Broken:Flirt New Adult Romance(20)

"Because before now I've always had Lindy or Mick to talk to when you're having one of your childish episodes."

"They're not episodes. And I'm allowed to have a break from people."

"Well, then you'll understand why I need to get out. I need a break.  From you." She gives a condescending smile and moves as though to pat my  cheek. My fingers wrap around her wrist and I squeeze. Hard.

"Don't. Touch. Me," I say, my teeth clenched. Don't ever touch me.

I release her hand with so much force that she almost topples backward, thrown off balance in her high heels.

I swear roughly and reach out a hand to steady her, but she steps back  to avoid my touch. I drop my hand. I can't blame her for recoiling, but I  hate it all the same. I'm a monster.         

     



 

"Olivia . . ."

"Don't apologize," she says quietly. "I shouldn't have tried. I'm sorry."

She reaches down to pick up the purse that she dropped, and scoops her  keys off the counter. "Mick said I could borrow one of the cars. I won't  be late, but I have my cell if you need anything." She heads toward the  door.

"Wait," I say, moving toward her.

Olivia pauses, giving me a look over her shoulder. "What?"

"I . . ."

I have no fucking idea what I'm trying to say. I don't know if I want to  tell her to stay, or have fun, or something even more godawful and  unimaginable, like beg her to take me with her.

Take me with you on a Friday night where there are people and beers and laughter and shitty music, and my old friend Kali.

But I say none of those things, especially not the last one.

I don't go out. Not anymore.

"Thanks for making me dinner," I say gruffly.

This time she doesn't even turn around. "Just doing my job, Langdon."





CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Olivia


I've never been to a bar by myself.

And I can't say I've ever imagined my first foray into solo drinking  being at a tiny local bar on the outskirts of Bar Harbor, Maine. But  tonight I force myself.

Lately I've been terrified that Paul's reclusiveness will be contagious.  Like if I don't get some outside human interaction, I'll turn into a  hostile turd like him, and become this wretched beast who doesn't have  to be accountable to anyone for my pissy moods.

Actually, that's only part of the reason I left the house tonight.  Truthfully? I hoped he'd come with me. Not that I asked. I intentionally  didn't ask, being stupid enough to imagine that the thought of being  left all alone might be enough to spur Paul into leaving the house of  his own volition.

My plan was to make it look very much like I wanted him to stay. I made  what Google claimed to be the Ultimate World-Famous Chili, avoided him  all day (actually, he avoided me first, but whatever), and I dressed  carefully in an outfit intended to be sexy but understated. You know, a  girl going out on the town for her own amusement, but if she happened to  meet a cute guy, then hey, why not?

But Paul didn't take the bait. I guess I should count it as progress  that he even came out of his lair in search of food, but the truth is,  I'm disappointed. It's just not right for a twentysomething guy to be  cooped up in the house for years. How long until all of that isolation  turns him into one of those weird hermits who can't function in normal  society even if he wanted to?

I'm parked outside of Frenchy's. I want to turn right back around and go  home, but Lindy's lecture from earlier that afternoon is still rattling  around in my brain. Just because he wants to pretend he's dead doesn't  mean you have to. We may not be New York City, but we have good people  here. Work your thing, sister.

Okay, so the talk had been half sweet, half awkward, but Lindy made a  good point. I don't want to end up like Paul: socially stunted and on a  one-way street toward freakdom.

I get out of the car.

From the outside, Frenchy's-I assume the name comes from its location on  Frenchman Bay-looks like a combination of ski lodge and roadside dive.  The wood beams give it a homey, welcoming feeling, while the smattering  of neon beer signs in the windows lends just the right amount of bar  vibe. On the right side of the building is a covered deck, which I  imagine is the place to be on a clear summer's day, but in late  September it's deserted. However, the faint thump of music shows that  inside, at least, there's some activity.

I take a deep breath and open the door.

My worst-case scenario is that the entire place falls silent as everyone  turns to stare at the newcomer. Best case is nobody notices me and I  can find a bar stool, preferably on the end, where I can sit and get my  bearings.

