

He smiles. “Liv.”

Kill me. Kill me kill me kill me. This is not happening. The very guy I’m trying to escape is standing in the house that’s supposed to be my hiding place.

I tell my manners to override my panic but fail miserably. “What are you doing here?”

For the first time, the heated adoration on his face flickers. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, how did you even find me? Did my parents give you the address?”

Michael frowns and takes a step toward me. I step back.

“What are you talking about?” he asks. “You told me to come.”

I blink. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Your texts, Liv. You told me you needed to see me. Said you couldn’t get away, and asked if I could come here—” He breaks off when he sees the truth on my face. “You didn’t ask me to come.”

But I’m barely listening, because a dangerous buzzing has taken over my brain. Very slowly I turn my head to face him.

Only then does Paul emerge from the shadows. “Surprise, darling.” His voice is lethal.

I meet his gaze, and cruel triumph is written all over his features.

The pieces click together as I read his face. I get it now. I get what’s going on. This is some sick revenge plot. I snooped in his business, behind his back—I dragged his ghosts out of the closet without permission.

Now it’s his turn.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Paul

It was ridiculously easy—just a couple of quick texts to the mysterious Michael when Olivia was out for her morning run.

Runs that I once joined her on. Right up until she went and acted just like the rest of them, reading up on me like I was Soldier X instead of Paul.

But that’s not the point. The point is that my instincts about Michael were dead-on: not just a friend, but not a boyfriend either, though he wanted to be. It was written all over his whipped face when she came down the stairs.

It’s not Michael’s face I’m looking at now, though. It’s Olivia’s. I was prepared for surprise and anger. No, I was counting on them. It’s the very nature of revenge, after all. But what I see on her perfect features is pure, undiluted agony.

I am an ass. But then, I’ve always known I’m an ass. It’s time she knows it too. And I’m a big fan of the eye-for-an-eye philosophy. She snoops in my business, I snoop in hers. Did I go overboard? Sure. But it was so fucking easy.

I’d assumed that Olivia’s reasons for fleeing New York were a little more interesting than a clichéd love triangle, but when Michael thought it was Olivia asking him to come see her, he responded in about two seconds. He had it bad, and Olivia was avoiding him.

The need to fuck with her life the way she’d fucked with mine was too great to resist, and now…now I regret it. The tension in the foyer is almost palpable, and my plan no longer feels cleverly devious. It feels cruel.

“Olivia.” Michael moves toward her, hand outstretched, and she makes a little sound of dismay.

Instinctively, I start to move between them, but Olivia practically hisses at me.

“Get out,” she snaps at me. “You owe me that much.”

The magnitude of my manipulation is starting to sink in, and I feel like complete shit. Still, I give Michael a warning glance, as though to tell him not to hurt her. But I’m wasting the effort. He only has eyes for her.

I walk toward the door, pausing beside her. I open my mouth to…to do what? Apologize? But she doesn’t give me the chance.

“Leave.” She doesn’t even look at me.

I force myself to walk out the door. For one heart-stopping moment, I don’t know how to live with myself.

But then I remember: I’m half dead anyway.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Olivia

Paul leaves without so much as a backward glance, probably gloating that his revenge is going so perfectly according to plan.

I should be relieved to have the hateful guy out of my sight so I can gather my thoughts, but the truth is, Paul is just one part of this nightmare. A big part, to be sure. And he’s the catalyst. The fact that he would go through the effort of texting Michael with the sole intention of revenge makes me realize there’s a whole level of bastard in him that I didn’t know existed.

Having a moment of space from him should give me time to catch my breath. But I can’t seem to breathe.

Gathering my courage, I lift my chin and look at my former best friend. It’s only the second time Michael and I have been alone together since that horrible day when Ethan walked into Michael’s bedroom and saw me making out with his best friend.

Yeah. Forget pinning a scarlet A on my shirt. I deserve a tattoo. On my face.

Paul has no idea just how much he went for the jugular by forcing me to face Michael again.

But still…Michael came. He came all the way from New York to Maine for me, when I’ve been ignoring his texts for weeks. I have to know why, even though I think I already know.

“Why’d you come?” I ask. “I mean, I get that you thought it was me asking, but even then…it’s a lot of effort.”

His gaze is hot. Longing. “Because I care about you. And I need you to know how much.”

My heart rips. “Don’t. Don’t do this.”

“It’s been a long time coming, Liv,” Michael grinds out. “You never let me explain.” I see pain flash in his familiar brown eyes.

It’s the same pain I felt when Ethan removed himself from my life without so much as a backward glance. Michael and I fucked up. I mean, we really, really fucked up, and there’s absolutely no excuse for it. But Ethan never gave us the chance to explain. We can’t make it right, ever, but we didn’t even have the chance to tell someone we loved that we were sorry.

I finally got that chance at the end of the summer, only because I crashed Ethan’s parents’ beach party in the Hamptons. Now I realize I need that closure with Michael too. Just as he needs it with me.

“After everything that happened, I can’t let you think that you were just part of some pissing match between me and Ethan.” He moves toward me again, and this time I let him take my hands.

“Ethan was your best friend. Your best friend.”

Michael’s chin dips a little. “I know. It was a dick move.”

I snort. “What we did is so far beyond a dick move, I don’t even know that there are words for it.”

The room falls silent.

“I know,” Michael says finally.

“Then why? I mean, I know I’m not blameless, but you initiated. I’m not mad, I just…why, Michael?”

And even though I ask, even though I know he needs to say it and I need to hear it so I can help us both move on, I don’t want him to say it. Don’t say it, I silently beg him. Please don’t.

But Michael doesn’t register my silent plea. As good a friend as he was over the years, as close as we were, he never could read me. Not like that.

“Because I loved you,” Michael says, the simplicity of the statement almost breaking me. “I still love you.”

I close my eyes. “For how long? When did it start?”

Michael shrugs. “Always.”

Jesus.

His hands tighten on mine. “Liv. I have to know. Do you…can you…do you love me, Liv? Do you love me?”

Oh God.

I want to lie. I want to spare my best friend the searing hurt that the truth will unleash. But I can’t. I owe it to him—and to myself too—to be honest.

“No,” I say softly. “I didn’t. I don’t. Not like that.”

And then I wait for him to ask me. I wait for him to ask me why, if I didn’t return his feelings, I let him kiss me. Why I kissed him back.

I brace myself, but the question never comes. Maybe he can’t bear to hear it. And oddly enough, although I should be relieved at having gotten a reprieve, I almost wish he would demand answers. Because I’m finally ready to give them.

Michael’s eyes turn on me, and though the hurt is still there, anger mingles there too. I belatedly realize that there’s something different about Michael. It’s like he’s changing in front of my eyes. But no, that’s not quite right either…he was different from the moment I saw him today. If Ethan was always the easygoing charmer, Michael was like his edgier half—still charming, but his wit had a more acerbic edge to it. Not unlike Paul, come to think about it.

But now? There’s a darkness settling into his features. The edges are sharper; the cynicism that he always used as humor now seems more deep-rooted and mean.

I did that, I realize. All this time, I’ve been so busy trying to cope with the pain I caused Ethan that it never even occurred to me that I did some serious damage to Michael too. I had two best friends in the world, and I managed to treat both of them like garbage: Ethan by betraying him, Michael by walking away.

His jaw shifts slightly from left to right and back again, the way he does when he’s trying to control his rather formidable temper. He lets go of my hands, jerks back, and gives a self-depreciating laugh. “To think of the way I rushed up here like some knight in shining armor, thinking you wanted me. Needed me.”

I step toward him. Don’t do this. I’m not worth it.

“I didn’t know you were coming,” I say hurriedly. “And yet…maybe I’m glad. Maybe this can be closure.”

I reach out a hand to him again, my heart hurting, but he backs up again.

“I thought you needed time, Liv.” Michael’s voice is rough. “I’ve held back, thinking you needed to forgive yourself, and me, for what we did. But I though…I really thought that when you let Ethan go, I’d be the one you reached for.”

I close my eyes. Can this get any worse?

“But it was never going to be me, was it?” he asks.

When I open my eyes, the tears spill out. “No,” I say quietly.

Michael seems to harden before my very eyes. He swallows once, twice. And then with a jerk of his chin, as if that’s the only goodbye he can manage, he opens the door and walks out. Just like that, he’s gone.

I press my hand to my mouth. I can’t shake the feeling that I’ll never see my best friend again.

And it’s all Paul Langdon’s fault.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Paul

Of all the shitty things I’ve done in my life, and there are a few, this is the shittiest.

I don’t know what I was thinking would happen. That we’d all sit down around the dining table and I’d amuse myself at the little melodrama going on around me? That Olivia would all of a sudden open up, tell me all of her secrets, and explain what exactly it is that drove her to Maine to be my babysitter?

You’d think I’d have learned my lesson about giving Liv her privacy after texting Michael, but I’m an ass. So I eavesdropped. I listened in on the whole damn thing.

Olivia cheated on Golden Boy with Michael. And then I forced them into the same room together. I thought I was an ass, but that doesn’t even begin to describe what I am. By the time I realized just how major an apology was due, Michael was nowhere to be seen, and Olivia had locked herself in her room.

She’s been in there for two hours. I know because I’ve been sitting on the other side of the door for all 120 minutes of that time. For every single one of those minutes, she’s been crying. And not delicate, girly sniffles. We’re talking big, heart-wrenching sobs.

I close my eyes and lean my head back against the door. The coward in me wants to skulk off to my room, call my dad, and tell him to get Olivia the hell away from me, where I can’t do any more damage to her.

But I’m done being a coward. I need to face her myself.

Slowly, deliberately, I climb to my feet. I lift a hand and knock gently with one knuckle, but the crying doesn’t so much as break. I knock harder. This time there’s a pause. A little hiccup. But the door doesn’t open.

“Olivia.” My voice is hoarse. “Can I come in?”

I’m prepared for all of the possible responses she could toss at me. Silence. Fuck off. I hate you. Go away. But I’m not really prepared for her to open the door. And I’m certainly not prepared for the pressure in my chest when I see her.

I barely register the swollen eyes, red nose, and matted hair. I can’t seem to get past the immeasurable hurt written all over her face.

I do the only thing I can think of. I wrap my arms around her.

She lets me.

I caused her heart-wrenching pain, and she’s letting me hold her.

Nothing has ever felt so good.

I inch her backward into the bedroom just enough to kick the door shut before gathering her as close as possible. She buries her face in my shoulder and sobs. I don’t know how she has any tears left, but she does.

I rub my hands up and down her back and over her shoulders in the most soothing motions I can think of. I turn my face into her soft hair. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, my lips pressed to her head. “I’m so damned sorry.”

Her sobs turn to cries, the cries to hiccups, the hiccups to shuddering breaths. And then finally, finally, she falls silent. She leans back slightly to look at me, and I tense, ready for the words I know I deserve.

But she doesn’t lay into me or call me names. She doesn’t let me know in explicit detail that I deserve to die a miserable death. (Although I do. I know I do).

Instead, she does the last thing I expect. She talks to me. She rests her forehead against my collarbone and just talks.

“I didn’t mean to, you know,” she says, her voice raspy from crying. “I’ve asked myself a million times if some little part of me knew what Michael was going to tell me…what he was going to do…when I went over there that day. But I’ve replayed it a million times, and I wouldn’t have gone if I’d known. I wouldn’t have willingly put myself in the situation of hurting Ethan. If you could have seen his face…”

Olivia lets out a shuddering breath, and I pull her even closer, rubbing a palm over her back. I want to tell her that in the big scheme of things, this is nothing. That she’ll get over it, that Ethan’s already over it, but I know that to her this is big. I let her continue.

“I went to Michael’s house…up to his room, thinking he wanted to talk about this girl, Casey, who he’d kind of been seeing. Since he’d never had a serious girlfriend, I figured he was just getting cold feet, or whatever.”

She’s quiet for a moment.

“But he didn’t want to talk about Casey,” I say, helping her along.

She shakes her head. “No. He was acting weird from the second I got there. Michael and I have always been so comfortable together. Or so I thought. But he was jumpy. He would alternate between not meeting my eyes and then looking at me too long and too hard, as though he was searching for something.”

God help me, I’m actually feeling sorry for the poor guy. I’m all too aware of what it’s like to be helplessly drawn to this girl, even though you know you should be staying far, far away from her.

“I didn’t see it coming,” she continues, giving a little shake of her head. “One second I was yammering about how excited I was about the internship I’d just applied for, and the next second he’s grabbing my hands, his face just inches from mine, and he’s telling me that he can’t do it anymore. That Ethan’s his best friend, but he can’t do it. That he can’t see me with Ethan without me knowing…”

She breaks off.

“He told you he loved you?” I say.

She nods before lifting her head to look me in the eye. “Then he kissed me. And I didn’t push him away. I let him kiss me.”

The agony on her face is clear, and I want to tell her not to talk about it anymore, but I know she needs to get it off her chest. Very gently I put my palms on either side of her face. “Why? Did you love him back?”

Please say no.

“No,” she whispers, her tongue slipping nervously to wet her lips. “But as for why, I’ve asked myself that a million times, and I think…I think I kissed him because I knew it was a way out. Ethan and I were getting more and more serious every day, and he was the only guy I’d ever been with, and everyone, myself included, acted like we were going to be engaged at any moment, and I just—”

“You didn’t want that.”

“No,” she says with an outward breath. “I thought I did. I wanted to want it. I loved Ethan so much. But somewhere, deep inside of me, something was off. Things were really good, but I wanted more.”

“And more was Michael?”

Her face contorts. “No. I knew as soon as his lips touched mine that that wasn’t right either, but then I kissed him back, harder, wanting to feel something, anything. It didn’t go…I mean, I didn’t sleep with him. Not even close. But neither was it just a simple kiss in which I pushed him away and slapped his cheek. I kept trying to lose myself in the kiss, so it got kind of intense, and then Ethan walked in.”

I don’t have to ask what happened after that.

“I never thought I could be that girl,” she continues. “The one who cheats on her boyfriend with his best friend. But now I realize nobody plans on that, you know? It’s not something that anybody sets out to do, like, ‘You know, I think I’m going to be like that slutty character in the movies that everybody hates.’ You always imagine that you’re going to be the good girl everybody roots for. You imagine that right up until the very second when you’re not the good girl.”

My palms are still on her face, and now I hook my thumbs gently under her jaw, tilting her up so she has to look at me.

“You’re still good, Olivia,” I say quietly. “You made a mistake. A big, shitty one, definitely. Yes, you betrayed Ethan. And yeah, maybe you used Michael. But the fact that you’ve been killing yourself over it shows that that’s not who you are. It was a one-time mistake. You’ll make more mistakes in the future, but you won’t make that one. You’ll learn from it and move on.”

