There's something surprisingly intimate about sharing breakfast with a guy. Maybe because of the whole morning-after connection. Or maybe it's just that it's Paul, and I'm remembering last night's kiss a little too clearly as I carefully carry the tray in the direction of the office.
My footsteps slow when I hear an unfamiliar noise. Voices, plural.
One is definitely Paul's, but the other is unfamiliar. I pause outside the door. The other voice is decidedly male, which is a good thing. Despite the fact that I don't think there's anything remotely flirtatious between Kali and Paul, I have a brief vision of Kali in all of her freckled cuteness sitting in my chair in front of the fire.
But no, it's definitely a man's voice.
My hands are full, so I can't knock. Instead I clear my throat loudly as I use my hip to bump open the library door the rest of the way. My eyes immediately make out the two figures standing tensely in front of the desk.
Shit. Oh, shit. The man standing toe-to-toe with Paul, face contorted in anger, is none other than Harry Langdon.
The prodigal father has returned.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Paul
"I still don't understand what the hell you were thinking, pulling a stunt like that." My dad is pissed.
"It wasn't a stunt. It was going to get a drink at a bar. A drink, I might add."
Dad pulls a hand over his face as he stares at me. "It's not the drink part that bothers me, it's the bar part. Since when after getting back from Afghanistan have you willingly put yourself in front of people?"
Since Olivia.
I don't say it, of course. I'm confused enough about my feelings around that girl. The last thing I need is to have my dad get wise to the fact that the reason that she's stayed around longer than any other caregiver has nothing to do with his stupid ultimatum and everything to do with the fact that I don't want to let her go.
Not yet.
"What's the problem?" I ask, crossing my arms over my chest, hating that he makes me feel defensive. "You've been badgering me to be normal for years. Now when I actually try, you act like I've tarnished the family honor."
Deny it, I silently plead. Deny the fact that you're here because one of your friends saw my hideousness at the bar and called you to complain about it.
"Rick called me last night," Dad says, confirming my worst suspicions. "Said you got in a fight."
"He's wrong."
"Right," he snorts. "So your nose has always looked like that?"
"Look, some frat boys were giving Olivia shit. They were drunk. I stepped in, and one of them landed a punch."
"Of course one of them landed a punch!" Dad explodes. "You're not exactly in fighting shape, Paul!"
I take a half step closer, getting in his face. "You sure about that?"
His face wrinkles in confusion and surprise, and I realize it's the first time I've ever tried to paint myself as anything other than a victim. My father takes a step back, and I'm both ashamed and gratified-ashamed that he thinks I'd actually go after him, gratified that he recognizes that I'm not some frail invalid.
"The girl's okay?" His voice is quieter. Calmer.
"Yeah, she's fine," I mutter, running a hand over my hair agitatedly as I turn back toward the desk. "She probably didn't even need my help."
"Yes, I did."
Dad and I both turn to see Olivia watching us from just inside the door. Both of us glance at the tray in her hands, and I inwardly groan. Her hair is wet and her clothes casual. There are two plates, two glasses of juice, and God . . . is that a bowl of fruit? I hate fruit. This is not at all what it looks like when a proper employee brings a balanced meal to her charge. This is a cozy breakfast-for-two scene.
Shit.
"Ms. Middleton," my father says, giving her his best business smile. "Nice to finally meet you in person."
"Mr. Langdon," she says quietly.
Dad moves toward her, already reaching out for the tray. "Lindy told me you were helping with the kitchen duties this weekend. Thanks, we really appreciate it."
"Of course."
"Although," my dad says, looking down at the tray, "I hate doing this to you, but my doctor has been on my case lately about cholesterol. Any chance I could talk you into making one of these plates egg whites only?"
Fucking shit. He wants Olivia to cook for him?
I see the dismay war with relief on Olivia's face at the misunderstanding. "Oh! I'm sorry. Yes, definitely," she says. "Cheese okay?"