The reality is somewhere in between. The old-school rock music rocks on  as I step inside, and although the majority of the clientele is far  enough along in whisky and beer to be oblivious to my arrival, people at  the handful of tables nearest the door turn to glance at me. And then  glance a second time.

Lindy assured me that this was a local hangout, a place where I'd fit  right in, but I think she may have been forgetting the not-so-tiny  detail that I'm not exactly a local. I don't fit right in. Not even a  tiny bit.

Even if my clothes don't scream city girl (which they do), I stand out  just by virtue of being a girl at all. I count maybe five women, sure,  but the majority of the clientele is men. Fishermen, judging from the  attire.         

     



 

Still, it's not quite the painful scene I was fearing. It's  uncomfortable, sure, but most of the looks are curious, not lecherous or  leering. I give a tentative smile at a middle-aged couple, and the  woman gives me a half smile back as her companion turns back to his  phone and beer, totally disinterested.

Although there are plenty of available tables, sitting alone at a table  somehow seems a little too lonely considering I'm after human  companionship, so I make my way to a cluster of empty bar stools.

Almost immediately a glass of water is in front of me, followed by a  white paper coaster with Frenchy's scribbled across the middle in a  no-nonsense font.

"What can I get ya?" asks a friendly voice.

The bartender is a cute brunette with freckles and warm honey-brown  eyes. Her hair's pulled up in one of those messy buns that some girls  make look adorable. She's one of those girls.

"Um, white wine?" I ask, hoping it's not a terrible faux pas in a place like this.

"I've got a chardonnay or a pinot grigio. The chard's way better."

"I'll have that, then," I say, returning her friendly smile.

She plunks a glass in front of me before heading to the fridge and pulling out the wine bottle.

"Not a lot of wine drinkers?" I ask, noticing that the bottle is unopened.

She shrugs. "Beer's definitely the drink of choice, but more people are  getting wine now that I got rid of the sugary swill they used to serve  here."

"Oh, wow," I say as she fills my glass way beyond the typical pour.

"You look like you need it," she says with a wink before sliding back down the bar to check on the other patrons.

She's right on two fronts-the chardonnay is delicious, and I do need it.

I watch the bartender out of the corner of my eye she chats up an old  guy at the end of the bar, her laugh long and genuine as he tells her  some story about his grandson's antics.

Lindy didn't describe the mysterious Kali to me beyond saying that she's  a "good sort," but the age is about right, and I wonder if this is  Paul's childhood summer friend.

When she makes her way toward me again to refill my water, I get up the nerve to ask.

"Yeah, I'm Kali," she says, looking a little surprised by the question. "Have we met?"

"Nope, I'm new to the area."

"Yeah, I guessed that by the silk shirt," she says in a confidential  whisper. "I'm betting it costs more than a car payment for most of us in  here. Tourist?"

"Sort of," I hedge. "I'm working over at the Langdon house."

Her smile slips. "Paul's place?"

"Yeah."

She stands up straighter, her palms flat against the bar as she studies  me, almost protective. "You don't look like Langdon employee material."

Her tone isn't unkind, but it's clear I'm being evaluated. "What do I look like?"

She shrugs. "A few years ago I would have pegged you as girlfriend material for Paul. But now . . ."

We make eye contact and have one of those weird moments of female  understanding. We both know he doesn't do girlfriends anymore. "I'm the  new caregiver," I say quietly. "Although that word never quite feels  right."

"Yeah, Paul's never really been one to be taken care of. At least, not as I remember him."

I lean forward a little, desperate to keep her talking, but not wanting  to come off as prying. "You haven't seen him since he came back?"

She shakes her head and needlessly tops off my wineglass-a good sign  that she's not trying to get rid of me. "Nah. My folks' place isn't too  far from his house. The Langdons used to rent that place where they  live, you know. Paul's father only bought it a couple of years ago when  he needed a full-time, um, retreat for Paul. I live closer to town now,  but back when we were kids I lived for the day when Paul would show up  for those couple of weeks in the summer."