She closes her eyes. “You didn’t see Michael’s face. Ethan has Stephanie, and I think he’s forgiven me, but Michael—”

“Will get over it,” I say with finality. “He’s what, twenty-two? And if he was lucky enough to be your best friend all those years, he’s got to be a decent guy under it, right? He just fell for the wrong girl.”

She doesn’t say anything, and I press my hands just a little more firmly against her cheeks.

“He will be fine. You’ll be fine.”

When she opens her eyes, they’re shiny with tears again, but I don’t think they’re tears of despair. She looks hopeful.

“Thank you,” she says. Her hand slowly comes up to rest against my chest. “Thank you.”

I let out a harsh laugh, trying to ignore what her touch does to me. “You really shouldn’t be thanking me after what I did to you.”

“As far as bad-guy plans go, it was really devious. And I can’t believe he came.”

“He cares about you.” I rub my thumbs over her cheekbones. “And I may have given the impression that your situation was dire.”

“It was dire,” she says, her fingers fiddling with my shirt button. “You haven’t talked to me in weeks. I haven’t even seen you.”

“Worried that you’re not earning your salary?” I ask, careful to keep my voice teasing and not accusatory.

“That’s not why I wanted to see you.”

My heart stops. “Then why?”

Green eyes lift to mine. “I miss you. I don’t know why, because you’re a total beast. And I don’t understand why I can’t stop thinking about you, because you’re so infuriating, and you shut me out every time one little thing doesn’t go your way, and you’ll probably hurt me so much worse than anyone else has ever been able to hurt me, but—”

My mouth stops her rambling flow of words, a hard, desperate kiss, even as I wait for her to reject me, knowing I deserve rejection. But her arms wind around my neck and her tongue reaches sweetly for mine as she presses against me.

“I want you,” she whispers, pulling back just slightly.

My self-control snaps. I spin her around, pushing her against the door as my hands slide from her face down to her hands before I lift them above her head. She moans as I pin her to the door, and I kiss her again and again, until I forget whose breath is whose. Until I can’t stop myself from running my hands over her arms, her hips, and up along the sides of her torso, both of us groaning when my palms brush the sides of her breasts.

I want to lose myself in her.

Reaching for whatever tiny seed of good is still left inside me, I force myself to pull back and give her space and time to think about this. I look down at her flushed face and swollen mouth, both of us breathing hard.

“I need to know what you want from this,” I say gruffly. “I need to know where the line is.”

Olivia presses her lips together, and I brace myself for rejection. I almost see the wheels turning inside her head as she tries to figure out if I’m a mistake, like Michael, or if I’m worth the risk.

For the first time in so long, I want to be worth the risk.

Her fingers settle just above the waistband of my jeans, the pads of her fingers hot through the fabric of my shirt.

She leans forward and presses her lips to the hollow of my throat.

“I don’t want there to be any line,” she says, her breath warm against my skin. “Not tonight.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Olivia

There’s nothing gentle about Paul’s touch, and I don’t want there to be. After months of fighting a fierce and uncontrollable need for this guy, I want to give in to him.

I want to give in to us.

Half a second after I give him the green light he’s kissing me again, his hands moving to my waist and lifting me slightly. My legs wind around his waist while he cups my hips, my ass, pulling us together until I feel him hard against me through our jeans.

His lips pull at mine, and if our kiss minutes before was steamy, this one could set us on fire. His military-short haircut is nothing to hold on to, so I wrap my hands around the back of his neck, my fingers digging into the soft skin there as I alternate between letting him plunder and doing my own fierce exploring.

Paul roughly uses his chin to push my face to the side as his lips move over my cheek and across my jaw, lingering on my earlobe, before he devours my neck. His lips and teeth torture me until my hips rub against his insistently, and it only takes a few more seconds before our position against the bedroom door doesn’t give either of us enough access.

In three steps, he spins us around, moves toward the bed, and tosses me onto my back. Some distant part of my brain registers that his movements, with their determined authority, are not the hampered actions of a man with an injured leg. This is a man who wants a woman. And this woman definitely wants him back.

For a moment he looks down at me as I stare back up at him, both of us breathing hard as we take in the sheer rightness of the moment. We move at the same time then, him reaching down as I sit up, arms outstretched.

I didn’t know it when I said it, but this is what I meant when I said that I’d been looking for something when I kissed Michael. I wanted that elusive yearning for another person. It’s here. I yearn for Paul. Only him.

My fingers go for the buttons of his shirt, tearing at them as his fingers move through my hair, tugging my head back so he can watch as I peel his shirt off, first one shoulder, then the other.

My eyes catch on a tattoo over his heart. I noticed the simple black letters before, when we slept together, but I’m bolder now and lean forward to place my lips there.

“Semper fi?”

“Short for semper fidelis, ‘always faithful.’ It’s the Marine Corps motto.”

I swallow. The sentiment is somehow haunting, but perhaps that’s only because I know what being always faithful has cost him.

“Don’t,” he says, leaning down to brush his lips against my temple. “Don’t go wherever your head’s going.”

His lips take mine again, and I can’t think about anything about him and the way that he tastes deliciously, perfectly like Paul.

When his hands drift down to the hem of my shirt, I lift my arms over my head.

I’m not what you’d call well endowed. I’ve always had more angles than curves, and I’m kind of wishing I’d worn one of my push-up bras instead of the pale pink demi cup.

But then Paul looks down at me. And he makes me feel beautiful.

He slowly drags his fingertips over my rib cage as I sit before him, his eyes watching the movement of his hands. When his fingers reach the bottom of my bra, his eyes flick to mine, and his gaze is dark and smoky.

I pull his head down to mine at the same time his hands close over my breasts, and we both moan.

He moves over me as I scoot back on the bed, and then I’m beneath him, his body covering mine as his hands hold my head still for a deep, demanding kiss. When his hands slide beneath my back, I arch up, giving him access to the bra snap.

I let out a little laugh at how easily he undoes it. “Done this before?”

“Not in a long time,” he says with a smile. “A long time.”

My heart skips a beat as I register what he’s saying. He hasn’t been with anyone in years. Not gonna lie—I’m elated.

“Too bad for the ladies of Maine,” I say, my fingers going to his belt buckle. “But lucky for me.”

He groans as I slide a hand into his jeans, finding him hard through his boxers. “Olivia.” His head dips down, hovering above my nipple for a half second, his eyes moving to mine before he licks the tip of my breast.

I let out a small cry, one hand going to the back of his head and holding him to me as he makes me crazy with his mouth.

He pulls back only long enough to get rid of both of our jeans, until he’s left only in blue boxers and me in my bikini panties. Sitting back on his knees, he smiles down at me. “You wear pink lingerie. Of course.”

He slides a finger along the lace before hooking his fingers into the thin fabric and tugging them down my legs.

I’m naked before Paul Langdon, and nothing has ever felt so right.

He looks at me, his eyes worshipping, and I lie perfectly still, letting him.

“You’re beautiful,” he says, his voice turning regretful. “You deserve someone equally beautiful.”

My heart clenches at the expression on his face, and I sit up, kneeling in front of him. And then I show him what I don’t know how to say with words. I lean forward and very softly kiss a thin, ragged scar running from his left shoulder to the center of his chest.

He sucks in a breath. “Don’t.”

I ignore him, kissing my way up his neck, lingering along that perfect, harsh jawline before moving over to his right side.

He tenses as he realizes what I’m about to do. “Don’t.”

My hands find his before he can push me away, and gently my lips touch the first of the raised scars on his face. I follow suit with the other two scars, each touch of my lips letting him know that to me he is perfect.

Paul crushes his mouth to mine then, pushing me onto my back. His hand slides between my legs, finding me wet and wanting. He pulls back only long enough to remove his boxers before he comes back to me, sliding one long finger into me without warning.

“You need to be sure about this,” he says, his voice hoarse against my neck as he fingers me. “No regrets tomorrow.”

Regrets? Definitely the furthest thing from my mind right now, and I slide my hand down to his erection to show him so.

He swears before grabbing both of my wrists and pinning them above my head with one hand.

“I can’t go slow, Olivia. Not with you, not this first time. I can’t promise gentle, either. Maybe next time,” he says with a little laugh.

My heart is a little stunned—and glad, beyond glad—to realize that he’s planning on a next time.

I squirm. “I don’t want gentle.”

I’ve barely whispered the sentence when he thrusts inside me, hard and fast. I gasp a little at the invasive pleasure of it.

He buries his face in my neck with a muttered curse, and the dark room is filled with the sound of our harsh breathing.

Then I wind my legs around his waist and he goes wild. One hand continues to hold my wrists as the other slides down my hip, under my butt. I helplessly twist my wrists above my head, wanting to touch him, but he holds me in a vise, leaving me completely at his mercy as he drives me up almost to the headboard.

“Jesus, Olivia.”

In response, I turn my head, scraping my teeth down the side of his neck, smiling wickedly as it spurs him to an even faster pace.

I’ve never been like this before, wanton and wild, but it’s like he’s tapped into another side of me that I didn’t know existed. Gone is the girl who thought she wanted sweet words and gentle kisses. I only want him.

“More,” I whisper. “Please.”

Paul groans in response, releasing my wrists so that his hands can go to my knees. He presses my legs wider apart before lifting his head slightly. Just enough to look down at me, his blue eyes burning a dark slate gray.

Then he rotates his hips once, twice, pressing against me in just the right way. I’m closer to coming than I realized, and the way his pace increases, I don’t think I’m alone on the precipice.

I realize then how much we’ve lost ourselves in the other person. Enough to get stupid.

“Paul.” With my last bit of sanity I claw frantically at his shoulder. “Condom.”

He freezes. “Shit. Shit.”

I try not to moan at the loss of him as he moves to get his jeans and digs through the pocket.

“Seriously?” I ask with a breathless little laugh as I hear the familiar sound of ripping foil. “You carry that around?”

He rolls on the condom and gives me an unapologetic grin. “Every day since the first night I fingered you in my bedroom. I thought it was wishful thinking, but I’m really glad that it’s not.”

Then he’s inside me again, his palms on the inside of my thighs as he keeps me open and deliciously exposed.

His hand moves to where we’re joined, his thumb finding my clit, moving in tiny, tight circles, and I swear to God, I go blind.

And then I explode with a loud cry I barely recognize as my own.

Seconds later, my hands are once more above my head. My breath still shuddering, I’m pinned to the bed in every possible way as he moves harder, faster, his eyes locking on mine until he squeezes them shut. His face is the picture of ecstasy as he comes inside me with a harsh gasp.

Afterward, the weight of him crushes me, but I welcome it, my hands moving possessively across his broad back, holding him to me as we both ride out the aftershocks.

Neither of us speaks, which is just as well. I don’t know what the hell we’d say.

Wow.

Oh my God.

Do it again.

Paul finally moves, brushing my shoulder with his lips before moving into the bathroom.

I’m cold without him, so I muster the energy to pull up the covers. I contemplate putting on pajamas, or at least underwear, but my body seems to be even less inclined to work than my brain, so instead I curl up naked beneath the sheets.

When he comes out of the bathroom, I instinctively tense, bracing for him to leave without a word or, worse, say something asshole-ish like thank you.

Instead he hesitates just outside the bathroom door. He looks…nervous. Not because of his nakedness, obviously, because he seems just fine letting it all hang out there (and may I just say wow on naked Paul Langdon).

And then it hits me. He doesn’t know if he’s invited to stay. And he’s too scared to ask.

l lift a corner of the covers in silent invitation.

He’s beside the bed in three steps, sliding under the covers and pulling me to him. His kiss is both sweet and urgent before he lies on his back and moves his arm to the side, making a nook for me. I happily settle in.

I have yet to speak. I’m still trying to figure out what happened to me. Trying to figure out what it is about this guy that brings out my shameless side.

He too is silent, and for a moment I think he’s asleep, but then he turns his head slightly, his lips on my hairline. “Are you any better at cuddling post-orgasm, by any chance?”

I smile against his chest. “Nope.”

He lets out an exaggerated sigh. “One of these days I just might have to tie you up.”

“You mean it?” I say it in a coy, teasing way, but once my brain actually goes there, I have a full, almost unbearably erotic visual of me tied up beneath him as he licks all over my body. And then maybe him tied up beneath me, so I can do the exploring…

Paul lets out a little laugh. “Olivia Middleton, I do believe that you’re slightly wicked under that good-girl exterior.”

“Only with you,” I say, glad he can’t see my flaming cheeks as I make the admission.

He’s silent for several seconds, and when he speaks, I can tell he’s smiling. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Chapter Thirty

Paul

I’m having déjà vu. The good kind, in which you wake up to a gorgeous woman in your bed.

Only this time is about a thousand times better than the last time Olivia slept with me. This time she’s naked. This time I spent all night making love to her. This time she’s in my bed not to keep my nightmares at bay but because after we thoroughly tangled her sheets for the third time, sometime around 3:00 A.M., she let me carry her to my bed, which is bigger.

Although the extra space does nothing to contain her nighttime sprawl. So not everything’s changed.

I can’t help the dopey smile on my face as I reach down and pull a matted strand of hair away from her cheek. She’s flopped on her stomach this time, one arm outstretched to the side, the other curled under her pillow. The sheet’s riding low on her body, and it would take only the slightest tug to expose her ass to the cool early morning air.

A gentleman would pull it back up again. A gentleman would tuck the covers around her chin with a note beside her telling her that there’s coffee ready.

I am not a gentleman.

I tug the sheet down just slightly and give her a smack on the butt. Just light enough to keep it playful, but with enough pep to have her eyes flying open.

“What the…are you serious?” she says groggily, reaching down and pulling the blankets up around her. I tug them right back down again.

“Get your gear on, Goldilocks.”

She grunts and sticks out a hand to pat mine. “You having another boot camp dream, sweetie?”

I can’t help it. I grin a little at the nickname, even though it’s cheesy as hell.

“It’s time for our run.” I reach over and turn on the light.

She rolls onto her back and flops both arms over her head. The position does interesting things to her bare chest, but I refuse to be distracted.

Which I deserve a medal for.

“You know you’ve been an ass these past two weeks, right?” she says, not looking at me. “Ignoring me altogether, locking me out of every room like a bratty six-year-old…”

I feel a twinge of guilt. Well-deserved guilt. “I know, I—”

She lifts an elbow and stares at me with one eye. “I’m not done. I was going to say that there was a silver lining to your bad behavior, in that there was none of this predawn running nonsense.”

I hook a finger into the pile of clothes next to me, dangling a sports bra in front of her face. “I got all of your stuff ready. Pink.”

The green eye narrows. “My pink shoes too?”

“God, no. I told you, you’ll injure yourself with the wrong shoes.”