"Extra," my dad says with a wink.
A wink? A fucking wink? I push my fingers into my eyes. Christ. My father is flirting with my . . .
She's your caregiver, my brain screams at me. Your father hired her to be nice to you because he thinks you're going to slit your wrists, or punch a baby, or drown yourself.
Olivia backs out of the room without looking at me.
Damn it. It's been a while since I've been involved with a girl, but I know that look. She's doing that weird girly thing where they go into shutdown mode so they can overanalyze everything.
"She's even prettier than she was in her picture," my dad says, mostly to himself.
"So you knew what she looked like when you hired her?" I ask, curiosity getting the best of me.
"Knew she looked like what?" Dad asks innocently.
I give him a dark look, and I swear he hides a smile. At least I know now that it's no coincidence that Olivia isn't like the rest of the graying, frumpy caretakers in the past. My father wanted to remind me that I'm a hot-blooded male.
Well played, Daddy dearest.
"What is it that you want?" I demand. "Am I supposed to stay here as a recluse so I don't embarrass you, or am I supposed to reenter the world and pretend I don't look like a freak? You'll have to forgive me for not knowing how to read your mixed signals."
My father sighs and goes to the window. "I'm not embarrassed by you, Paul. I just don't want you to be embarrassed. Going toe-to-toe with a bunch of healthy, able-bodied kids isn't going to do much for your recovery."
Able-bodied. Something I'm not.
Abruptly Olivia's gentle taunt from this morning comes to mind. Have you ever tried running? Even a few steps? She expects things from me. Better things than my father expects. Or even Lindy or Mick. Olivia certainly demands more from me than I demand of myself. I don't know if it's because she's only known me for a month and as a result is completely clueless as to what I'm capable of, or if her fresh perspective means she sees potential the rest of us don't. And if it's the latter, what happens when I disappoint her?
"So this is why you came all the way up here?" I ask my father. "To tell me not to embarrass myself with my ugly face in front of some adolescent morons?"
"I came up to see if you were okay."
I pull my cell phone out of my pocket and wave it at him. "Phones are good for that. Also, isn't that what you hired Olivia for? To tend to my boo-boos and feed me soup and wipe my ass?"
"I hired Olivia to bring you back to the world of the living," he snaps. "But I can see that she's done nothing to improve your disposition."
"It'll take more than nice tits and a great ass to achieve that."
"Don't be crass."
"Sure. I know how to fire every gun on the planet, I've watched people blow up in front of my face, and you've all but told me that you just hired a girl with the sole purpose of seeing if your son could still get a boner. But by all means, let's not be crass. Shall I get us some motherfucking tea?"
"I never said that's why I hired Olivia." But Dad's face looks guilty.
"Well, it's sure as hell not because of her skill set. You might as well have bought me a puppy or a hooker, for all the use she's been."
There's a long beat of silence, and I realize my dad's eyes aren't on me.
My stomach drops even before I see the regretful twist of my father's mouth. This is like one of those wretched movie scenes come to life. You know, the one where the dickhead guy says something cruel about the girl who's standing behind him?
My chin dips down and rests on my chest in defeat. I can't turn around. I can't make myself look at her face. But the little hurt noise she makes tears at me anyway.
"I made your eggs, Mr. Langdon." Her voice wavers just the tiniest bit. "I'll just leave them here on the desk."
She moves toward us, and she and I are standing shoulder to shoulder as she sets down the tray, although neither of us looks at the other. I keep my eyes locked on my cane, while she looks only at my father.
"Will there be anything else?" she asks, her voice steadier.
"No, we're good," Dad says quietly. "Why don't you take the rest of the day off, Olivia? I'll take care of Paul."
It's on the tip of my tongue to say that I don't need anyone to take care of me. But I want Olivia to tell him that. I want her to tell him that she's here with me because she wants to be, not because he's paying her. I want her to tell him the truth about the breakfast, and last night.