Broken:Flirt New Adult Romance(13)

I pulled a biography of Andrew Jackson off the shelf in my dad's library  when I was packing, mostly because it was big and had Pulitzer Prize  winner printed on the front. Impressive, right? So maybe I hadn't known  straightaway that Andrew Jackson was a former president, but that only  reinforced my resolution to read it. The new and improved Olivia is  going to know shit like that.

I open my bedroom door, listening for the music coming from Paul's room.  Nothing. I hope this means he's down in his study. Poor guy doesn't  know it yet, but he's about to have some company doing whatever it is he  does in that room for unhealthy amounts of time.         

     



 

I put on a quick swipe of mascara and pink lip gloss. I try to tell  myself that it's out of habit (my mom is of the opinion that ladies  should always be groomed), but I'm pretty sure it's because I'm trying  to make up for the fact that the last time Paul saw me, I had major boob  sweat and a greasy ponytail and was short on oxygen.

My dark jeans and cream sweater aren't exactly sexy, but they're a big  improvement from my running gear. As is the fact that I'm showered.

You're an employee, my brain reminds me. So not the time to cultivate your inner tramp.

At the library door, I start to knock, only to realize that'll give him a  chance to throw himself out the window or sneak out some secret  passageway that I'm only half kidding about. Instead I go right in, and  the scene in front of me is . . . well, it's ridiculously appealing.

The roaring fireplace in the corner, the sexy guy in the big wingback  chair by the fireplace with a book and another of those amber-liquid  filled tumblers. It's all very après-ski chic.

For the first time since arriving in this hellish place, I feel a true  pang of regret for intruding on him. He doesn't seem like a victim who  needs a keeper so much as a guy trying to read a book in peace by the  fire on a blustery afternoon.

I'm thinking about backing away and leaving him to the quiet when he opens his fat mouth.

"That liquor you tossed earlier came from a five-hundred-dollar bottle."

Ah. Back to normal. I use my foot to close the door behind me. "I'm sure  that really made a dent in the family coffers. You know, right, that  all of the artwork in your halls is original?"

"Come on," he says, still not looking up from his book "You're a rich  girl. Surely you know how stereotypical comments like that can be."

"Yeah, you look really torn up about it," I mutter, moving closer to him. "And how do you know I'm rich?"

"Google. Your family's a big deal."

I ignore this. We'll both be better off not talking about me.

"So what is it?" I ask, tentatively sitting in the chair across from his  even though I'm uninvited and clearly unwelcome. I study him. Paul has  just a bit more stubble than he did yesterday. Normally I prefer a  clean-cut guy, but this slightly rough look really, really suits his  golden-boy-meets-jaded-war-hero vibe. I wait for him to look at me,  mentally bracing myself for the shock of it.

As though he's sensed my thoughts, his gray eyes flick to mine, and I'm  not sure why I thought bracing for it would make a damned bit of  difference. It still sends ripples of want from my eyelashes right down  to my toes.

"What is what?" he asks.

It takes me a moment to realize that I asked him a question. "The precious liquor I threw out. What is it?"

His eyes flicker in irritation and I think he's going to tell me to get  the hell out, but something seems to stop him, and he very slowly lifts  the crystal glass from the table and hands it to me.

I sniff. "Scotch."

He nods. "A thirty-year-old Highland Park. Not the best we have, but not something to be tossed down the drain, either."

"Very alpha."

He rolls his eyes, and I take a tiny sip, knowing from past experience  that I don't really like Scotch. Turns out I don't like the $500 one  either, and I hand it back to him with a little shrug.

"Want anything?" he asks. "Wine?"

"I'm good."

Actually, water would be great right about now. Between the hot look in  his eyes and the heat of the fire, I'm a bit, um, parched.

"What are you reading?" I ask.

He groans. "Not this again. I know we're stuck with each other, but do  we have to do the get-to-know-each-other chat? Can't we just sit in  silence?"