“But they’re so cute,” she mutters, the elbow slipping back down to cover her eyes again.

Losing patience, I wrap one arm around her waist, jerking her toward the side of the bed, and then lifting her to her feet with both hands.

She glares at me. A morning sprite, my Olivia is not.

My Olivia.

I ignore the faint sound of warning bells at how right that thought feels.

I bend down to kiss her nose. “I want to show you something.”

Her eyes go dark and she reaches for me. “Oh yeah?”

I laugh and grab her wrists. “Not that something. We have to go outside.”

She opens her mouth to protest, and I squeeze her fingers, just a little urgently. “Please,” I say. “It’s important.”

Curiosity slowly replaces her sleepy resentment, and she reaches out a hand for the pile of running clothes I already retrieved from her room.

“This better be good, Langdon.”

It’s darker than ever outside, but it’s cold and clear and perfect.

She trots down the steps behind me as we walk toward the trail, the way we have dozens of times before. If she notices that I don’t have my cane, she doesn’t say anything. I’ve been going without it for weeks now, but she’s never seen me on one of our morning walk/runs without it.

“This better not be some weird new species of bug or a bird’s nest on the trail,” she mutters. “I can’t get excited about that stuff even on normal days, and on a morning when I’ve gotten two hours of sleep…”

I start to remind her that her lack of sleep is for a good reason. Several good reasons, I mentally amend as I remember just how creative we got last night. Instead, I place my hand over her mouth to stop her cranky rambling. “Shut it. Just hush and watch me for a sec.”

Slowly I remove my hand, gratified to see that she’s finally quiet.

And damn it…my heart is hammering. How did I not realize how hard this would be?

But I owe it to her. I owe it to myself.

Very slowly I turn toward the path and start to jog.

In the past few days, while I was avoiding Olivia, I added the treadmill to my workout routine. As a result, running has gotten a little bit easier every day, but the wonder of it still hasn’t worn off.

I’m running.

I can’t make myself look back. I’m too afraid that she won’t get it. That to her it’ll just be some dude moving along at a slow jog, big whoop. I’m afraid she won’t understand that I thought I’d never run again.

Most of all, I’m afraid she won’t realize the most important thing of all, what I’m really trying to tell her—that if it weren’t for her, I never would have run again.

I hear her come up behind me. Her breathing pattern is still terrible, so it’s like a big honking bird. Hard to miss. And then she falls into step beside me. No words. She just matches my pace.

Very slightly, I turn my head to look at her, careful not to break my stride.

Tears are running down her face. The happy kind, I presume. She gets it.

I can’t hide the smile. I don’t even try. If running feels good after a three-year hiatus, smiling might just feel even better. One more thing to thank her for.

We run forever. At least that’s what it feels like. We don’t stop until we get to the part of the path that narrows as it leads into a wooded area. It’s more secluded here, and it must be the part of her run where she usually turns around, because she slows to a walk before moving toward the trees, hands on her hips as she catches her breath and looks out over the water.

I move behind her, and for several moments we stand there in companionable silence, as the dark of night shifts into the gray of early morning.

“How does it feel?” she asks, turning her head just slightly to the side so I can make out her profile.

Leave it to Olivia to say just the right thing. Anyone else would have given me some sugary garbage, like I knew you could do it! or See? All you needed was to set your mind to it!

And when she asks how it feels, I also know she’s not talking about my leg, which is fine, if a bit stiffer than it used to be before the injury. She’s asking how I feel. How my soul, if you want to get all weird about it, feels about running again.

“Amazing.” I drop my head slightly to plant a kiss on her bare shoulder. She prefers to run in tank tops, which I find kind of hot, if not ridiculous. Then again, I suppose it’s no different than my affinity for running in shorts.

She sucks in a little breath, and I expect her to pull away, making a fuss about being all sweaty or something girly like that, but she tilts her head to the side, her long ponytail swaying slightly.

“It feels unbelievable,” I say, my lips touching her skin again and lingering. “Too good to be true.”

Olivia makes a humming noise.

I step closer to her so my chest is against her back, my hips against her butt. I turn my head slightly, this time kissing the soft part where her shoulder meets her neck, and whisper the truth there. “I don’t know how to live without it.”

I’m no longer talking about running. I’m talking about her. Us. And when she tilts her head back to rest it on my shoulder with a shuddering sigh, I know she knows it.

I wrap a hand gently but firmly around her ponytail, turning her face toward me. I keep thinking that one of these times I’ll be able to touch her, taste her, without being consumed. I’m wrong. The kiss is hot and urgent from the very second our lips touch. I keep one hand in her hair, the other low on her belly, holding her plastered to me as one of her hands comes up to hook around my neck.

It never occurred to me that making out in the woods at dawn, both of us sweaty, could be erotic, but the kiss goes from hot to downright scorching in a matter of seconds, and I nudge her forward just slightly off the path and into the not-quite-secluded privacy of the woods. She tries to turn toward me, but I keep her back to my chest, all but pinning her between me and a tree like a beast that can’t control itself.

I can’t control myself.

I don’t release her hair, refusing to let our mouths break contact, but she doesn’t seem to mind, her tongue reaching for mine, even as her hands have to brace on the tree trunk.

My hand slides under the fabric of her shirt, touching her damp skin, from the hem of her running pants to the tight band of her sports bra, but refusing to touch her breasts until she begs me to.

It doesn’t take long. She breaks our kiss with a gasp. “Touch me.”

I release her ponytail, letting her head fall back on my shoulder as I slide both hands roughly over her breasts, massaging her nipples with my palms through the sports bra until we’re both crazy.

Having watched her wriggle into the sports bra, I already know I won’t have the patience to get it off her, so when I can’t go any longer without touching her skin, I jerk the tight band around her rib cage upward, my fingers finding her tight little nipples and rolling them.

Our harsh breathing grows loaded in the early morning silence. It’s unlikely that anyone would come this way, but knowing that they could only makes it hotter.

I slide my hand into her shorts, fully intending to content myself by teasing her through the fabric of the pale green panties I know she’s wearing. That plan goes out the window when I feel her dampness even through the fabric, and I manage only a few teasing strokes before my fingers slide under the lace, my fingers dipping into her slippery wetness.

Olivia makes soft mewling noises I haven’t heard out of her yet, and I find myself smiling despite the fact that my boner feels ready to tear through the fabric of my shorts. I love that she gets off from being fingered outside, up against a tree. In every other way, Olivia is a textbook good girl, but not like this, not with my fingers on her clit and my cock pressed against her ass.

I love that about her. Shit. I seem to love everything about her.

Her breath starts to get faster, but she grips my wrist. “I want you inside me.”

I groan. “No condom.”

She shakes her head. “I’m on the pill.”

I hear the question in her voice. She’s asking if there are other things we have to worry about. Questions we couldn’t seem to think to ask last night.

In response, I rip her shorts and panties down, doing the same with my own shorts, and I hesitate, wanting to give her more than fucking her against the tree with our workout clothes around our ankles, but then she leans forward, palms against the tree, back arched, and she gives me a hooded, sex-starved look over her shoulder. She wants this. And I want her so damned much.

I grab her hips, plunging inside her with so much force she gasps. Then she readjusts her grip on that damn tree and pushes back at me as I take her again and again, my hands running over her hips, her ass, and up to her breasts before finally sliding back down and petting her in the way I know makes her crazy.

I want it to last forever, but we’re too far gone, and the second she cries out, I’m right there with her, exploding harder than I ever have before as she clenches around me.

Holy.

Fuck.

She all but collapses against the tree, and for a second I can’t do much more than rest my forehead between her shoulder blades before I force myself to move, pulling up her shorts, then my own.

I turn her toward me, pulling her into my arms.

After what we just did, the chaste hug feels almost laughably tame, and she must think the same, because she giggles against my chest.

“Oh my God.”

I laugh along with her. “So. That happened.”

She tilts her head up to look at me, her eyes close to adoring, and I feel a punch of longing so intense it almost takes my breath away. Not longing for her body…although that’s always there, just beneath the surface. Longing for her, and her laughter, and the simple way she expects good things of me because she thinks I’m good.

Somewhere inside me, a demon is telling me that I’m going to disappoint her. That I’m going to destroy her. For the first time since Afghanistan, though, I push the thought back. For the first time, I let myself believe that my past—my scars—don’t define me.

I kiss her forehead. “Ready to run back?”

“Um, not unless these ugly shoes you made me wear have wheels. Or wings. I can’t run after that,” she says with a little nod toward the tree.

I give a mock sigh and hold out my hand. “Walk?”

She takes my hand without hesitation, her fingers locking with mine.

For three years I’ve thought there’d be no better feeling in the world than being able to run again. But I’m wrong.

Walking hand in hand with Olivia is better.

Chapter Thirty-One

Olivia

I still love my afternoons in front of the fire with Paul as much as I ever did. Only now that things have changed, I’m finding that big leather chairs aren’t exactly ideal for snuggling.

I content myself with putting my feet in his lap while we read. He doesn’t seem to mind.

With one hand, he steadily turns the pages of his book. With the other, he alternates between rubbing the arch of my sock-clad foot and taking a sip of the tea I made us. Not so long ago it would have been booze by his side. He still drinks it occasionally, but now it’s more of an afterthought in the evenings instead of a crutch he needs to get through the day.

No matter where I look, I see only progress. Not that I think of Paul as my project. Not anymore. He’s no longer an undertaking I need to conquer in order to vanquish my own demons and earn my paycheck. He’s a person.

One that I care about at levels that are starting to worry me.

My smile fades, just slightly, as I try to push the thought away. But the thought won’t budge, and I force myself to face it head-on. So what if we haven’t exactly exchanged words of love? I’m twenty-two. I don’t need a vow of undying devotion, a ring, or one of those long talks about “us” that make guys crazy.

But a hint on where we stand would be nice. Just a hint.

“You’re scowling,” Paul says idly, his attention still mostly on his book.

“This Andrew Jackson biography’s just got me thinking,” I lie.

“Uh-huh. You’re really flying through that,” he says with a pointed look. He’s referring to the fact that I’m a tenth of the way through, even though I’ve been attempting to read it for over two months.

I open my mouth to retort that I’m savoring it, but abruptly I slam the book shut.

“Okay, fine. I don’t like it.” I toss the heavy book onto the end table with a disgruntled glare. “I’m trying to like it. I know I’m supposed to, and it’ll enrich my mind and all that, but I’m bored out of my mind.”

He presses his lips together as though to hide a smile, and I narrow my eyes at him. “Go ahead. Judge,” I say.

He shrugs. “No judgment. I’ve just been wondering how long it would take you to admit that you’re not into it.”

“You probably think all I want to read is celebrity magazines,” I mutter.

“Nah,” he says, giving my big toe a tweak. “Give yourself a break. Biographies aren’t for everyone. You’ll find some topic you like. I have a couple books I could recommend.”

I nod unenthusiastically, and he watches me carefully before slowly closing his own book.

“Okay. More than the book is on your mind. Let’s hear it.”

I smile. “You know, for someone who’s been out of the dating game for a while, you know how to read women.”

“Like riding a bike,” he says. “Only so much scarier. But seriously, what’s up?”

“I don’t even know,” I say, telling him the truth. “Don’t feel like reading, I guess.”

Both of his hands are on my feet now, massaging in deep kneading motions that feel amazing. “Okay. So we’ll talk.”

I give him a wry smile. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch. Actually, that’s not true. I fully intend to trade conversation for a blow job later.”

I roll my eyes. “The sad thing is, I know you’re only half joking.”

“Less than half, actually. I really like blow jobs.”

“Shocked. I’m completely shocked.”

“Seriously though, Middleton. Say what you need to say, or ask what you need to ask. Your mental anguish is giving me heartburn.”

I start to tell him that he can go back to his reading, and that yeah, I’d love another book recommendation. Preferably one that doesn’t double as a lullaby like that biography.

But I do want to talk. But I won’t ask him about us. Not only because I don’t want to see his wince, but because I’m terrified at the answer I might get. I’m not ready to hear that I’m just a fun fling that helped pull him back from the dark side.

“Tell me what happened,” I blurt out. “In Afghanistan.”

My mind goes blank for a second, as does his face, and I clap a hand over my mouth. “I’m sorry. I just…I don’t know why I threw that out there so tackily.”

Paul’s mouth quirks up, the lines from his scars moving too. “You asked because you want to know.”

I open my mouth to tell him it’s none of my business and that he’ll tell me when he’s ready. Then I remember what he said that day he found me Googling him. I remember why he was so upset. He said no one ever asked him, person to person, what had happened.

And I just did that, so…I hold my breath. Please let this be it.

He leans forward slightly, his palms sliding up my calves. We both watch the movement of his hands before he slowly raises his eyes to meet mine.

“I want to tell you. I want it to be you.”

His eyes hold nothing but trust, and my heart squeezes. In that moment, I know.

I love him.

It’s not the easy love I had for Ethan, or the warm, uncomplicated love I felt for Michael as a friend.

I love Paul, the person. I love his darkness and his shadows. I love his smile and the kindness he tries so hard to hide. I love the boyish quarterback beneath the war veteran, and I love the scarred right side of his face even more than the perfection of his left.

I love him.

And because I love him, I do one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. I let him tell his story, even though I know the ugliness of what he has to say may very well rip me apart.

I start to pull my feet down so I can sit up straight, but his hands stop me, his fingers continuing to move absently up and down my calves as he turns his head to watch the fire.

“Tell me what you know,” he says quietly.

“Not much. That article…it mentioned that you and your team were taken…that you were tortured. But it didn’t say much.”

His head drops a little. “The lack of information makes it seem worse than it was, actually. As far as those things go, I was lucky.”

My eyes bug out. “Lucky? In no scenario should torture and lucky be uttered in the same sentence.”

“I—”

I lean forward, placing my hands over his, our fingers linking. “Start from the beginning. Say as little or as much as you want.”

He takes a deep breath. And then he talks.

He tells me about how he’d been in Afghanistan for only five months, but that odd as it sounds, things had become almost routine. Life on the base was monotonous but not awful.

He talked about how early on, his heart had hammered every time they’d had to leave base, but over time that too became routine.

“I think I knew,” he says then. “I think I somehow knew when I woke up that day that it was going to be different. My guys and I…we had this pact. No matter how bored we got, or how shitty the weather, or how much we missed life back home, or Oreos, or our girlfriend…we didn’t talk about the bad stuff. You know? It was like this unspoken power of positive thinking, or bullshit like that. If we didn’t talk about how much it sucked, then we didn’t think about it.”

I nod in understanding, even though I know nothing in my own life experience compares.

