Broken:Flirt New Adult Romance(12)

"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."

"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.

And if there's the slightest undercurrent of loneliness, I ignore it.





CHAPTER NINE

Olivia


After my shower, I go looking for Paul.

He's not in his library or the kitchen. Halfway back up the stairs, I  hear the hard, driving music from the direction of his bedroom. I didn't  grow up with a brother (or a sister, for that matter), but I'm pretty  sure all that scary guitar noise is dude code for "keep the hell out."

Fine with me.

I'm not sure which encounter feels more strange: the kiss in the library  last night, or the unexpected predawn walk/run, where we almost  connected for like a half second before he reverted to asshole mode.

Returning to my bedroom, I check my email, ignoring everything except  the message from Harry Langdon. I hit reply and proceed to vomit out a  bunch of lies about how "Paul and I are going to do just fine together!"

It's not like I can tell him the truth: that I'm not at all sure how to survive three months with his gorgeous, tormented son.

And then, because I have no idea what else I'm supposed to be doing, I take myself on a little tour of the Langdon estates.

The compound is just as enormous and impressive in the morning as it was  at twilight, and although everything is state-of-the-art, right down to  the sound system in the small house, which Mick insists on showing me, I  can't help but feel like I've stepped back into another era where some  desolate duke reigns over a semi-abandoned estate.

The gym in particular is depressing. It has enough equipment for an  entire football team, which is a little pathetic considering there's  only one person using it, and according to Harry Langdon's earlier  emails, Paul only works his upper body-not the leg that so desperately  needs rehabilitation.         

     



 

Yet . . . I wasn't lying this morning when I pointed out that he doesn't  seem to need his cane. Admittedly, my psychology expertise is limited  to one throwaway psych class my freshman year at NYU, but I'd bet  serious money that Paul Langdon's issues are a lot more in his head than  in his leg. And I suspect that, deep down, he knows it too.

Which is why he's avoiding me.

He's not trying to run me off with the same sort of hostile enthusiasm  he displayed yesterday, but he's certainly not seeking me out. I'm  disappointed but not surprised. After all, he's made it very clear that  he can't stand anything about me. Not my personality, not my running  technique, not my pink shoes . . .

Later, Lindy asks me to take Paul lunch-homemade minestrone and a ham  sandwich-but when I bring it into the study, the room is still empty.  However, there's a glass of some brown alcohol on the desk that I know  wasn't there earlier, so he's obviously not locked in his bedroom  anymore.

Yup. Definitely avoiding me. I take the tumbler of liquor out with me  after setting the tray on the desk. I'm not a teetotaler by any means,  but the last thing this guy needs is to be drinking before noon. When I  get back to the kitchen I dump the alcohol down the sink, perversely  hoping that I've just tossed something extremely expensive.

I spend the next couple of hours in my room. I call my mom and give her a  glossy, half-truth-filled version of my first day. Next I call Bella,  and although I fill her in on the fact that Paul is younger than  expected and ridiculously sexy (best friend privilege; I can't not tell  her), I stop short of confiding that I'm both drawn to him and utterly  terrified by him. I certainly don't tell her about the kiss.

Then I kill as much time as I can checking in on the various social  media stops, spending an extra few minutes studying the newest pictures  of Ethan and Stephanie, just to punish myself.

Seeing the wide smile on my ex's face when he looks at the tiny brunette  feels a bit like a knife in the chest. He used to look at me that way.  Didn't he? Ugh. What if he didn't? What if nobody does again?

Once I've exhausted every social media network and every celeb gossip  site I know, I'm about to close my laptop when a new email comes  through.

It's from Harry Langdon.


Ms. Middleton:

Glad to hear you're settling in nicely. I hope Paul wasn't too  unwelcoming. He can be a bit rough around newcomers given his condition.  I know he'll be difficult, but I'm confident that even just an hour or  two of human contact each day is vital to his recovery. Be patient with  him. He's a good boy.

I'll be in touch,

Harry

P.S.: Watch his drinking.

I read the message twice. Really? "A good boy"? Clearly Harry hasn't  spent much time with his "boy" in a while, because the guy I met is far  from good, and well on his way out of boyhood.

Also, what condition? Hostility? General asshole-ness? Being allowed to wallow in self-pity for too long?

Plus there's a detached quality about the email that's bugging me. Sure,  the man is paying ridiculous amounts of money to hide his son away in  luxury, but can paid babysitters really make up for the lack of family?  And where's Paul's mom? I make a mental note to ask Lindy.

The only thing about the businesslike email that gives me any peace of  mind is Mr. Langdon's mention of "an hour or two" of human contact. I  admit I've been feeling a little weird about getting free room and board  plus a decent salary to watch over a guy I can't even seem to locate.  But hey, if they want to pay me to intrude on his morning walks and dump  out his booze, bring it on.

I set the laptop aside and reach for the book I brought with me. One of  my personal goals for this little Maine adventure is to read more. I  mean, I've always been really good at reading gossip magazines, and I  read my textbooks carefully enough to get good grades. But lately I've  had a little craving to get more substance into my life.