"What was that?" he snaps.
I shrug as though touching his firm and, um, perfect ass cheek is no big deal. "Thought you needed a little encouragement."
He lifts his eyebrows. "Oh, absolutely. I could use some encouragement. Why don't I show you what sort of encouragement would rev my engines?" His eyes drop to my chest, and my nipples tighten in response.
Well . . . crap. That backfired.
I shoo him forward. "Chop chop, Langdon. I don't have all day. Women need to exercise too."
He gives me an understanding nod. "Kegels. I get it."
I make a face and jab a finger at the bench. "Sit."
There's no fear on his face anymore. It's perfectly blank, as though he's preparing himself for failure.
"Okay," I say, moving over to the machine, grateful that my mom's had me going to a personal trainer since I was sixteen. Sort of psycho, now that I think about it, but at least I know my way around weight machines.
His right leg immediately falls into place, but he hesitates before moving his left leg into position. He's wearing blue sweatpants, so I can't see his injured leg, and although I hate to admit it, I'm kind of glad.
Granted, I could have looked at it last night when I barged in on him in his boxers, but I had more important things to worry about. Like the fact that the guy had some seriously messed-up dreams. And that he knew his way all too well around my body in way too short a time.
I shake my head a little to clear it, carefully avoiding meeting his eyes.
"You're blushing," he says. "Whatcha thinking about?"
I give him a glare. I'm pretty sure he knows exactly what I'm thinking about. His expression flickers with something-remorse?-and for a second I think he's going to apologize for last night. He should apologize.
And yet . . . I don't want him to. That would somehow make me into the victim of the situation, and I was very much in control. Well, not in control of my hormones. But I know that if I'd told him to back off, he would have. He hurt my pride, but not me. I'd wanted every second of pleasure that he gave me, even if it was for all the wrong reasons. I don't want an apology for that.
My gaze locks with his. Drop it.
His eyes narrow slightly before he looks away.
Good boy.
I make a big show of checking the weight, but it's already at the lowest setting. Probably the factory setting, since I bet it's never been used.
"Ready when you are," I say quietly.
His lips press together for a second as he rolls his shoulders in irritation. "Do you have to watch?"
I give a careless little shrug. "I watched the rest of your workout."
"That was different," he grinds out. "And, for the record, creepy."
"Couldn't be helped. You can do a crazy number of pull-ups. I doubt I could do five."
"You think you can do one?"
"Hey!" I say.
Paul lifts his hands, all innocence. "They're hard. I knew a handful of women in boot camp who couldn't do more than two. Men too."
I open my mouth to argue, except I have no idea if I can do even one pull-up. I jab a finger toward his chest. "You're stalling. And I already said I'd answer one of your dumb questions. Don't try to sweet-talk me into a pull-up too."
"Yeah, that's what every guy wants to see. A girl trying to do a pull-up."
If it's anything like watching men do pull-ups, it wouldn't be half bad. There was something about Paul in his gray tank top and those blue sweatpants hugging lean hips as he lifted himself over and over and . . .
My thoughts about his perfect back scatter as I realize his legs are moving. I have to dig my nails into my palm to keep from touching him in encouragement.
The first time is ridiculously easy for him, and it's clear he's using his good leg to lift the weight.
Same with the second time.
And the third. And the fourth. And the fifth. The right leg doing all the work, with the left just along for the ride.
No way. Not good enough. Now I do touch him. Just a gentle touch above his good knee, but it's enough to make him pause. His eyes fly to mine, although he quickly turns his head so he's not facing me head-on. Like in most gyms, the lighting in here is fairly bright, and abruptly I realize it's the first time I've had the chance to see his scars up close, without the shadows of dawn or dusk, or his gloomy den, or his dark bedroom.
There are no shadows to soften his scars in here, but I didn't even notice. I know they're there, of course, but somehow they're just part of the complex package that is Paul Langdon.
But I know he doesn't see it that way. So when he turns away, I avert my eyes. First we'll fix the leg. Then we'll work on getting him to accept his new face.
I press my hand gently on his knee again, silently telling him to relax his good leg and let the other one do the work. From the shuddering breath he lets out, I know he understands my request.
His hands fist at his sides, and for a second I think he's going to tell me to fuck off, but then the bar starts to rise again. Slower this time. But steadily.
Six, I mentally count.
He lowers his leg, staring at it as though surprised to find that it's actually moving when he wants it to.
The bar moves again. Still slowly, but still steadily. Seven.
This time the bar drops with more of a clank, and my heart twists as I realize just how much weaker that leg really is.
But he doesn't quit. Again, slower still. Eight. Then a painstaking ninth rep.
The bar halts halfway through the tenth, and his breathing is harsh. I slip my hand in his, trying to communicate palm to palm that he can do this.
His fingers clench around mine so hard I swear I hear bones crunch, but it's worth it to see him lift a few more inches. The bar falls quickly this time as his leg gives out, and the clank of metal seems to go on forever before I finally tear my eyes away from his leg to meet his gaze.
He's staring at me, and my mouth goes dry at the intensity of his stare. I want to cheer. He's defeated this first demon. But the victory didn't come for free.
I start to pull my hand away, but he holds me still.
"Your turn, Goldilocks. Start talking."
I want to say something witty, but the best I can do is a pathetic little eye roll, and his smirk tells me he knows I'm backed into a corner I don't want to be in. It doesn't stop him for going from the kill.
"My burning question, Ms. Middleton . . . and I'll have the truth, please . . ."
I hesitate only slightly before giving a curt nod.
"Don't worry. It's an easy one." He leans forward. "Who, my dear, is Ethan Price?"
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Paul
Confession: my research on Olivia Middleton has gone beyond just getting her vital stats, like her age and where she's from. I may or may not have snooped through every picture she's ever been tagged in.
And the star of the Olivia show was Ethan Price. A guy who'd been glued to her side in almost every picture for a very, very long time.
Then, a few months ago, bam. All couple shots ceased.
And now? This Ethan guy's profile features a cute, edgy-looking brunette, which makes me think a reconciliation between Olivia and her onetime suitor isn't likely.
I shouldn't care. I don't care. Olivia Middleton's love life has nothing to do with me, but the timing is interesting. She drops out of school months after her romantic life explodes? High-tails it to Maine? I'm thinking the two are connected.
Her shocked expression tells me I've caught her off guard with my stalker-worthy information. But it's not the surprise on her face that intrigues me. It's the flash of guilt.
Interesting.
"How do you know about Ethan?" she asks.
No big deal. Just dabbling in cyberstalking.
I absently rub my leg as I study her. In truth, the leg doesn't hurt as much as I expected, but the fact that such a simple exercise is even remotely difficult is an appalling reminder of exactly how weak the leg has become.
No, how weak I've let it become.
As much as I hate myself, I hate her more for forcing this upon me. Not only the pain in my leg, but the realization of its weakness. If this keeps up, the next three months just might destroy me. And if that's the case, I'm taking her with me on the road of destruction. My leg is my weak spot, but I'm betting that Ethan Price is hers.
"Your privacy settings on your social media profiles leave a lot to be desired," I finally say in answer to her question.
"I have nothing to hide." She lifts her chin a little.
"Great. Then there should be no problem telling me about your boyfriend."
"Ex-boyfriend," she corrects automatically.
"Ah," I say knowingly, even though I've already figured that much out. "Do tell."
"I just did. You asked who Ethan Price was, and I told you. He's my ex-boyfriend. I said I'd give you the truth; I didn't say I'd give you a rundown on my entire love life."
I make a bigger show out of massaging my leg, as if to say, You owe me. Her lips purse for a second, making her look a tiny bit prissy and a lot cute.