“But that day, Williams let it get to him. We were out on routine patrol, and he said something about it being hot. A harmless statement, really. But over there, nothing felt harmless, and like superstitious morons, we all jumped down his throat for jinxing us. We were still giving him shit about it when we stopped. There were…there were bodies on the side of the road. Two women and a child—”

He breaks off, and I swallow in dread.

“One of the women was dead. At least I think she was. We never had a chance to find out for sure. But the kid…it was this little boy, maybe six years old, and he was crying, pointing to the bodies of the women. One of the women lifted her head, barely, but enough for us to see that she was all bloody, and her hand was motioning feebly in the direction of the boy, as if she was begging us for help. Like, take him—help him. We were in the middle of goddamned nowhere, with nothing in every direction. The kid would have died…they all would have.”

He falls silent again, and I barely breathe, afraid that one wrong move will have him retreating inside himself again, where this story comes out only in the nightmares.

“It was a trap. I’d like to think they weren’t willing accomplices—the blood on that woman’s face was real, and the kid’s fear was plain in his eyes. He was scared. But the insurgents were on us before we could even get to him.”

I close my eyes.

“The thing that gets me the most is that I never knew what happened to them,” Paul says, almost absently. “From the military perspective, they were merely the catalyst for what happened next. But on a human level, they were, well, human.”

He gently sets my legs aside and goes to throw another log on the fire, even though it’s not needed. His hands find the mantel, his finger sliding along the wood, back and forth, back and forth, as though the gesture can help calm his mind.

“They came out of nowhere. I don’t know where they came from, because like I said…there was nothing around for miles that I could see. But they ambushed us. It happened so fucking fast, Olivia. One second we’re like, ‘Oh shit, this poor kid,’ and the next…Williams fell first. He was two steps in front of me and I think I saw him fall…saw his blood, before I even registered the sound of gunshots.”

I press my lips together, wanting to tell him he doesn’t have to do this, but knowing that on some level he needs to.

“There were six of us that day, and four of the guys died in under a minute. All that training, all those weapons, but when it’s you and bullets and bad guys, it takes a minute. I play it back…I play it back over and over, and I don’t know why they didn’t just kill all six of us then and there. I think they meant to, because Alex and I both took a shot. I got a stupid flesh wound to my leg, another on the shoulder. But him…they shot Alex in the stomach. It’s the worst. You hear it’s the worst, but it’s not until you see it that you realize. It’s not until you see the agony on their face that you understand it’s so much better to just take a bullet straight through the heart or between the eyes.”

Alex. That’s whose name he cries in his sleep. I feel a little like I’m going to throw up, even though I know we’re not at the end of the story.

He continues. “I barely registered the pain in my leg, and I turn to open fire before I realize my shoulder’s not moving like it should. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway. Alex called my name as they moved toward us, and he was just—his face was just stunned. He was lying there in the dirt, lying half on top of Clinksy’s body, and he just looked up at me like, What is happening?”

Paul swallows. “I mean, what the fuck are you supposed to do when your best friend is sitting there, his stomach a bloody mess? What do you say? You’re dying, dude. We’re all as good as dead. And that’s when the jackasses got us. There were only four of them, and I’m humiliated to say that I didn’t act fast enough to shoot when they ambushed me. I got off a couple of wild shots, but the last thing I remember about that deserted road is a split second of feeling like my brain had been bashed in.”

I stand, moving behind him and resting my cheek against his back as my hands wrap around his waist. One of his hands covers mine, and he keeps talking, his words coming a little faster now, as though we’re coming to the end of the story.

“When I came to, we were in a dark room that smelled like shit and blood. I was tied up, and next to me…”

Paul’s breathing goes ragged. “Alex is next to me. They didn’t tie him up. Probably because by that point he was…there wasn’t much left. I don’t even know how he lasted that long.”

Tears roll down my cheeks at the pain in his voice.

“You know the shit of it, Olivia? When they came at me with that knife, I don’t think they wanted anything but to hurt me. Afterward…everyone thought that they wanted something from me. Information, or whatever. But I think they just wanted to make a statement. They were laughing when the smallest one got in my face, his breath smelling like something had died, and put the serrated blade against my cheek.”

My fingers dig into his stomach, and I want to beg him to stop.

“It hurt. That’s such an understated thing to say, considering I just saw my friends die, but when they carved those lines in my face like I was a piece of meat, it hurt. More than the trio of bullets in my calf or the one in my shoulder, that knife hurt.”

I can’t hold back the sob then, and he turns around to face me, gathering me to him like I’m the one that needs comforting.

“How—” My voice cracks, and I lick my lips and try again. “How’d you get away?”

He breathes out a long breath, ruffling my hair. “I wish I could say it was my own ingenious maneuvering, but I was literally pinned there like an animal for slaughter. It was Alex.”

Paul’s voice cracks then. “He was alive. Barely. But Alex was alive. Two of the Afghans had left the room to do who knows what, and it was just the guy beating the shit out of me. The idiot was so busy laughing and admiring his handiwork on my face that he didn’t have a chance to react when Alex grabbed the gun from his belt and shot him between the eyes. The others filed into the room like a couple of clowns, and Alex shot them too. These weren’t professionals, Liv. These were small-time, bored jackals who resented like hell that we were there and used us as entertainment. But it doesn’t matter that they weren’t the smartest or the fastest. Guns don’t care about who’s pulling the trigger, and the bullet in Alex’s stomach ravaged him from the inside out.”

My throat is dry, and not for the first time I think about how little my problems are compared to his. Compared to any soldier’s.

Paul’s hands move up and down my back as he continues to talk. “The papers all say it was torture. They have to, to explain my face, and why we weren’t all left to die on the side of the road. But it wasn’t as bad as it could have been. Not for me.”

“Paul. Don’t minimize what you went through.”

He gives a sad smile. “But I’m alive, Olivia. Don’t you get it? I’m alive and none of them are.”

“What happened…after?” I ask. I’m not sure that I want to know, but I do know that he needs to say it.

Paul swallows. “Alex died in front of me. He died with that gun in his hands, and I couldn’t even go to him. I tried.” His voice breaks now. “I pulled and pulled at the damned ropes, screaming his damned name, telling him to hold on, that I’d help him. But I didn’t help him. He just slumped to the ground, blood coming out of his mouth. He just stared at me.”

I’m full-on crying now. This is so much worse than I imagined, and I imagined a lot.

He keeps going. “You know how in the movies, you can always tell the second someone’s life fades away? Like their eyes just…change? I couldn’t tell. Alex lay there looking at me and I couldn’t even tell when he died.”

I hug him harder, even though I know it can’t take his pain away.

“They found us the next day. The fucking cavalry showed up too damned late. I guess I should be grateful they found me at all. In the hospital they told me that some kids had given them a tip about a couple ‘bloody dead white boys,’ but the truth is I don’t remember anything about the rescue mission, and I didn’t care enough to ask.”

Paul falls silent for a moment before continuing. “I didn’t care about anything for a long, long time. Not about the medical magic they worked to save my leg. Not about the plastic surgeon my father hired to do what he could with my face. The only time I felt anything was when Alex’s wife came to see me.”

My heart lodges in my throat. “He was married?”

Paul pulls back to look at me. “Amanda. They’d been together since they were fucking fifteen. I’d met her once, at the Marine Corps Ball, and she was perfect for him. Ballsy and sweet and gorgeous.”

I wipe my nose on my sleeve.

“He’s got a kid, Olivia. A little girl named Lily, and she’s fucking sick. Cancer, the kind with the shitty treatment options and the even shittier prognosis.”

He pulls back then to look at me, his eyes shining with tears. “I do what I can to help them. The checks I get from my dad…they’re not for me. They’ve never been for me. But the money doesn’t replace Alex. It doesn’t replace any of the people that die over there.”

“Paul—”

“I lied to her, Olivia. I told Amanda that Alex died admirably, and that much was true. But I also told her that it was over quickly and that he didn’t suffer. I think she knew I was lying about that, but she held my hand so tight and said thank you, even though it was me that was home instead of her husband. I…I told her that he said to say he loved her. He didn’t have the strength to have any last words, so I made them up. I made a up a man’s dying words, Olivia.”

My hands frame his face, my thumb gently rubbing against the scars. “You did good, Paul. You did right by your friend and his family. He’d have wanted his Amanda to have that small bit of kindness.”

He lets out a harsh laugh as though he doesn’t believe me. But he lets me hold him as he starts to cry.

And for now, that’s enough.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Paul

“I didn’t think this was possible, but your girlfriend is actually getting worse at darts the more she plays,” Kali says, setting another beer in front of me before plopping down in the seat beside me.

We’ve been at the bar for a couple of hours, and Kali alternates between tending the bar and coming to join us in the back of the room.

It takes me a full minute to realize that I didn’t recoil at the word girlfriend. Olivia’s not my girlfriend. She’s my…

Shit. I have no idea what she is, but girlfriend sounds like both an overstatement and an understatement. Olivia is more than that.

And yet we have no future. Do we? I don’t let myself think about it much. After that night by the fire when I told her everything, things have been…great. I almost don’t let myself think it.

I wasn’t lying when I told Olivia that back in Afghanistan, we were worried we’d jinx the situation if we actually acknowledged the bad stuff. And now? Now I’m even more terrified that I’ll jinx what Olivia and I have by talking about the good stuff.

And it is good. It’s all good. The sex, the talking, the shared runs. I even adore her special style of cuddling, just as long as her limbs avoid my vital parts. She’s everything to me.

But I don’t talk about it. I can’t.

“Ugh, do not start that brooding thing,” Kali says, taking a sip of my beer. “Do you have any idea how much you’ve changed since that first night you walked into my bar when you picked a fight with a bunch of drunken hotshots? Don’t you dare go backward on us now.”

Olivia lets out an outraged groan from the dartboard, and I shake my head when I realize that despite the dedicated tutoring of Darcy “Dart” Martinez, Kali is right. Olivia’s actually getting worse.

She’s having fun, though. And, surprisingly, so am I.

“Much better,” Kali says, waving her finger in the direction of my smile. “You do that every time you look at her, you know. Smile.”

I push her hand away. “Stop, you’re starting to sound like a bad valentine.”

Kali flops back in her chair. “It’s just so romantic. The beautiful angel swooping in to save the surly dickwad who’s quite possibly a murderous recluse.”

“Ugly. Don’t forget ugly,” I say without heat.

“Nah,” she says, nodding in thanks as one of her employees brings her a rum and Diet Coke. “You were way too pretty before. It was even hard to eat with all that nauseating perfection around. Now you’ve got a bit of character. It looks good on you.”

“You flirting with me, Kal?”

“Not today. Although I admit I did have a few fantasies about you coming across me after all these years and fainting over my beauty, realizing that I was the one all along.”

“Yeah?” I ask, giving her a wary look. Kali has always had this sort of unnerving way of speaking in a really sweet, genuine voice, and you get reeled in only to realize that she was yanking your chain the whole time.

“Sort of,” she replies with a quick smile. “But let’s just say I gave up on that fantasy a couple of months after your dad bought the summer home you used to rent. I kept thinking that one day you’d show up at Frenchy’s or my front door. But you never did. You never even called.”

I wince. “I’m sorry.”

The words don’t feel like enough. She was once a good friend, and I shut her out the way I shut everyone out. I don’t know how to explain how lost I was—at this point, anything I say will merely sound like an excuse. And I don’t know how to explain what changed.

I don’t know how to tell someone, even a good friend like Kali, that something as simple as Olivia’s touch and smile melted away what so many psychiatrist appointments had failed to do.

“I’m sorry,” I say again.

Kali puts her hand on mine briefly. “It’s okay,” she says. “I’ll just say it’s good to see you, and leave it at that.”

I give her a smile of gratitude. Not just at her understanding, but at the way she’s brought both me and Olivia into her social circle. For the first time in years, I have friends. Just a handful of guys to grab a beer with, and we’re not like braiding each other’s hair or anything, but they knew me back before I was an ugly bastard and don’t seem to mind that I’m not as pretty anymore.

Olivia all but skips over to our table, thrilled because one dart made contact with the board. Barely.

“I think I’m getting better!” she chirps.

“No,” Kali says, taking a sip of her drink. “You’ve been in four times this week, and you’ve literally shown no improvement. It’s incredible, actually.”

Olivia wrinkles her nose at Kali and sips her wine. “Don’t make me take my patronage somewhere else where the staff is more supportive of my sports skills.”

Kali holds up a finger. “First, darts? Not a sport. Second, if you can find another bar open in the off season that serves wine as good as mine, have at it.”

“That’s true,” I say, tilting my head at Kali. “Frenchman Bay’s not exactly a mecca of nightlife during the winter.”

“We should all go to Portland,” Olivia says, leaning forward excitedly.

“Yes!” Kali says, at the same time I say, “No fucking way.”

Both girls turn to glare at me. “Why not?”

“First of all, have you ever been to Portland?” I ask Olivia. “It’s not exactly the Village.”

Kali rolls her eyes. “Quit making it sound like a one-horse town. I’m not suggesting there will be any celebrity sightings, but there are a couple of great wine bars, and restaurants that serve something other than onion rings.”

“No.” My voice is a little sharper than I intend, and I don’t miss the way the two girls exchange a what-the-fuck glance.

Do they not get it? Patronizing Frenchy’s is one thing. The people here know my story; they know what to expect. This place is like 99 percent regulars, which means they all got a good look at my face that first night. Except for the occasional drunk gawker, I don’t get a second look when I come in anymore.

But leaving Bar Harbor? I’d be all but begging for people to point and stare. I’d be openly inviting questions and pity and disgust.

Worse than that, people will wonder what the hell someone like Olivia is doing with someone like me. She’s gorgeous and dazzling. I’m disfigured at best, monstrous at worst. Just because I’m finally at peace with myself doesn’t mean that everyone else will be.

The last thing I need right now is Olivia getting a dose of what real life would be like with someone like me. Things are going too well right now.

I can’t risk it. I won’t.

And deep down, I know that once she figures out that the rest of the world won’t be quite so accepting of her pet Frankenstein’s monster, she’ll want more. She thinks she cares about me, and I know that she does. But eventually she’ll care about a normal life more. She’ll want spontaneous trips to Vegas, winter cruises, and anniversary dinners. I can’t give her any of that.

Olivia’s future is glamorous Hamptons parties and pretty boys in suits. Mine is solitude and hole-in-the-wall bars like Frenchy’s.

Kali distracts me from my ruminations with an annoyed yelp and goes dashing back to the bar, where her newbie bartender in training is sloppily mopping up beer that’s all over the place.

Olivia turns toward me, her smile easy and adoring, the way it’s been every day this week. She pulls me in for a playful kiss, and I let her. And then I deepen the kiss, a little bit out of want and a lot out of desperation. I know she’ll leave eventually, and I’ll do anything in my power to slow down that process.

