by Lauren Layne
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 easiness, 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, 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 is 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 before I 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 drop-out. 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. An
d, 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.”
<
br /> “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.
