Broken:Flirt New Adult Romance(16)

"Cool," I say.

Lindy purses her lips. "You'll be fine. For food and stuff. I mean, it won't be my cooking, but . . ."

Technically she's talking to me, but I know from her tone she's trying to reassure herself that she's not abandoning me.

I give her a look. "Do you have any idea what they feed soldiers in Afghanistan? I'll be fine."

"Olivia tells us she's handy enough around the kitchen," Lindy responds,  as though she didn't hear me. "I'm sure you can survive on scrambled  eggs or grilled cheese, or whatever she has in her repertoire."

Olivia.

Me and Olivia.

Alone. In the house.

Olivia in itty-bitty pajamas, with full breasts and long, toned legs.

Olivia with her don't-fuck-with-me green eyes and lips that taste better than the most expensive Scotch on the market.         

     



 

I won't survive it.

"Whatever," I mutter.

I keep one eye on the door as I eat, half expecting Olivia to come  barging in with that Andrew Jackson book she's about two pages into,  insisting that we share a meal. But the door stays shut. The house stays  quiet.

After lunch, I try to read, but I can't concentrate. Instead, I head to  the gym. Usually I hit the gym first thing in the morning, after my walk  along the water and before my shower, but I didn't have the energy this  morning. Not after last night.

The gym is, admittedly, ridiculous. It's huge by normal standards, but  considering that only one person uses it, it's downright absurd. Mick  and Lindy are welcome to use it, but they're not exactly fitness buffs.  It's just me.

I move steadily through my routine, relishing the familiar burn as I  push my upper body to the limit. The truth is, from the waist up, I'm in  better shape than I was at the peak of my military training, and that's  saying something. On some level, I guess I know that it has to do with  overcompensating for the bad leg, but I don't give a shit.

For some reason, I can't stop thinking about my leg today, all too aware  that it's only going to get weaker and weaker. I keep it in usable  shape by taking my daily walks. I'm not a complete idiot. I might not  buy any of that physical therapy bullshit, but I know that unused limbs  atrophy and all that. But I draw the line at any lower-body exercises in  here, even for my good leg. It's too much of a reminder of where I used  to be, and where I'll never be again. No squats. No lifts. No leg  presses . . .

I push the thought aside, and with a last grunt I finish my set of presses. I lie on my back on the bench, chest heaving.

"You're going to wind up hideously out of proportion if you keep that up."

The voice is unexpected, and I sit up so quickly that I almost hit my head on the bar.

Olivia.

She's wearing a sports bra and matching athletic shorts in . . . wait  for it . . . pink. There's an iPod in her hand and a water bottle under  her arm. It's obvious that she's here to use the gym herself, not to  hound me. Probably could have figured that out from the way she looks.  The boobs might be God-given, but the rest of her has been well earned.

She moves toward me, and although her ponytail is as perky as ever, she  has shadows under her eyes and her expression is more guarded than it  was yesterday. She's put walls between us, keeping me at a distance.

I feel a flash of regret, even as I mentally congratulate her. And myself. Mission accomplished, asshole.

"You're going to be disproportionate," she repeats. "All bulky and ridiculous on top, and scrawny on the bottom."

"I'm not scrawny," I say immediately. Why are we talking about this instead of last night?

She comes closer, reaching out a hand and plucking at the fabric of my  pants. She raises an eyebrow. "Yeah? When was the last time you wore  shorts?"

I lift my eyebrows right back. "You saw me in boxers last night. Did you see scrawny?"

She snatches her hand back. "We're not talking about last night."

"I thought you'd be back in New York by now. Or at least all up my face demanding an apology."

Her expression never changes. "I thought about it. But I need some  distance from New York, and I know better than to expect an apology, so .  . ." She holds out her arms as though to say, Here we are, deal with  it.

Her matter-of-fact reaction to last night pisses me off. She should be  demanding an apology-what the hell is wrong with her that she isn't?  Even more annoying . . . why do I want to give one?