Because once she’s gone I’ll be worse off than before.

I won’t just be damaged.

I’ll be hollow.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Olivia

You know that point in every relationship where things are going really, really well, and you start to have the dangerous thought that nothing could ever go wrong, which pretty much guarantees that something will go horribly wrong, very, very soon? Yeah. That.

Anyway…

I have shin splits. I didn’t even know that was a freaking thing, but let’s just say the light one-to-three-mile jogs I’ve been doing over the past few months are Paul’s idea of a warm-up. His leg’s not all the way better yet. It still bothers him when he lands wrong, and then we have to take a walk break (oh, damn!), but for the most part the dude is a freaking running machine. We’ve run together almost every day since that first morning when I learned that he could run, and while I love every second of it, no longer am I matching my stride to his injured one. It’s a whole new ball game, one in which the newbie runner struggles to keep up with the star quarterback and boot-camp legend Paul Langdon, who calls five miles a “quick run.” To say that he’s got his mojo back is an understatement.

“Hurry up, Middleton!” he hollers from where he stands in front of the house, hands on hips, watching me limp up to him.

“I think someone broke my shins,” I say, panting.

He has the decency to look sympathetic. “Shin splits. The worst. We’ll get you iced and take a day or two off.”

I gape at him. “By day or two, I’m assuming you mean a minimum of a week. It feels like my legs are shattered.”

He pats my butt as I go through the door in front of him. “Take it from someone whose leg practically was shattered. You’re fine.”

“You get to play that card for a long time, huh?” I say.

“Um, yeah. Pretty much forever,” he says with an unrepentant grin.

Three months ago, I’d have bet my favorite Chanel purse that there was no way Paul Langdon would ever be able to joke about his injuries.

Not that it’s a joking matter. At all. What he went through, what all soldiers go through, has nothing but my respect.

But maybe him joking about it means that he’ll one day be able to lose that haunted look that still crosses his face from time to time.

“Do you want to see a movie today?” I ask, settling myself at the kitchen counter as he pulls two packages of frozen peas out of the freezer and plops them unceremoniously on my shins. “Is there even a movie theater around here?”

“Sure, it’s right between the three-star Michelin-rated restaurant and the high-end couture mall. You haven’t seen it?”

I make a face. “So that’s a no.”

He peels a banana and hands me half. “Actually, I think there is a small theater in town. At least there used to be.”

“Ooh, yay! So you want to go?”

He nips the banana between perfect white teeth. “Nope.”

I frown, even though I’ve been expecting it. He never wants to go anywhere except Frenchy’s, and as much as I tell myself that it’s no big deal, that it’s just because Bar Harbor doesn’t exactly have a lot going on, somewhere in the back of my mind I’m terrified that it’s so much bigger than that.

“What’s the deal, Langdon? I can maybe understand why you weren’t all gung-ho about going to Portland, but you refuse to try any other restaurant, you won’t go over to Kali’s when her new boyfriend is there, you won’t go home with me for Thanksgiving, you won’t go for a run in the middle of the day because there are too many people, and now you won’t even humor me by going to a movie?”

He ignores me.

I knew he would, but I’m starting to get a constant knot in my stomach about the direction we’re headed. The sex is great. The conversation is wonderful.

But there’s just the two of us. All the time. With no plan of leaving ever. I get why he doesn’t want to go to New York with me for Thanksgiving—it was a stretch to even ask. But this is getting ridiculous.

“How about a bookstore?” I challenge.

“You can buy books online. Free two-day shipping.”

“I need more running shorts,” I shoot back.

“Online.”

“I need my hair cut,” I say, a little desperately. “Can’t do that online.”

He shrugs. “So go get your haircut.”

“Will you come with me?”

“Why would I come with you? My hair is like a centimeter long, and I can keep it that way myself with a buzzer.”

“But—”

“Drop it, Olivia.” His voice is sharp.

My mouth snaps shut and I look down quickly at the counter. And then, because there’s also anger simmering beneath the pain, I toss the bags of frozen peas none too gently on the counter and stand. “I’m going to go shower.”

“ ’Kay.” He’s fiddling with his cellphone and not even looking at me.

I bite back a sharp retort and mentally count to three, giving him a chance to pick up on the fact that he’s being an ass.

One, two, three…

“Hey,” he says, still not looking at me. “I ordered the DVD set of The Bourne Identity series and it came yesterday. Want to have a marathon after we’ve showered?”

I wait. He still doesn’t look up.

Okay. That’s it.

I snatch the cellphone out of his hand so that he’s forced to look at me. Instead of looking apologetic, he looks puzzled, and that is so much worse.

“No, I don’t want to have yet another endless movie marathon, Paul. Nor do I want to spend all freaking day reading, or take another long walk that’s just the two of us. I don’t want to continue my chess-playing lesson, I don’t want to try out the new audiobook subscription you got, I don’t want to try my hand at video games, and I don’t want to go to the gym again.”

“You said you liked chess,” he mutters.

“This isn’t about chess! Or spy movies! It’s not about whether or not I enjoy reading by the fire with you, which I do. It’s that this isn’t healthy! We can’t just stay locked up in here forever.”

His eyes darken, and the wary confusion is replaced by defensive anger and stubbornness.

I start to panic a little, although there’s definitely still mad in there too. With narrowed eyes I say, “Do you ever plan to take me to dinner, Paul? Are we ever going to go on a vacation, even a simple weekend getaway?”

His jaw tightens. “Olivia—”

“No, wait,” I say, holding up a hand. “Let me ask the question in a different way. Are we ever going to leave this house?”

He says nothing, but his blue eyes stay locked on mine, steady and completely unrepentant.

“Oh my God,” I say, taking a step back, feeling a little stunned despite the fact that the writing’s been on the wall since day one. “You have no intention of leaving this house.”

He looks away.

“Ever?” My voice cracks.

“Look, why don’t we go to the Cape? My dad has a house there, and—”

“Let me guess,” I interrupt. “It’s completely secluded.”

“It’s private,” he amends.

“I can’t live like this!” I explode. “I can’t spend my twenties holed up in the middle of nowhere.”

Paul stands, glowering down at me. “Since when? You knew exactly what you were getting into when you came here. Hell, it’s why you came here, isn’t it? To escape the world? To escape your guilt? And now that you’ve forgiven yourself and seen that your ex-boyfriend is just fine without you, you’re changing the rules?”

“Yes! That’s how it works, Paul. You deal with shit however you need to, and then you get over it. You move on.”

“I have moved on.” His arms fold over his chest.

“Bullshit.” I jab a finger at him. “I thought you’d healed, but really you’ve just added one more item to your recluse’s collection. Me.”

He doesn’t answer, and I let out a crazed little laugh. “You know, I was actually naive enough to think that I’d helped you. I let myself think that I’d successfully pulled you out of your little pit of despair. But it’s the other way around, isn’t it? You’ve merely pulled me into your vortex of fear and isolation.”

He reaches for my arms, but I pull back, and he rubs a hand across his eyes. “You have helped me, Olivia. Immensely. But that doesn’t mean I’m ready to go face the world and deal with the pointing and the staring and the pity.”

“The only one doing any pitying is you. News flash, Paul: The rest of the world won’t care what you look like if you don’t care.”

“That’s naive.”

“Okay, so some people will look twice. Some might whisper. But none of that matters.”

“Says the girl with the perfect, gorgeous face.”

“Fine,” I say, throwing up my hands. “Go ahead and hold that against me. That’s a good one to hold in your back pocket to fuel your hate fire. Whenever you get close to living a normal life, you can just remind yourself that you have scars and nobody else understands. Is that the plan?”

“You don’t get it!” he shouts. “Don’t pretend like you understand!”

“I’m never going to understand what you’ve been through, Paul, or how you feel, but I do understand that the only person in control of it is you. And you’re choosing the wrong path.”

He sneers a little. “So what was your big plan, that we’d move to New York together and walk hand in hand down Fifth Avenue, looking at the Christmas lights?”

I suck in a little breath, because actually that is a daydream of mine. It doesn’t have to be Fifth Avenue, but yeah. Sue me. I picture walking hand in hand with the guy I love around my hometown. Showing him where I grew up, where I had my first kiss, taking him to my favorite cupcake shop.

But I’m an idiot. He won’t even go to the movie theater.

He takes a long breath, clearly trying to get hold of his temper. “I’d never hold you back, Olivia. You want to go into Portland with Kali? Go for it. You want to go to New York every other weekend? Do that. Go get your hair done, browse the bookstore, and see whatever movie you want.”

“Alone,” I clarify.

He shrugs. “Or with friends. Whatever.”

“But not with you.”

His jaw tenses and he looks at his shoes. “Not with me.”

“Ever?”

He meets my eyes then, and what I see breaks my heart.

“Got it,” I say, swallowing around the despair. “So those are my options. I can live in the light without you, or stay here in the dark with you.”

Paul opens his mouth as though to protest, but then realizes the truth of what I’m saying. He slowly nods.

I close my eyes, trying to block out the pain, trying not to hear the desperate way he whispers my name.

He reaches out again, but I step back, and I see the flash of hurt on his face before he carefully lets indifference settle over his features.

Yeah, do that, I mentally sneer. Go ahead and retreat. It’s like all of the progress we made never happened.

“How long have I been here?” I ask, as much to myself as to him.

He shrugs. “A little over three months.”

I nod, mentally counting how much time’s passed.

Long enough for fall to head toward winter.

Long enough for Paul to abandon his cane and his limp, and long enough for him to sit facing me in full daylight without trying to hide his scars from my view.

Long enough for me to realize that what happened with Michael and Ethan doesn’t make me a horrible person.

Long enough for me to fall hopelessly, irrevocably in love with Paul, even though it’s becoming painfully clear that the feeling isn’t mutual.

But most important to him…

“You’ve fulfilled your father’s requirements,” I say with a sad little smile. “I’ve stuck around three months.”

His face contorts in anger. “Don’t.”

“Congratulations. You get your inheritance, or your blank check, or whatever it is you were out for.”

“Stop. That’s not why—”

“Then why, Paul? Why have you kept me around all this time? Why have you pretended like you’re fully human, when clearly you’re still operating as half a man?”

He blinks, his head jerking back a little at my cruel words, but I don’t take them back. I want him to hurt the way that I’m hurting. I want to hold up the mirror and force him to face the coward that he is.

“I don’t want you to go,” he says roughly, moving quickly and pulling me to him before I can put distance between us. “Is that what you want to hear? You want to hear that I want you? That I need you? Because I do, Olivia. I need you.”

I place my hands on his chest, pushing slightly even as my eyes fill with tears. “I know.” My voice cracks. “That’s why I need to go. This isn’t right, Paul. Not for either of us. I thought you’d gotten rid of your crutch when you got rid of that damn cane, and when you lost some of the anger, but really you just replaced the old crutch with a new one. Now I’m the crutch.”

He shakes his head, not understanding.

I go up on my toes, pressing my lips to his, needing to touch him one last time.

Then I step back.

“I love you, Paul, but I won’t live for you.”

“Olivia!” His voice is desperate now, his face anguished, but I keep moving backward, even as the tears flow in earnest now down my cheeks.

“Goodbye, Paul.”

I walk away then. I’ve done everything I can for Paul Langdon.

The rest is up to him.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Paul

“You’ll be okay, Mr. Paul.”

I’m pretty sure that Lindy is reassuring herself more than me. I cling to her words just a little bit anyway.

“Yes I’ll be fine, Lindy,” I say, forcing a smile. That’s something I’ve been doing a lot of lately. Forcing smiles. That’s when I even bother to try.

She puts her hand on top of a fat pile of papers. “I’ve pulled out all of my easiest recipes. Stuff you can make on Sunday to have leftovers all week, dinners you can make with pantry ingredients, and of course, don’t rule out breakfast for dinner—you make good eggs.”

I put my hand over hers and press, and her eyes jerk to mine in surprise. In all the years she’s been working for my family, I don’t know that I’ve ever once touched her, but at the moment it feels right.

“Thank you,” I say quietly. “For everything.”

Oh God. The woman’s going to cry, I can see it in the wobbly chin and the way she keeps staring up to first one corner of the kitchen ceiling and then the other.

“Maybe this isn’t the right decision,” she says, her voice a little watery. “Maybe…”

“Nope,” I say, leaning back and making my voice friendly even though my words are resolute. “You’ve earned your retirement, Lindy. You and Mick both have.”

And it’s true, but I don’t miss the timing of it. Almost two weeks to the day after Olivia left me, a disgruntled Lindy and Mick handed in their resignation letters. They said that telling me personally was just a courtesy, since it was actually my father who paid their salaries, and it was my father whom they’d truly resigned to.

But I know the real reason they cornered me in my office that day. It wasn’t a formality. It was to make a point.

It was their way of telling me that if I let Olivia go, I let them go too.

In other words, if I want to live alone, I do it all alone.

The kicker is, I can’t even see them as traitors. Sure, they stood by my side long before Olivia was even in the picture. And when I ran off all the other caretakers my father threw my way, they stuck by me through that too. On the surface, nothing about this scenario should be different. In theory, we should be able to go back to being the three of us, them staying out of my way and me treating them with more civility than I show the rest of the world.

That’s no longer good enough for them, and I’m glad of it. They’ve always deserved more than sticking by a surly beast who on my worst days could barely muster up the word thanks.

“We won’t be far,” Lindy says, recovering her composure. “And you come for Christmas if you want. It’s only forty-five minutes, and you’ll always be welcome.”

“I’ll be fine, Lindy. I’m good.”

I’m not good. I’m so far from good, there’s not even a word for it. But I haven’t celebrated Christmas for two years, and I’m not about to start now. I could practically hear my dad’s disappointment over the phone when I told him not to come up for the holidays, and Lindy looks equally crushed.

When will they learn not to expect anything from me?

“Mr. Paul—Paul,” she corrects herself, realizing she no longer works for my family, and that I’m no longer twelve.

Don’t, I silently beg Lindy. But she doesn’t pick up on my silent cue. Nobody ever does.

Well, Olivia did. But she’s gone. Gone for about a month now, without so much as a text or email. I don’t even know where she is.

“Paul,” Lindy continues, coming around to where I sit at the counter and standing close, looking like she wants to touch me but refraining, “I know things are…bleak right now. It seems like everyone’s leaving you. But you understand, don’t you?”

Actually, no. I don’t understand. I mean, I get why people don’t want to be around me. I’ve always wondered why Lindy and Mick stuck it out, especially when I was at my worst in those early days.

It’s like Olivia somehow set an example for the others with her tough-love voodoo.

Kali won’t talk to me either.

