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 absolve 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."