The way he says stuck with each other gives me pause. I know why I'm  sticking this out, but why is he? From what I've heard from Lindy and  what I inferred from his father, Paul has no qualms about driving people  away.

Is he treating me differently? Or just biding his time until he figures out how to add me to his list of banished caretakers?

I really, really want it to be the first one.

"Fine," I say, sitting back in the chair and settling in. "I'll give you  twenty minutes of silence in exchange for a shared dinner."

"Hell no," he says calmly, his attention already returned to his book as he turns a page.

"Thirty minutes of silence."

"I don't share meals with anyone."

"Come on," I cajole. "I promise not to try to feed you your soup airplane style like a child."         

     



 

"No."

"Paul."

His eyes flick up again, and for the briefest of moments the look on his  face is almost one of longing. I realize it's the first time I've  spoken his name out loud.

I'm pretty sure I'm not just another caretaker. Thing is, I don't know what I am.

"I can keep a one-sided conversation going for a long time," I press on,  quickly trying to move us away from the charged moment. "Let's see, I  was born on August thirtieth, which means that my birthstone is peridot,  which is a fancy word for ugly green. And speaking of color, this hair  color? So not natural. I mean, I was one of those adorable blond  toddlers, but it all went mouse brown right about the time I started  third grade, and I've been adjusting it ever since. I got my first  period when I was-"

"Okay!" he interrupts. "I cave. You give me an hour and a half of  silence now, and I'll eat dinner with you later, but we can't talk  during that either."

"No deal. I'll give you one hour of quiet time now, but we talk at dinner."

He takes a small sip of Scotch and studies me. "You're annoying."

I start to argue that annoying has never been one of my personality  traits. I've always been more in the polite, mellow, and shy category. I  always say the right thing at parties, I respect other people's  boundaries, and I dodge controversial topics like they're land mines.  But there's something about him that's brought out this other version of  myself. I kind of like it.

I shrug, refusing to apologize. Besides, the old, sweet Olivia would get stomped on by this guy.

"So do you know who Andrew Jackson is?" I ask, pulling my legs beneath me and curling into the soft black leather of the chair.

"Yes, I know who Andrew Jackson is. Old Hickory."

Old what? "Whatever," I say. "Have you heard of this book? It's called American Lion, and-"

"Olivia," he says mildly, turning the page of his book, "that hour of silence is effective immediately."

I sigh. Guess I'll actually have to read this book intend of talk about it. So disappointing.

"Okay," I say as I open to the foreword. "But you should know that I plan to eat very, very slowly at dinner."

I ignore his groan as I settle in to read about this Old Hickory guy.  And maybe sneak a few glances at the hottest guy I've ever seen.





CHAPTER TEN

Paul


It's hot. So fucking hot, but I'm not even aware of it. None of us are,  because it's always hot, and not worth complaining about because there  are bigger things to worry about, like the helicopter that went down  last week or the Humvee that didn't return to base last night.

The best you can do is ignore the heat, play football with your friends  when you can, and pray to any god, spirit, or deity you can think of  that you'll be one of the lucky ones.

Then Williams breaks the code.

We're out on standard patrol, and he breaks the damn code.

"I fucking hate it here."

I'm in the process of mentally thinking about what the hell I'm supposed  to write to Ashley, my girlfriend back home, but my brain skids to a  halt at Williams's outburst. Garcia and Miller stop bastardizing  whatever outdated Jay-Z song they were attempting to sing and stare at  Williams with a mixture of dismay and disgust.

Alex Skinner, my best friend since boot camp, just looks pissed. "Goddamn it, Williams."

Greg Williams merely shrugs. Of all of us, he's the smallest, but he's  damned fast. And smart. At least I thought so until he broke the fucking  code.

"Don't start that," I say, trying to lighten the mood. "You know the  second we start acknowledging that we are in fact, living the shit life,  that's the second our luck runs out."

"I'm just saying. This fucking blows. The sand, the heat, the constant fear of being sent home in a box. You all know it."