Not that I think Olivia told the others what happened. She was gone within an hour of telling me goodbye.

But her desertion sent a clear message: If the beast wants to be alone, then let him.

Whatever. I’ll be fine. Lindy’s right, I do make good eggs. I can brown beef for tacos, or whatever. I can boil water for pasta.

There’s always takeout. If my leg’s good enough to run, it’s certainly good enough to drive.

Not that I’ve been doing much running. I don’t like it anymore. She took even that from me.

Once I loved it for its solitude. And now? Now it just feels fucking lonely.

“You take care of yourself, Lindy,” I say, ignoring her questioning gaze.

Then I do what once was unthinkable: I hug her. And I let her hug me back.

She clings a little too long, and maybe I do too. She’s the closest I’ve had to a mother since my own passed away forever ago.

But I can’t let myself think like that. An employee retiring is one thing. A pseudo-parent walking out on you? It’s crushing. So I don’t even go there.

“You need help loading the car?” I ask as I pull back, desperate to change the subject.

“Nah, Mick took care of it all this morning,” she says, adjusting her scarf and doing the blinky thing again.

“Where is Mick?”

Lindy fiddles even more deliberately with her scarf, not meeting my gaze.

My eyes narrow. “Lindy.”

“Well…”

I sigh in understanding. “My father’s coming into town, isn’t he? Mick went to pick him up from the airport.”

“Yes,” Lindy says with a sheepish smile. “I think Mick wants to feel needed just one last time.”

“Shit,” I mutter under my breath.

I haven’t seen my father since the last time he came up to give me shit about daring to show my face in Frenchy’s. And actually, it’s because of that fact that I’m not dreading his arrival as much as I would have just a few months ago.

If anyone will understand why I couldn’t meet Olivia’s outrageous demand of shopping trips and movie theaters and vacations, it would be him. He didn’t even want me to show myself to a bunch of small-town locals in Nowhere, Maine. He’d probably have a heart attack at the thought of me following Olivia to New York, or, worse, attempting to rejoin my old life in Boston.

In the weeks that Olivia’s been gone, not a day has gone by when I haven’t second-guessed my decision. My nightmares are no longer about the war, but neither are they a clichéd montage of me fumbling around in the public eye while everyone points and laughs at my face.

No, my dreams are about her.

The bad ones are bleak, endless winters of trying to reach her and failing.

But the worst dreams—the ones that kill me—are the good ones. The ones where she’s laughing, or running along beside me with her little trot-trot gait, or sprawled out in my bed, taking up every inch of space.

Those are the mornings where I wake up wanting to go to her.

I smile grimly. For the first time in a long time, I feel like my dad can’t get here fast enough. I need a good dose of reality before I do something like chase after Olivia’s fairy tale of happily-ever-after.

I give Lindy a last peck on the cheek. “If I don’t see you before you leave…thank you. For being here.”

There she goes again, getting all watery. She pats my cheek awkwardly.

I watch her leave the kitchen. The second woman in a month to do just that.

I head into the office. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’m actually watching the clock as I sit at my desk, awaiting my father’s arrival. I should have asked Lindy how long ago Mick had left, but that probably would have just made the minutes tick by slower. I should be getting used to it by now. Lately the days have been very long, and not just because it seems like it’s dark until noon and then dark again at three.

The days are long because I’m bored. I’ve racked my brain to remember how I used to fill my time. I’ve tried to rewind to a few months ago, where days and weeks and months passed in a blur. But even whiskey doesn’t help anymore.

The endless solitude is slowly stifling me. I’m letting it.

“Paul.”

I jerk a little from where I’ve been slouched over, clicking on random links on my laptop without actually reading anything. I’ve gotten ridiculously adept at surfing the Web lately. I had no idea there was so much mindless drivel on the Internet just waiting to be absorbed into vacant, bored minds.

“Dad.”

He pauses a little in his stride, giving me a puzzled look. Probably because it’s the first time that my voice has been welcoming. Hell, it’s the first time in many years I’ve called him Dad without a sarcastic edge.

“Sorry I didn’t call first,” he says, taking a seat across the desk like this is a business meeting. I intentionally ignore the little twist in my chest. What the hell was I expecting? A hug? After years of never returning his phone calls and going out of my way to show him how little I needed him?

I shrug.

“How are you?” he asks distractedly as he pulls his briefcase onto the desk and begins rooting around in the papers there.

“I’m good,” I lie. “Great.”

“Mmm-hmm,” he says, not looking up. “Oh good, here it is. I know I could have mailed it, but I wanted to see Mick and Lindy off in person, so I figured I might as well stop by.”

“Sure,” I say, refusing to be stung by the fact that he came all this way for his employees. Not for his son. Not for me. Never for me.

You reap what you sow, and all that.

He hands me a piece of paper, and I open it up, figuring it’s going to be some other stipulation or hoop I have to jump through in order to keep living here.

It’s far from it.

I frown. “Is this…”

“The deed to the house,” he says, shutting the briefcase with a click. “You fulfilled your end of the bargain. Three months with a caregiver.”

His voice is completely monotone. If he’s disappointed by how things turned out with Olivia, he doesn’t let on. It’s as though he doesn’t give a shit anymore.

I shake my head. “You’re giving me the house? Just like that?”

“I am.”

“What’s the catch?”

His expression is blank. “No catch.”

“Okay…” I’m still waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Dad gives an impatient sigh. “The house is paid for. You’re on your own for the upkeep, of course, but you’ll get your inheritance in a month, when you turn twenty-five. I thought you’d be happier.”

I should be happy.

I should be ecstatic.

I can stay here as long as I want, free and clear. No playing my father’s games, no trying to hide how much I’m drinking from Lindy, nobody to badger me about exercising or eating right or, God forbid, “getting out more.”

I shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. I know that. And yet…

“I feel like I’m missing something,” I say slowly.

My father rubs his eyes. “I’m just…I can’t do this anymore, Paul.”

The tension in my chest tightens. “Do what?”

“Help someone who doesn’t want to be helped. I thought putting Olivia out here to mess with your mind would work, and on some level I know it has. You don’t look like death, and you’re not half-drunk every time I see you.”

“I’m still going to Frenchy’s,” I interrupt. “Sorry if that pisses you off, but—”

“Stop.” He holds up a hand. “I was wrong to get mad about that. It’s only because I didn’t want you to get hurt. I thought it was too soon, but I was wrong. In fact, I only wish I’d pushed you to do it sooner. And I wish you’d push yourself to do more than skulk around a local bar in Bar Harbor for the rest of your life.”

I groan. “Not you too.”

My father’s lips tighten, but if he’s talked to Olivia and knows how we left things, he doesn’t say so.

“I love you, Paul.”

I swallow.

“I love you very much, and it’s because of that that I’m not going to watch you do this anymore. You want to live here all alone until you’re wrinkled and even meaner than you are now, I’m not going to stop you.”

“No more babysitters?”

“None,” he says, standing. “All but the last one were a waste of time, and even she couldn’t reach you in the way that I’d hoped.”

“Dad—” I take a deep breath and tell him what I should have told him a long time ago. Not because I want him to think me a hero, but because I can’t stand that he thinks I’ve been carelessly mooching off him for years. I want him to know that his money’s done something more than provide whiskey to his worthless son.

“You know Alex Skinner?” I say, not really knowing where to begin.

“I know.”

“Well, he has—”

“I know, Paul. I know all of it. His wife, his daughter, their situation.”

I barely stop my mouth from gaping.

“When? How’d you—?”

“I’m proud of you,” he says, not bothering to answer my question about how he knew. Knowing him, he probably blackmailed the CIA or something. “I didn’t tell you I knew because it was the one worthwhile thing you seemed to care about, and I thought if I stuck my nose in it, you’d abandon them just to spite me.”

I open my mouth to argue, but I’m half terrified he’s right. I really am that fucked up.

“I’ll take care of them, Paul. You have my word. It’ll be the end of you getting checks from me directly, of course. But you’ll have the house.”

My brain is still racing to process it all. I don’t give a shit about the money; I’ll get by. Or the house either, for that matter. But this feels like…abandonment. “Wait,” I say. “So no more badgering about psych appointments or doctor’s appointments or—”

“No more anything, Paul. This visit will be my last.”

I don’t get up from my chair when he does. “Hold on. You’re not going to come by? Not going to be my dad anymore?”

His face crumples for a second before regaining its indifferent expression. “I’m in Boston. I’m always there if you want me. Always.”

His expression tells me he won’t be holding his breath for a visit. Nobody will holding their breath for a visit from me. I’ve made sure of that.

“You’re just walking away?” I say, raising my voice as he starts to leave.

My father gives me a bland look over his shoulder. “Isn’t it what you’ve always wanted?”

Chapter Thirty-Five

Olivia

I have my own place.

As in my very own I-pay-the-rent apartment, for the first time ever.

It’s a tiny, ancient studio on the border of the Upper East Side and Harlem. It smells like Thai food always and looks out onto a halfway house.

But it’s mine. I pay for it using my paycheck, which I get from an actual company, not an anonymous businessman who can’t be bothered to take care of his own problem child.

This time, I got a job working for Ethan’s dad. (I know, right?)

Like a total idiot, I’d gotten so wrapped up in my obsession with Paul that I hadn’t thought at all about what I’d do when the three months were up. And when I’d walked out the door I had a broken heart but absolutely zero prospects for getting a job.

So I’d done the unthinkable. I’d called Mr. Price and begged for a job…an internship, anything. After my spectacularly disastrous experiment with caregiving, I’d decided maybe the business world was the right fit for me after all.

I’m also taking a few night classes at a community college to get my degree. My parents are totally exasperated that I’ve come full circle. They’re right on one level: It would have been easier to just finish my senior year at NYU with my friends. But I don’t know how to explain to them that that simply wasn’t my path. There were things I needed to do first. Stuff about myself to discover before I could realize that, yeah, the original idea of entering the business world was the right choice for me all along.

Anyway.

The starting salary for a marketing assistant doesn’t leave much room for luxuries. Consistent hot water is a thing of the past, and the heat in my building seems to have two settings: off and try to start a fire.

But I’m doing it. On my own.

However…truth? When I see my parents for dinner once a week or so and they ask if I need any money, or mention that their friends are spending the rest of the year in Paris and wonder if I want a paid-for place on Park Avenue for that time, I’m tempted. Just a little.

There’s supposed to be all this pride in doing things for yourself, and I guess there is that, but I miss the trendy restaurants and endless clothes fund of my past life. I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t easier before. But easy also feels hollow.

My time in Maine, while 95 percent disastrous, also showed me that I’d rather be doing it wrong on my own than doing it right for someone else’s sake.

That’s why things went amiss with Ethan. I was with him because I was supposed to be. It also happened at NYU. I was there because I was supposed to be the perfect little coed.

And now?

I’m on the right path.

Well, truthfully, I still feel a little lost. But at least I’ve started to figure out what I don’t want, and that’s a start.

I volunteer at the soup kitchen over on Eleventh Avenue every Sunday. Not because I want to continue punishing myself for past mistakes, but because it feels right.

I figure the best any of us can do is make amends the best we can to those we’ve wronged, and try to do better next time. One day at a time, and all that.

Now if only I could forget Paul. I push thoughts of him out of my head. I’ve been doing a lot of that lately. Or trying to, anyway.

It’s Friday afternoon. So not the time for moping. If I thought Fridays were awesome when I was a full-time student, they’re downright euphoric now that I’m part of the regular workforce.

Don’t get me wrong, I like my job. As marketing assistant, I’m really more like the assistant to the assistant to the associate marketing manager, which essentially means I make copies for a living, but even three weeks in, I can see a clear-cut career path, and that’s kind of cool. I don’t know that I’ll stay on this path, but so far it’s a hell of a lot better fit for me than caregiving was. I think it’ll be pretty difficult to get my heart broken in marketing, so already that’s a plus.

Still, great job or not, an end-of-the-week cocktail is sounding pretty perfect right about now.

Once I’m out of the subway tunnel, I pull out my cellphone to text Bella. As with the best of friendships, we picked up right where we’d left off, as though I hadn’t been in Maine and barely responsive for three months.

As always, she’s read my mind, texting me before I can text her. Wine tonight? I’m thinking a bucketful, at least.

I smile and text her back. My place?

Her response is immediate. God, no. My sweater still smells like pad thai from last time I came over. Heard about a cheap new wine bar in Hell’s Kitchen. Will text u details.

I don’t even bother waiting for the elevator in my building. On a good day and at off-hours it’s slower than molasses. At six o’clock on a Friday I don’t think I’ll ever see it, especially since there’s a moving truck outside. Some poor soul is about to realize that their bed, couch, dresser, and every other heavy item they own won’t fit in the shoe-box elevators. Poor thing.

I take the steps two at a time. I like to pretend it’s my exercise. I’m winded by the time I reach the sixth floor, probably because I haven’t gone for a run once since I left Maine. It’s stupid, but running makes me think of Paul.

So do turkey sandwiches.

And books.

And military uniforms.

And anyone with blue eyes.

I round the corner toward my unit and nearly collide with a pile of moving boxes. It would seem the new resident is on my floor.

Please, please, please don’t let them be a weirdo.

As long as it’s not an aspiring musician, I’ll be fine. I already have one of those living next door. She claims to have future in “folk rap.” Yup. That’s apparently a thing. And I get to hear her practice.

Like I said, I need that wine.

A burly-looking guy with tattoos comes out of the newly occupied apartment to pick up a couple of boxes. He gives me a blatant once-over and licks his lips. I give him a drop-dead look. He blows me a kiss.

Gross. I’m so not on Park Avenue anymore.

Bella still hasn’t texted me back, but I pour myself a glass of wine and settle onto the loveseat with my Andrew Jackson book after kicking off my shoes.

Yeah. I’m back to that.

See, I went to Bar Harbor, Maine with two goals: (1) heal Paul Langdon and (2) read this damned book. I’m determined to do at least one of those, and it certainly won’t be the first. He’s made that much clear in the weeks that have passed.

It’s not like I’ve been expecting him to chase after me or anything like that. I mean, if he’s too chickenshit to go to a movie in Maine, he’s definitely not going to show up at my office with some romantic gesture. To do that he’d have to care.

To do that, he’d have to love me the way that I love him.

Ha. Loved him, past tense. I need to put that behind me.

There’s a knock at the door. It’s Maria, the folk rapper.

“Hey. I need some cornstarch,” she says, snapping her fingers in a hand-it-over gesture.

Seriously?

“I don’t have any cornstarch,” I reply.

Maria wrinkles her nose in irritation. “That’s supposed to be a neighborly thing. A cup of cornstarch or whatever.”

“Actually, I think that’s a cup of sugar. Which I have, if you need it.”

