Broken:Flirt New Adult Romance(11)

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. 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.