Broken:Flirt New Adult Romance(24)

I'm lying in bed, trying to convince myself that the reason I let the  kiss happen was to undo some of the damage done by that jackass in the  bar. I wanted to show him that he's not a monster. That he's not a thing  to be laughed at. I wanted him to know that he is desirable, even with  scars.

But I'm lying to myself.

I wasn't thinking about any of that when we were standing toe-to-toe in  front of that fireplace. I wasn't thinking about his issues, or my  issues, or anything other than the fact that I wanted him.

I still want him.

I put my hand over my eyes and groan as the mother of all understatements rolls through my head. This is not ideal.

I don't know when I finally fall asleep, but when my alarm goes off at  five, the early wake-up call is even more brutal than usual. I swipe at  the alarm, forcing myself to swing my legs over the side of the bed  before I can fall back asleep. My eyes have that gritty lack-of-sleep  feeling, but I barely notice, because now I can't stop thinking about  the fact that Paul's been sleeping just down the hall, wearing nothing  but boxers, and the thought makes me decidedly not sleepy.         

     



 

Switching on the lamp, I move toward the dresser drawer that holds my workout gear. Suddenly a box by the door catches my eye.

A shoe box.

There's only one other person in the house, which means there's only one  person who could have slipped the box inside the door. I picture Paul  slipping into my bedroom, all muscled abs and strong arms.

Get it together.

I pick it up the box. A quick shake confirms it: definitely shoes. But  not oh-so-sexy Louboutins. These are running shoes. Plain, ugly white  sneakers.

A sticky note sits on top of them. On it, written in messy, guyish  scrawl, is: Since you refuse to actually be fitted by the experts, I did  my best to find shoes for your gait. Sorry I couldn't find any pink  ones.

Is it ridiculous that I feel all mushy inside because a guy bought me the world's ugliest shoes? It is. I know it is.

But that doesn't do anything to get rid of the goofy grin on my face.

A glance at the clock tells me I'll be late for our run. He won't be  surprised-I'm always late. But I dress in a hurry anyway. Not all of my  workout stuff is pink, but I go out of my way to ensure that every item I  don today is, from the sports bra to the pants and right down to the  socks.

I put on the shoes, which are exactly my size. The boy must have done some creeping.

The new shoes seem to fit pretty much the same as my cute pink ones, but  maybe I'll feel a difference after a couple of miles in them. Paul is  always squawking about the importance of injury prevention, and  supposedly the right shoes will keep me from shin splits, stress  fractures, and "all sorts of other bullshit."

As expected, Paul's waiting, his back to me as he stares out at the  predawn darkness toward the water. He's wearing a long-sleeved navy  shirt and matching workout pants. He looks like a fit twentysomething  ex-Marine who should take off at a run any second.

And then there's a cane. A cane I'm still not entirely sure he needs.  Still, one thing is certain: this is not a guy who's about to start  running.

"Hey," I say softly.

I'm braced for him to be at his worst. After his stupid, clichéd "What'd  you think of Kali?" move last night, I'm fully prepared for him to do  whatever he can to push me away.

He turns. He's not smiling-shocker-but his eyes are warm. And they grow  warmer when they drift down my body, lingering on the right spots before  settling on my feet.

"How are they?" he asks, jerking his chin in the direction of the new shoes.

Okay, then-guess we're not going to talk about the kiss. But at least  he's not being a dick, which is more than I expected given the fact that  the man's emotional armor is thick.

"They're hideous, exactly as you planned."

"They'll keep your feet from rolling in. You'll thank me when you're older."

I choke out a little laugh. "Gosh, that's romantic."

His face goes blank, and I realize my mistake immediately. He can  exercise with his caregiver, read with his caregiver, even flirt with  and kiss the caregiver . . . but there's no room for romance. Not with  us.

And although I didn't mean anything by it, words like romance are lethal to a guy like Paul.

To a girl like me too. I once had all the romance in the world with  Ethan, and I managed to screw it all up. Maybe some people just aren't  meant for relationships.

Paul's expression goes from wary to bemused. "Okay then."