I have a ton of sugar. I’ve been determined to duplicate Lindy’s cookie recipe, but so far I’m not even close.

“Well, okay. Hand over the sugar, then.”

I frown. “Wait—do you need sugar or cornstarch?”

“Cornstarch, but I’ll take the sugar.”

I shake my head in confusion. “They’re not substitutes for each other, you know.”

“What?” she asks.

Oh my God. I should have brought my wine to the door. “Sugar and cornstarch. So not the same thing.”

“Well, what can I sub for cornstarch?”

I start to tell her to Google it like a normal person, or just run down to the bodega and get some freaking cornstarch, but I try to keep my expression pleasant. Who knows, maybe I really will need the proverbial cup of sugar from her someday.

“Are you using it as a thickening agent? You could use flour,” I say. Lindy would be so freaking proud.

“A thickening agent?”

I smile, trying to keep it friendly. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but maybe you should just order takeout.”

“Yeah, maybe you’re right.”

“Okay then,” I mutter, already starting to close the door.

Her face gets in mine. “Did you see the new neighbor? He’s yummy.”

“Yeah, I saw him. Beefy and lecherous isn’t really my thing.”

“Not mine either, seeing as I like the ladies, but anyway, that’s not the new guy, that’s the mover. His name is Bruce.”

“The mover or the new guy?” I asked, wondering why the hell I’m still having this conversation.

“The mover, obviously. He’s a creep.”

My head is spinning.

“The new guy could totally turn me,” Maria whispers, leaning in.

“Good luck with that,” I say, glancing over my shoulder in a deliberate, well-I-should-really-be-going kind of way.

“Well, thanks but no thanks on the cornstarch,” she says, giving me a little wave. “Guess Tasty Thai is where it’s at again tonight. Oh, and before I forget…I’m performing at a little place on 96th and Lex tomorrow, if you want to come. Don’t know that it’s your scene, though,” she says, giving my work dress pants and pink cardigan a once-over.

“Yeah, maybe not. Thanks anyway, though.”

She puts a hand on the door before I can shut it, and I stifle a scream of irritation. Maybe this is why Paul goes out of his way to avoid neighbors. They’re annoying.

“You could ask the new guy to take you.”

“Yeah!” I make my eyes go wide and eager. “I’ll think about it!”

Not.

“He asked about you,” she says, her face coming in the door before I can shut it.

I frown. “Who?”

“The new guy.”

My heart gives a little thump, and not in a good way. That a new neighbor is asking about her is one thing a girl living alone doesn’t want to hear, ever.

“That’s…disturbing.”

She shrugs. “You wouldn’t think that if you saw him. Well, half of him anyway. One side of his face is Hollywood gorgeous, and the other is…well, something happened. No judgment here, though. I think it’s sexy. If I liked men. But—”

“Hold on.” My heart’s kicked into overdrive. “Hold on just a second. Half of his face is scarred?”

“Totally.” She holds up three fingers like a claw and makes a swiping motion. “Wicked scars. Sexy wicked.”

Without a word, I shut the door in her face. Rude? Yes. Necessary? Definitely. Because I feel like I’m going to throw up.

“Hey!” she shouts through the door. “Don’t tell him I told you about him. He told me not to!”

I close my eyes and slump to the ground, leaning my head back against the door as I try to get it together.

Paul is here. No, Paul’s living here. In my building.

The question is, how do I feel about it?

Stunned? Check. Elated? Maybe. A little pissed that he didn’t just pick up the phone and call first? For sure.

But none of that matters, because while my brain is registering all of those reactions, my heart clings to only one: wariness.

See, not so long ago, I was a bona fide romantic. I believed in true love and happy endings.

And then I grew up.

I kissed my boyfriend’s best friend, and then went and tried to steal my ex back from his new girlfriend.

And then I thought I could make amends for all of that by fixing some poor fool who never really wanted to be fixed in the first place.

I single-handedly messed it all up.

In other words, romance? Disney and the romantic comedies can keep it. If it even exists.

Self-preservation feels infinitely safer. Self-preservation doesn’t allow you to go bounding down the hallway to throw yourself into the arms of a guy you love more than anything.

Self-preservation knows that by keeping to yourself, you won’t give someone the chance to push you away and tell you you’re not worth it.

Self-preservation means that you don’t have to worry about when you inevitably hurt him.

No. No. I’m so not doing that. I’m not going down that path of berating myself for what I’ve done in the past.

But …

Neither am I going down the path toward him.

I slowly climb back to my feet, wiping away the tears.

Paul Langdon has come, likely planning some big grand finale, and he’s going to get it. But I don’t think it’ll be the one he’s expecting.

Our ending is going to be the hard, painful kind.

The kind that will be better for both of us in the long run.

Chapter Thirty-Six

Paul

Note to self: ask Olivia why she chose the grossest building in Manhattan for her first apartment.

I pull out some bills fresh from my savings account, which I just emptied, and hand them to my two thuglike movers. Neither of them bothers to count the money, which seems idiotic to me, but hey, whatever gets them out of my home faster.

Home. Good God.

The landlord assured me it was the largest floor plan available. A “deluxe two-bedroom.” While I’ll grant that there technically seem to be two rooms in which one could put a bed, the deluxe part eludes me altogether.

Is it the ancient fridge? The freezer that makes rattling noises? No, it must be the dingy shower that can maybe allow for me to stand sideways. A car horn blares outside. Wait, no—make that dozens of car horns blaring outside.

Of course, I’m practically immune to it by now. I’ve been in the city for all of a few hours, but it only took the trip from LaGuardia to my new building for car horns to become second nature. I get why native New Yorkers say you don’t even really notice the noise after a while. You have to get used to it, because it’s either that or go bat-shit crazy.

I am a long, long way from Bar Harbor, Maine.

I rub a hand over my face and look around at the boxes crammed into a ridiculously small space. I don’t have much stuff. Bare bones kitchen essentials, clothes, and admittedly more boxes of books than is probably practical for an apartment home in New York City. But even my minimal belongings crowd this place.

I don’t care. I don’t care about the nasty grout on the counters, or the too-small fridge, or the fact that my landlord left me a note about the cheapest place to buy rat traps. I’m not here for the luxurious lodging.

I’m here for her. She’s everything.

The only problem? My grand plan for getting her back looks a little something like this: move into her building to show her you’re in this for good, and…end of plan. As in that’s the end of my fucking plan.

I’m too terrified to think it through. I’m terrified she’ll tell me to fuck off. Terrified she’ll have found someone else—someone who isn’t acting like a scared, superficial little boy, hiding alone in his castle because he was afraid of what other people think.

Because here’s what I’ve realized: I don’t care about what other people think. It’s taken a long-ass time for me to grow up and get to that, but it’s the honest-to-God truth.

But I do care about other people. Lindy. Mick. Dad. Kali.

Amanda and Lily.

Olivia.

These past few weeks without Olivia have been the worst of my life, and I’ll happily spend the rest of my life being the circus spectacle for other people to point and laugh at, if only she’ll be by my side.

But that’s the trick, isn’t it? I’ve got to figure out how to get her by my side.

It’s why I moved into this hellhole when I can afford something three times the size that doesn’t smell like Bangkok.

I want to be close to her. I need to be close to her. Even if she wants nothing to do with me, even if I have to watch as another guy comes to her door, I need to be near her. So I’ll be wherever she is.

And Olivia’s in New York. Sort of my worst nightmare, but it’s a good fit for her. With all that polish and brains, she belongs in a Manhattan high-rise, not locked away in the middle of nowhere. I was a complete shit to want that for her.

And that’s why I’m here. Because Olivia needs to be here. And I need Olivia, however I can have her.

I halfheartedly start unpacking a box in the hope that by the time I’ve settled in, I’ll know what to say to her.

But I know it won’t be that easy. When you chose your pathetic solitude over the girl you love—yes, love—you don’t just go knock on her door and tell her you want her back. You need flowers, or a public apology, or…

“I like what you’ve done with the place.”

My heart drops to the floor, as does the mug I just started to unwrap.

Olivia.

I close my eyes and swallow. I order myself to turn around and face her, but I can’t seem to move.

“You really should lock your door,” she says. From her voice I can tell she’s coming closer. “This is a rough neighborhood.”

Somewhere in the back of my brain, alarm bells are going off at her too-casual tone. In my mind, the best-case scenario was her rushing into my arms. And I thought the worst-case scenario was her slapping me. But I was wrong. This is the worst-case scenario. This indifferent, could-be-talking-to-a-stranger tone is so much worse.

The noose tightens around my heart. I’m too late.

I turn around to face her.

She’s still dressed in what I assume are her work clothes. Black dress pants, plain black heels and a cardigan. Pink.

“Olivia—”

Shit. Shit. My voice sounds like gravel.

She either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care that I can barely speak. She doesn’t seem to realize that my arms are literally shaking with the need to hold her, my throat aching with the need to tell her I’m sorry.

And that I love her.

No words come out. I’m too scared of fucking it all up. Too scared that she’ll tell me what I already know: I’m not worthy of her.

She finally meets my eyes, and my heart sinks at what I see there: nothing.

No joy, no anger. Not even pain. Her eyes are empty, and so unlike the expressive green eyes I dream about every night.

“So what’s the plan?” she says with a shrug and a little smile. “You were just going to move next door like the creepiest of stalkers, ask the neighbors about me in secret, and then what?”

I don’t know.

I miss you.

I love you.

Please love me back.

“Hi,” I say.

Oh my God, Langdon.

Her eyebrows lift. “Hi?”

I shove my hands into my back pockets to keep from reaching for her.

“Surprise?” I say instead.

This time her eyes narrow.

Okay, definitely not going the way I hoped.

“I meant to do some big gesture,” I say in a rush. “I haven’t figured it out yet. I was maybe going to go to your office to serenade you, except I can’t sing. I was even thinking I could dress up like Andrew Jackson, but that’s only because Ethan suggested a costume, and—”

She holds up a hand. “Hold on. Just stop and back up. Ethan? Is that how you found me?”

“My dad knows his dad—”

“Of course he does. Freaking rich people,” she mutters.

“—and I heard you’re working for Mr. Price.”

“You have my phone number!” she shouts, all semblance of the calm, indifferent Olivia disappearing. She’s pissed.

And she’s not done with her tantrum. “You have my phone number and my email, and you’ve already shown an admirable prowess for stalking people on social media. Stalk me that way!”

“I know,” I say. “I just—”

“Six weeks, Paul. It’s been six weeks since you let me walk out of your life. No, pushed me out of your life. I spent the first two weeks in disbelieving anger, so certain you’d call to apologize. Weeks three and four were spent in tears when I realized you weren’t calling. Last week I was mad. Mad that you chose solitude and loneliness over love.”

“And this week?” I force myself to ask.

Her voice cracks a little, and I can’t help it. I have to reach for her, but she takes a step back. The rejection burns, even though I expect it.

She lifts her chin, and although my heart sinks at the defiance on her face, I also want to applaud. This isn’t the damaged, self-loathing girl who showed up at my house almost six months ago. This is a gorgeous, proud woman who knows what she wants and, more important, knows what she deserves.

And what she deserves is not a coward like me. But I have to try.

“This week?” she asks, her voice calm once again. “This week I’m over it. I’m over you. I don’t know why you came here, Paul, but I wish you’d called first, because I could have saved you the trouble of moving into this shit hole. We are done, Paul. Done.”

No!

The panic that rips through me is somehow so much worse than anything that happened to me in Afghanistan or anything that’s happened since. And I know why. It’s because Olivia hasn’t just taught me how to love. She’s done something much bigger. She’s taught me how to live.

And I don’t want to do it without her.

I move forward, and she moves back. “I came here for you,” I tell her. “I’d go anywhere for you.”

She scoffs. “It took you this long to figure it out?”

“Yes.”

My simple answer seems to throw her off, and I press forward. “I’m not proud of myself, Olivia. Not even a little bit. Do I wish I’d never let you go? Obviously. Do I wish I’d come to my senses sooner? Of course. And maybe if it had taken me only a day or two to clear my head, then yeah, I would have called. But when you fuck up as badly as I fucked up, for that long, you don’t call. You don’t text. You don’t email. You go to your girl and beg.”

Olivia takes another step back, but I see the change in her eyes. Just a flash, but it gives me hope.

“If you walk away, I won’t blame you,” I continue softly. “But I’m not going anywhere. I will stay here, and you’ll have to see my ugly face every single day. A few of my dad’s colleagues are willing to give me a chance to get into the business world. People get high on rehabilitated vets and all that, but I don’t care if it’s a pity hire. I’ll take it, and I’ll prove that I’m worth the risk.”

She shakes her head a little, and I get even more frantic. I glance around the room, searching for something to show her that I’m changing. My eyes land on my Starbucks cup, and I point at it.

“I bought coffee. Myself. In a Starbucks near Times Square, which should tell you just how crowded it was. People looked. Some looked twice at my face, but I didn’t care.” My words are rushing together now. “I don’t care about any of that, Olivia. And I know it will take time—weeks, months, whatever—to show you that I’m not going to go back into hiding again just because someone looks at me wrong or some jackass says something insulting. But no matter what happens, I’m going to be here because you’re here.”

Tears are running down her face, and I don’t know if it’s in sympathy or despair or happiness. But she’s lost that layer of indifference, and I go for broke.

Slowly I move toward her, my heart skipping a beat when I realize she’s stopped moving backward. I reach for her hand and slowly lift it to my face, pressing her palm against the scars there. Letting her touch me. Needing her to touch me.

Olivia lets out a little sob, and with my other arm I reach gently around her, my hand settling on her back as I pull her toward me.

“I don’t want to be without you,” I say, my voice low. “But I know that I can be, if that’s what you want. I know I’ll survive and I’ll be okay, because of you. You made me whole. You took a wretched, broken soul and showed him how to take his life back.”

I swallow and pull her just a little bit closer. “I guess what I’m saying is that I don’t need you for my survival, Olivia. I know you wouldn’t want me that way, all desperate and needy. But that doesn’t mean that I’m not scared to death of living without you. And there’s nothing I wouldn’t give for a second chance with you—a chance to make you happy.”

She’s still stubbornly silent, and I feel a suspicious prick at the corner of my eyes. I blink rapidly to keep the tears from falling.

“Please, sweetheart. Please.”

I don’t even know what I’m asking her for.

Anything. Everything.

Love me.

Olivia’s eyes don’t meet mine. Instead they focus on her hand where it rests against my face. Very slowly she runs a finger down each of my scars the way she did that night by the fire all those weeks ago.

“You’re wrong,” she says softly.

“About?” My heart is in my throat.

“You said I’d have to see your ugly face every day.” Her eyes flick to mine. “You’re wrong. You’re beautiful.”