"When was the last time you did any sort of lower-body workout?" she asks, oblivious to my inner turmoil.

I snatch her water bottle and take a long drink as I study her. "Not your business."

She pretends to think about this. "Oh, wait a second, actually it is my  business. If you want, I can get you my job description. It specifically  says-"

"I'm sure it does," I interrupt. "But you can go ahead and scratch that physical portion off because I'm not doing it."

"Ten leg lifts," she says calmly, ignoring me.

"What?" I ask, annoyed, as I get into a standing position. "No way."

"We can start them easy. No weight at all."

"I'm going back to the house," I mutter, leaning down to grab my towel.

She moves in front of me. "Five. Leg lifts."

I roll my eyes. "You're a terrible negotiator. You lower your price too quickly even before you've offered an enticing reward."         

     



 

"I'm not haggling with you for the thrill of it. I'm just trying to do  my job." She puts her hands on her hips. It reminds me that my hands  were on that very spot not so long ago. And that I want them to be there  again.

I tear my eyes away from the enticing points of her hip bone.

"Why is this your job?" I ask.

She jerks her shoulders back a little, defensively. Interesting. "What?"

"Why is coaxing me to work my shit leg your job of choice? My little  recon exercise says you were a marketing major. Didn't Daddy want you in  the lucrative family business?"

Her eyes flit away from mine. "Sure. That was the original plan."

"What changed?" I ask, surprised to realize that I'm genuinely interested.

"Life," she snaps. "And we're not talking about me."

"Obviously we are," I counter, taking another gulp of her water.

She opens her mouth, probably to tell me to fuck off, but then she seems  to reconsider. She tilts her head, and just then I realize exactly what  I've set myself up for.

"I'll trade you one question for ten leg lifts."

"Nope," I reply, already turning around. "No way."

"Come on," she says, scooting around to get in front of me. "Don't you  want to know why a hot twenty-two-year-old with everything going for her  is hiding out here in Maine?"

I give her a glance over my shoulder. "Did you just call yourself hot?"

Olivia smiles a gotcha smile. "Aren't I?"

I flick my eyes over her. Yes. "Maybe."

"So you're in? Ten leg lifts for one question?"

I hesitate, even though my brain is demanding I walk away now. "Will I get the real story?" I ask. "Or some bullshit evasion?"

"I'll give you a true statement, but no guarantees that it's the whole story. Final offer."

"Not good enough."

She sighs. "How about I'll give you a true statement, and I'll let you give me running pointers tomorrow?"

I put a hand over my chest. "I can't believe this is happening. All my dreams are coming true."

"You in or out, Langdon?"

Walk away. Walk the hell away.

Her green eyes are practically bursting with challenge. And, even more intriguing, secrets.

"Fuck it. I'm in."





CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Olivia


Yeah, okay. So agreeing to answer Paul Langdon's questions isn't going  to go in my Good Choices Hall of Fame. But to be totally fair, I've been  pretty short on good choices lately, so this feels about par for the  course.

However, that doesn't make it any easier to think about the possibility  of spilling my guts, even though I fully intend to censor the heck out  of whatever truth I have to give him.

For a second I'm about to back out and tell him there's no way I'm going  to spill my guts just to bribe him to do something he should have  started a long time ago.

But then I see the tension on his face when he looks at the waiting  leg-press machine. He's nervous. I mean, he's pissed too, because I'm  guessing I'm not the only one who's furious about getting backed into a  corner.

But it's not Paul's anger that has me swallowing my pride and pushing on  with our agreement, even at the expense of my own privacy. It's his  unease.

He's afraid of failing.

As he starts to head toward the leg-press machine like it's the  guillotine, I mentally throw away the bubblegum pep talk that I figure  is written in the Caretaker 101 textbook for this type of situation.  We're supposed to be our client's cheerleaders, but this guy needs  something entirely different. Acting entirely on instinct, my hand  reaches out and gives him a sharp smack on the ass.

He halts, throwing me an incredulous look over his shoulder. His very nice, very sculpted shoulder, by the way.