Broken: Flirt New Adult Romance

by Lauren Layne

  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 amount 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 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 each day, 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 looking to rediscover my humanity—to remind myself that I’m a 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 reemerges 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 j
ust 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 you’ve worn for three days in a row with the hole in the sleeve.”

  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 were 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 budget 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, 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, i
f 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.