"That's crap. Sure, professional soccer is probably out, and you can take modeling off the list, but you could make a living if you wanted to."
"Sure. I could be a caretaker. That's a great career path."
"Knock it off," I snap. "At least I'm doing something."
"All out of the goodness of your heart, right? You just care so much about other people, is that it?" He leans forward slightly, his eyes mean, and I hate that he seems to see right through me.
"I care."
"About me?" He gives a sick semblance of a smile, and I'm wondering how the hell this friendly, casual conversation veered so far off track so quickly.
"About people," I grind out.
"Of course," he says, leaning back in his chair, deceptively relaxed. "Olivia Middleton, the reformed do-gooder."
How does he know I'm reformed? "We're not talking about me."
"Maybe I want to," he says.
"Well, when I become so unhinged and mentally unstable and reclusive that my father pays you to spend time with me, then we can talk about me!"
His head snaps back a little, and I clamp my mouth shut. My words can't hurt him. I'm sure of it. The guy doesn't give a shit about me, and he's only tolerating me for reasons I have yet to figure out.
So what is it that I saw flash across his face just now? Because it looked an awful lot like pain.
"Sorry," I mutter. I don't lose my temper often, and the hot feeling in my cheeks is as unfamiliar as it is uncomfortable.
"Don't be," he says, opening his book again. "You make a good point. My father pays you to spend time with me, and as long as I want to live under Daddy's roof, I have to tolerate that. Doesn't mean I have to entertain you, though, so if you don't mind . . ."
It's my turn to lean forward, and I kick him none too gently, although I'm careful to kick his good leg. "I'll leave you to your sulky reading, but don't think for one second that I don't know that I'm the first caretaker to stick around. For some reason, you're letting me stay. You're even being mostly pleasant, although something tells me that's fake as hell. So anytime you want to come clean, I'd love even just a tiny clue as to what the hell's going on here. What's with the fake-friendly routine? Why me, and none of the others?"
Paul couldn't appear more bored if he let out a huge yawn, but to my surprise, he does look up from his book when I finish my rampage.
"You want to know why you're here when all of the others ran off?"
"More specifically, I want to know why you've decided to be civil to me. Something tells me that ill-tempered monster I met the first day is the real you."
"That much is true," he says, his voice all easy agreeability. "As for why I'm up for keeping you around?" His eyes move over my body, and not in a flattering way . . . in an insulting, degrading way.
My body responds anyway.
"The only reason you're still hanging around is because you're hot," he says. "Because as far as being a caretaker goes, you're worthless. You don't know shit about physical therapy, you're more annoying than you are comforting, and when Mick and Lindy take off for their weekend outing in a couple of days, I have a pretty good idea that I'll also find out you're a miserable cook. But don't worry, sweetie. You'll always find work from the male clients. The old ones will call you eye candy and the young ones will call you a hot piece of ass."
On some level I know I'm supposed to be offended, but it's almost painfully apparent that offense is exactly his intention. Which makes it really easy to disregard his meanness as pathetic self-defense.
I settle back in my chair and open my own book. "Nah, that's not why you keep me around," I muse, as though talking to myself. "But for the record, I am a really good cook. You'll see."
Paul's face goes incredulous over my refusal to get upset, but almost immediately he recovers his usual indifferent expression. "You're one messed-up piece of work."
"Yeah, but you're starting to worry that you might like me," I say confidently. "Considering I also give you a boner, shit's gonna get reaaaaal complicated here in the next few months."
Paul's soft laugh is the best sound I've heard in weeks.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Paul
Today's one of those days. The bad kind.
Last night the nightmares were unending, the sleep nonexistent, and the pain in my leg unbearable.
I'm avoiding Olivia like the plague. I tell myself it's because I don't want her around. But really I think I'm avoiding her because she has this annoying habit of drawing me out of my bad mood. That scares the crap out of me.
It's a little before dawn, and normally we'd be meeting for our daily walk/run. Today, though, I'm letting her go alone. Today is one of those days when I don't feel worthy to be alive, much less enjoying life with a beautiful girl. Not when my friends are dead. Not when Amanda Skinner spends half her nights sleeping upright in a chair in a hospital room while her daughter's lying in the bed, hooked up to tubes.
I watch from the office window as Olivia looks around for me. I wait for her to start off on her run, but she doesn't. She's just standing there, waiting for me, and damned if I don't ache a little to go out there with her. I want to let her cajole me into walking or, as she's been doing more recently, challenge me to take a couple of steps without the cane.
Instead I turn away, flipping blindly through the pages of my book until I look up and see that she's gone.
I intentionally go to the gym before she gets back. Most days we go together. We've fallen into a pattern. I let her coax me into stupid leg exercises in exchange for another piece of information about herself. Generally I enjoy it, although I'm starting to get pretty sick of all her responses being of the PR variety. So far she's told me absolutely nothing about the real Olivia Middleton.
Today, however, I don't want to be cajoled out of my bad mood. Lately there have been too many times when I forget who I am. I've been slipping into the old Paul, the one who could flirt and laugh with girls. I need a day to remind myself of the new Paul, the one who should have died with the rest of them in the fucking sandbox.
After the gym, avoiding Olivia for the rest of the day is easy enough, but when four o'clock rolls around, I hesitate. Of all the habits we've established, the routine of reading by the fire is the one I enjoy the most. And it's for that reason that I force myself to lock the door, even turning up the music so I won't have to listen to her knock or the rattling of the doorknob.
Eventually an hour passes, and then another, and I manage to lose myself in my book.
But when my stomach rumbles, I realize my mistake: I'm hungry.
I naively thought Olivia would leave a tray outside my bedroom door when I didn't respond to her knock at lunch. I was wrong. And the absence of so much as a sandwich made Olivia's message clear: if I want to sulk alone, I'll do so without food.
That was fine at breakfast. And lunch. But now? Now I'm starving, and the smell of something meaty and spicy coming from the kitchen is too much for my stomach to ignore.
As expected, Olivia's in the kitchen, only she's not wearing a cute little apron or looking all frazzled from throwing together whatever's bubbling on the stove. Instead, she's wearing tight black pants, high-heeled boots, and a flowing, expensive-looking shirt that is clearly not meant for lounging around the house.
This is not domestic Olivia. It's going-out Olivia.
"Going somewhere?" I ask, tearing my eyes away from her ass.
She spins around, opening her mouth as though to ask where the hell I've been all day, but she catches herself and fixes a vacant smile on her face.
"Hey. I hope you like chili," she says. "It's a little spicy, but enough cheddar cheese on top should tone it down."
"I'm sure it'll be fine," I say, noting that she's spent more time on her makeup. She's done that thing that girls do to make their eyes darker and more mysterious, and her mouth is pink and glossy.
"Hot date?" I ask, still fishing.
"Yeah," she says with a snort. "I've met so many great guys since I've been holed up here in your house. The really hospitable and friendly type."
I move toward her under the guise of inspecting the pot on the stove, but she sidles away before I can get close. Smart girl.
She grabs her purse.
"Where are you headed?" I hate myself for asking. For caring.
Olivia lifts a shoulder and fiddles with the strap of her purse. "Lindy says there's a bar not too far from here that I might like. Says you used to know the girl who's bartender there."
"Kali Shepherd," I say automatically. "What the hell are you going out for?"
"I get two nights and one day a week off," she snaps. "I'm finally putting them to use."
"Why haven't you taken them before now?"