"What?"

He gives a little smile, and my heart twists when I see a flash of  sadness. "I was about to put up all sorts of warning signs about how I'm  not looking for a girlfriend," he says ruefully. "But judging from the  look of disgust on your face, I don't have to."

"No!" I burst out. God, he thinks my disgust is directed at him? I ache  to tell him that whatever issues he has, he's a good deal less toxic on  the inside than I am. But I lack the guts. "I just-do you really want to  talk about this?" I ask, throwing my hands up in the air.

He studies me for a second before glancing down at where his hand rests on the cane. "I don't."

I force a smile. "So . . . is there any trick I should know about these  shoes? Do I need to mutter a secret code, or do they just work their  magic by themselves?"

Paul rolls his eyes and uses his cane to gesture in the direction we  usually start our run. "Go forth and trot. Try not to trip, waddle, or  otherwise embarrass my tutelage."

"Tutelage? Is that what you call it?" I ask. "Because it feels a lot  more like sanctimonious lecturing." Stalling, I start to stretch.         

     



 

The tip of his cane gently taps my knee. "The latest word on the running  circuit is that pre-run stretching doesn't help prevent injury."

I drop my foot back to the ground. "But magic shoes do?"

His lips twist in what's almost a smile. "They do."

"I hope nobody sees me," I mutter good-naturedly. "Although on the plus  side, I hope these shoes last me a long time, because they'll fit in  great at the nursing home."

"Bet you'll drive the old guys crazy."

Do I drive you crazy? I want to ask. What I actually say is, "Okay,  let's do this." I'm not sure if I'm talking about the run or something  infinitely more treacherous.

He nods once.

I make it about five steps before a forbidden thought crosses my mind.  When I turn back, I find him watching me, and the longing look on his  face prompts me to ask the bold question.

"Have you tried running? Even a couple of steps? You know . . . since?"

Pain rolls over his face before all expression shuts down completely. "Run, Olivia? I can't even walk without assistance."

I cock my head a little to the side. "Can't you?"

With that, I turn on the heels of my ugly new shoes and take off at a  trot. I try to concentrate on the breathing techniques Paul's always  yammering about, but the last thing I care about at the moment is  breathing from my diaphragm. I'm too lost in thought about the gorgeous  disaster that is Paul.

I lose track of how long I run, but I slow down when I start to see  unfamiliar sights. I've come farther than I usually do. As expected,  Paul's nowhere to be seen when I turn around, but unlike every other  day, I don't see him on my return run either. I pushed him too far with  my question about running, and he retreated.

I head into the house, determined not to be disappointed. What did I  expect, that all it would take was just a late-night kiss and the mere  suggestion that he try running, and all of a sudden he'd be striding  along beside me in all of his prewar glory?

My guilt isn't exactly assuaged by the belated realization that Lindy is  still in Portland and that I'm supposed to be on kitchen duty. Not only  am I reminding the guy of all the things he can't do, but now I'm  starving him as well. Granted, the guy can spread cream cheese on a  bagel by himself, but I'm getting paid to do it-something I'd do well to  start remembering.

I hurriedly shower, throwing on yoga pants and a fuzzy blue sweater and  pulling my wet hair into a messy knot at the top before dashing off to  the kitchen.

I've never been much of a breakfast eater, and usually I just help  myself to an English muffin or cereal, but this morning my stomach is  rumbling for something more substantial. Probably because my "dinner"  last night was a jumbo glass of white wine, followed by a few sips of  Scotch.

I scramble up enough eggs for two, throw in some cheddar cheese and  mushrooms, and add two glasses of orange juice to the tray. I know Paul  has a coffeepot in the library, but I'm betting that he keeps only one  mug in there, so I place a mug for myself on the tray as well. As an  afterthought I slice up some berries and put those in a pretty crystal  bowl.

Paul and I eat dinner together most nights-mostly because I leave him no  choice-but usually I eat breakfast in the kitchen with Lindy while we  chat about the Today show, or whatever. Come to think of it, I've been  here about a month, and this is the first time Paul and I will eat  breakfast together.