"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 of the bed. 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 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.