I close my eyes, hardly daring to hope. My other hand moves around her until I have both arms wrapped securely around her waist, completely unwilling to let her go. I force myself to open my eyes and look at her. No more hiding.

“How do I know you won’t leave?” she asks. Her voice is strong but her eyes are vulnerable, and it’s like there’s a knife in my heart.

I set my lips to hers briefly. Then a second time, because she tastes so good, and I’ve missed her so much, but I pull back to finish what I’ve started.

“I’m not going anywhere. And you may not believe me yet, and that’s okay, but believe this.” I slide my hands up to her face, my thumbs moving over her perfect cheekbones. “Believe that I love you.”

Now it’s her eyes that close, but I say it again, a little desperately. “I love you, and I understand if that’s not enough, but—”

She throws herself at me with so much force that I have to take a step backward to steady us. Her arms go around my neck, her face burrowing there. “It’s enough,” she says into my skin. “It’s enough.”

I let out a long breath, feeling as though I can finally breathe for the first time in weeks.

“I’m going to make you love me again,” I say against her hair. “I swear it.”

Olivia pulls back, her green eyes giving me a withering look. “Don’t be an idiot. I never said anything about not loving you anymore.”

I inhale. “Yeah?”

She leans forward and gives me a quick, soft kiss. And then a little longer one as our tongues tangle. “Yeah,” she says when she pulls back. “I never stopped loving you. Not even for a moment. I was mad, and sad, and a lot doubtful that you were here for the right thing. But that was quite a speech, Langdon. And I’ll admit that I’m not blameless here. I pushed you before you were ready, and—”

I put a hand over her mouth in exasperation. “Just…don’t. You were right to leave when you did, and for the reasons you did. Should I restart my speech again? It seems like you weren’t listening.”

She giggles, and the sound of it is like heaven. “Bet you didn’t factor such swanky digs into your grand plan,” she says. “I know the place is gross, but…I’m determined to do it on my own, you know? No help from Daddy’s credit cards and all that.”

I nod. “Okay, then. I’ll do the same. But maybe we can do it on our own side by side?”

Her smile lights up her face. “Deal. But I do have a little confession.”

My eyes narrow at her mischievous tone. “Yessssss?”

“I got rid of the ugly running shoes you got me. I like my pink ones way better.”

I let out a sigh. “You’re going to regret it in thirty years. Your joints will be shot, and you’ll have to buy special, ugly orthopedic sandals because your feet are all gnarled, and if it gets really bad—”

“If it gets really bad, I can borrow your snake cane,” she interrupts. “It’ll be my turn to be the cranky cripple.”

I lift her up off her feet. “And I’ll be there for you. Always.”

For Nic. For knowing I should write this book.

Acknowledgments

I’ve always been a bit of a lone wolf when it comes to writing my books. I write and write and write in a vacuum, with no beta readers and no critique partners. The result? When I come out of the writing cave three days before deadline, I’ve barely showered and the book is something akin to a hot mess.

Here’s the part where I thank the people who help me get it from a jumble of words into a story. My amazing agent, Nicole, stopped everything she was doing to read this book in a day. Yes, a day. She cleaned up the uglies, pointed out the plot gnarlies, and basically single-handedly got this book into submission shape. From there it went to Sue Grimshaw, who whipped the book into shape in record time and with a crazy amount of skill perfectly identified every single plot hole. Nic and Sue, you don’t have to work with my crazy methods, but you always, always do…and I’m so appreciative.

And to the rest of the all-stars at Random House (you know who you are), thank you. Thank you so much for doing the gritty, behind-the-scenes stuff that doesn’t often enough get recognized. You take a document and make it a book, and we authors should thank you every day.

BY LAUREN LAYNE

Flirt Titles

Isn’t She Lovely

Broken

Crushed (coming soon)

Loveswept Titles

After the Kiss

Love the One You’re With

Just One Night

Lauren Layne is a snarky cynic with a serious weakness for happily-ever-afters. Marrying her high school sweetheart was a good start. [Cue Disney soundtrack.] But Lauren wanted all romance, all the time. Now she writes fictional happy endings and considers her job well done if you swoon while reading her books. Don’t worry. You will.

Once upon a time she lived in a Manhattan high-rise, but now she’s on the laid-back train in the Seattle area. If you ever find yourself in Issaquah, she’ll probably buy you a drink. Maybe.

Read on for an excerpt from:

The Real Thing

by Cassie Mae

Available from Flirt

Chapter 1

Emilia Johnson

25 minutes ago

Today I get to see my best friend after THREE VERY LONG YEARS!—feeling excited with Eric Matua

24 people like this

Every morning, I get a text from the greatest man alive.

Good morning, bug. When you get to the beach, touch the ocean. I’ll touch the ocean here, and it’ll be like we’re together again.

I grin just as a big fluffy pillow that smells like hairspray slams against my face, then flops down on my keyboard.

“Put that damn phone on silent.”

I’ll give my roommate a pass since (a) my phone’s given off around twenty-three message alerts, and it’s only nine o’clock, (b) I’m on my laptop, so I don’t really need the cell to bing! every time an email comes in because I can see it, and (c) Eve is about-to-pop pregnant. She sleeps most of the time, but if she’s not sleeping, she’s complaining about being so damn tired.

I pick up my phone and make a big show of pressing the silent button. Then I type in my response.

Very lyrical for a fisherman, Dad. ;) Love you.

Eve shifts on her bed, brows furrowed in an I’m-not-amused expression, and curls into Paul’s arms. He sleeps just fine through the cell noise, but I’m pretty sure Eve has tired him out with the late-night cravings. Last night he came into our dorm room with the cookies-and-cream Klondike bars Eve was begging for, only to have her eat a bite and then tell him it made her stomach upset. I threw Paul a look that said not to worry, because I was on those Klondike bars like white on rice.

My computer sends out a notification bee-boop, and I quickly shut off the sound before Eve blows fire from her ass. I’ve made it through twenty emails, so there are only a few left, and I take a big bite of my cheese Danish as I click over to read email twenty-one.

To: emilia_johnson@yahoo.com

From: sbarrows@gmail.com

Subject: Remember when

Mia,

If you opened this email, please keep reading! I want to apologize, even if it won’t do anything, because I’m a total shit and hurt you so much I’ll probably never get your forgiveness. But I am sorry. And I want you to know I think about you.

A lot.

Hell, more than a lot.

I sat at one of my brother’s concerts the other night, smiling like an idiot because I couldn’t stop thinking about the last concert we went to. The poor schmuck behind us never saw your elbow coming. You were always so wild…and I mean that in the nicest way possible. The second the first chord hit, your arms went up and his nose went crack!

You kept telling me it was a natural reaction for guys to throw punches, no matter if the recipient was a girl or not. But no way in hell was I buying that. No one touches my girl, even if it was a “natural reaction.”

You were well worth the night at the police station, the bloody nose, and the bruised knuckles. Especially when you curled up on my chest afterward and said I looked sexy with tampons up my nostrils. (Something that stays between the two of us.)

It was the moment I fell in love with you.

I haven’t stopped.

—Scott

Um…hello, creeper spam alert! What the hell is this? Who the hell is this? I’ve had creepy emails before—it comes with being involved in social media—but I haven’t had someone make up a past for us. I press delete, but there is a second or two when I seriously consider responding with a piece of my mind. Maybe a list titled How Not to Impress a Girl: Your Creepy Email Edition.

Instead of responding, I click from my email to my Facebook tab and laugh at the emoticon sticker my cousin just IM’d. I type a quick response of LOL, then scroll through my feed looking for ebook deals. Usually my reader buddies post as many as they can find, and when I find the posts, I one-click like crazy. Better keep my Kindle stocked for this summer. My job isn’t full-time, so I’ll have lots of lazy hours for reading. I consider this a very positive thing.

Oh! The book I’ve been waiting to get is only ninety-nine cents. I let out a “Hell yes!” and dance in my rolly chair.

“Ugh, Mia,” Eve grumbles, scratching the top of her pink-blond hair. “Aren’t you supposed to leave soon?”

“I don’t have to leave till, like, eleven,” I say, scrolling through my Amazon recs.

“It’s ten fifty-eight.”

What?

I slam the lid to my laptop and slide it into its case. “Crap crap crap crap crap crap…” Tossing the strap over my head and grabbing the handle to my large suitcase, I lean over Eve and pepper her forehead with kisses. “Love you, love you, love you…call me if you need anything.”

“I will. Have fun with your high school sweetheart.”

“Eric’s not a sweetheart,” I say, double-checking the front pocket of my luggage to make sure I have all my chargers. “Well, he’s a sweetheart, but he wasn’t my sweetheart.”

“You talk to him all the time. I sure as hell hope he’s something.”

My cheeks warm, and I can feel a dorky grin creeping on my lips. “He’s my best friend.”

“Whatever!” Eve kisses my cheek and then smacks it. “Just have fun and get out of here.”

I laugh and zip the pocket on my suitcase. I will be so happy to have not-pregnant Eve back. “I will. Love you, again!”

Paul snores from behind Eve and mumbles, “I love you too, baby.”

Eve rolls her eyes, but a smile forms on her face as she rubs her boyfriend’s hair. “Love you,” she mouths to me, and I roll myself and my suitcase from our dorm. It’s the last time I’ll see it till school starts up again.

I’m going to be so late. I should’ve packed my laptop earlier, because it sucks me in every time. I lose track of the clock, and a “quick check on my Facebook” becomes an hour or two of social networking. I can’t help it. It’s the only time I really feel connected to people. With Dad moving to Alaska when I jetted off to college, I got used to being alone. I keep in contact with my high school friends via the Internet, though.

Most of them flitted away, too busy with their own lives to mess around online, but Eric was one who didn’t. My big, cushy, smoking-hot, piece-of-gorgeousness, ready-to-drool-just-thinking-about-him, Samoan best friend. Eric played linebacker on the high school football team. Well, backup linebacker. Damn, I wanted him. Badly. But he had a girlfriend, and I was too scared to tell him how I felt.

After he graduated, Eric went to Samoa to spend time with his uncle, and I trudged through my senior year, constantly checking my Facebook just so I could talk to him. I told him to take pictures and post them, and he did, but never of himself. Eric’s a little self-conscious about his weight. His profile pic is an image of a Dr. Seuss book, which he changes every once in a while. Currently it’s Hop on Pop.

When he told me he was watching his mom’s beach condo on the Florida coast for the summer, I squealed so loud I may have scared a few people in Starbucks. An IM conversation later, I have an entire summer with my best friend—I seriously hope for more, since I’m pretty sure he’s not taken now—at his condo, right next to my job at the SnoGo on Daytona Beach. Since Dad will be spending the summer on the Pacific Ocean fishing, I found this alternative much better. I’m okay spending it on land by the ocean. But never will I set foot in the water. Nope. Couldn’t pay me enough to do that.

My piece-of-shit Camaro needs gas, and I mutter under my breath, “Damn it!” I’m going to show up even later than I’d planned. I told Eric I’d be there at one-ish, and according to Google, it’s going to take three hours and twenty-seven minutes to get from Keiser to Daytona. I pull my phone out after I’ve shoved my heavy-ass suitcase into the trunk and IM Eric, hoping he looks at it before I get there.

Running late. So sorry! Be there more like 2ish. Can’t wait to see you!

Now to stop myself from looking at my Facebook feed again before getting on the road.

—

My excitement level peaks when I pull into the condo parking lot. It’s 2:34, so I’m still a little late, but I blame the stupid tolls. My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I’m tempted to check it, but I’ll wait till the car is at a complete stop since I have no idea where the hell I’m going.

The building numbers are faded and cracked, but I think the one I pull up to is building 14. Eric said he’d be waiting outside, but I don’t see him. And honestly, he’d be easy to spot…from what I remember.

I slap the Camaro in park and yank out my cell. My finger is on the call button when a tap comes at my window.

“Holy shit!” My phone flies from my hand, and I squint at the cute guy smiling at me through the window. It takes way too long for me to realize this cute guy is…my cute guy.

I pop the door open, and Eric swings it the rest of the way, sticking his hand out to help me from my seat.

“Eric?”

He laughs before wrapping me in a bear hug. The buttons on his tight black shirt press into my cheek as he squeezes me airtight. Butterflies explode from my stomach and escape my mouth in the form of a high-pitched, embarrassing squeal. In high school, we’d start most of our greetings this way, with me getting swallowed in his massive arms. But after three years…His arms are different. His stomach—holy shit, where did it go?

I push back and can’t help my jaw from dropping to the asphalt.

“Where’s the rest of you?” I laugh, and walk around my Eric. Is this my Eric? He looks so different. So different. His squishy, adorable love handles have disappeared into his shorts. His ass…holy shit. And his face went from round to square. He chuckles as I step back in front of him, poking his stomach. He jerks back, and that’s when I know it’s really him. Eric is the most ticklish person on the planet.

“Holy shit.” Seems to be the phrase of the day.

He smiles, and my heart balloons. I’ve missed that smile.

“I must’ve left the rest of me in Samoa.”

I throw myself back into his bear hug, laughing. “Oh my gosh…I can wrap my arms around you.”

This is not what I expected. Eric was my squishy teddy bear. Now he’s this massive muscular teddy bear. I run my hands over his back just to get a feel for it. Unreal. I stay in his hold for probably way longer than is considered normal.

“Let’s get your stuff inside,” he says over my head. “I promise we’ll hug more later.”

I feel insanely empty when we break from each other. We talk every day. We chat and we email, we talk on the phone, but I never get to hug him. So I can’t help but squeeze his arm and bounce as he pulls my suitcase from the trunk.

I’m too damn excited to let go of him now.

Don’t miss Lauren Layne’s next novel in the Redemption series—the story of a crush gone wickedly wrong, proving that what you want isn’t always what you need.

Crushed

Coming from Flirt

Growing up in New York, Michael St. Claire never expected to spend his twenties wearing cowboy boots. But that was before he learned about his real father, a total stranger with a family in Cedar Grove, Texas. Once in the Lone Star State, Michael meets Kristin Bellamy, who is exquisitely refined and everything Michael always thought he wanted in a woman. The only problem is that Kristin is dating Michael’s new half brother, Devon.

Kristin’s mouthy, curvy sister Chloe has always been in love with Devon Patterson. So when Michael offers to help Chloe break up Devon and Kristin, Chloe agrees to a deal that seems too good to be true. Before long, Chloe finally gets her man, only to make a startling discovery: She no longer wants the guy she had to fight for—she wants the one who stood by her side.

After all he and Chloe have been through, Michael swears he’s damaged goods. Can Chloe convince him that love is worth the risk?

Experience the first rush of love

eOriginal Romance from Random House

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