Broken:Flirt New Adult Romance(27)

"What happened to Paul. I mean, what actually happened to him while he  was over there. I'm not an idiot. His leg's not that bad, and his scars  aren't debilitating. All of the other caregivers and I aren't brought  here to care for him physically. The damage is all up here." I tap my  temple.

"I see. And I'd be giving you this information in exchange for what?"

"Why Harry Langdon showed up out of the blue that Saturday. Why Paul and I have been on eggshells since then."

Lindy gives me a look. "I admit I'm curious as to why you and Mr. Paul  have lost that easy camaraderie you were just starting to build, but  that's hardly a fair trade."

She has me there. The story of Paul's bar fight is hardly on the same  level as figuring out what happened to Paul in Afghanistan.

"Worth a shot," I say, giving a sheepish little smile as I scoop a  fingerful of cookie dough. And then I proceed to tell Lindy the story  anyway.

I tell her about how I naively thought it would be a good idea for Paul  to get out of the house and see some real people, especially Kali. I  tell her about the jerks from the bar, and the fight, and the  name-calling. I skip the part about the kiss, obviously. And then I tell  her about walking in and hearing Harry chastise his son for going out  in public and exposing himself to ridicule.         

     



 

I mean to stop there, but then I hear myself repeating Paul's words: You  might as well have bought me a puppy or a hooker, for all the use she's  been.

And then, because I really don't know when to shut up, I mention the fact that he threw Ethan in my face.

Her brow wrinkles in confusion. "Who's Ethan?"

"My ex."

"Ah," she says, her tone full of something I can't identify.

"You seem to have gotten an awful lot of information from those two words," I say.

"I was married, twice, and divorced, twice. I know my way around exes. I take it things didn't end well?"

"Eh, let's just say I'm still getting over it."

Lindy surprises me by laughing.

"What?" My tone is a little testy.

"That bothers him."

"What bothers who?"

Lindy pauses in dropping balls of dough on the cookie sheet. "It bothers  Paul that you don't feel good about your breakup. It bothers him that  you're still hung up on this Ethan guy."

"I didn't say I was hung up on Ethan. But even if I were, that wouldn't bother Paul."

"Uh-huh," she says, licking dough from her finger. "Don't you dare be  that girl who plays dumb. You know what I'm talking about."

Oh gawd. She knows. "So you, um, know that things haven't been entirely professional?"

"You mean, have I been alive long enough to know when two attractive  twentysomethings are setting off enough sexual sparks to burn down the  house? I do, yes."

"Awesome," I mutter. "Do you think Mick knows?"

"Definitely."

Shit.

"Mr. Langdon?"

"Probably."

Double shit.

"Well," I say, pushing back from the counter, "good talk. I'm going to go drown myself now."

She wiggles her fingers in a sassy little wave, looking way too pleased  with herself. "Cookies will be ready to eat in fifteen. Oh, and Olivia?"

"Yah?"

"I'd tell you, you know. About Paul. If I knew."

It takes my brain a second to catch up. "About Afghanistan, you mean?"

She nods. "I know about the effects, of course. The leg. The scars. The  nightmares. But I don't know what actually happened. I don't know that  anyone does."

Huh.

"What does he say when people ask?"

She gives me a funny look. "They don't."

I come to a halt in the doorway as the implications of that roll over me. "Nobody? Nobody's asked?"

"Well, I'm sure plenty of people asked him right after it happened, but  he was too messed up to talk about it. For the last year or so, I think  we've all just given him his space."

I chew the inside of my cheek as I think about this. Maybe there's such a  thing as too much space. Maybe getting real crowded is exactly what he  needs to heal from the inside out.

I've been avoiding him lately because I need the distance. But it's time  to remember what I'm doing here. I'm here to fix Paul, first and  foremost.

And despite what he thinks, distance isn't what he needs.

The prospect makes me almost giddy. Brace yourself, Paul Langdon. Shit's about to get real messy for you.





CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Paul


It's official: I don't get women.

Olivia should be pissed at me. Just a few hours ago, I would have sworn  that she was. But now she's changing it up, and I don't like it at all. I  don't trust forgiveness I didn't earn.

The weird thing is, I never used to be so clueless with girls. I won't  pretend that I'm a mind reader or anything, but of course I know that  fine never means fine, and if you ask a girl if you can skip a date to  go to a Red Sox game with your friends, she will probably say, "Go  ahead," which means you're a dead man.

I've had a few girlfriends. Only one was serious. Serious enough that we  did the long-distance thing when I went to Afghanistan. When I got  back, a well-meaning nurse told me that Ashley had come by to see me.

Once.

Honestly, I don't blame her for not sticking around after she saw my  mangled face. My scars are ugly now, but early on when the wounds were  fresh, I was downright grotesque.

My dad mentioned that Ashley got married to the son of one of his vice  presidents and had twins. I don't know if he meant it to be a wake-up  call or what, but the truth is I didn't feel much of anything when he  told me.

The point is, I used to know girls. But this thing with Olivia is a whole other ball game.

Sometime in the past hour she's gone from acting like I'm a ticking bomb  to being, well, friendly. Which is not to say that she's been  unfriendly. In the couple of weeks since I basically called her a  useless hooker and then threw her ex-boyfriend in her face, leaving her  to cry alone at night (is there a gold medal for assholes? I've earned  it), Olivia hasn't done the prissy silent treatment thing, and I give  her props for that.         

     



 

But even though she's been perfectly civil, things have been different.  Conversation is shallower. She never touches me anymore, not even  accidentally. More often than not she avoids prolonged eye contact, and  she's taken to "reading alone" in the afternoons so she can concentrate.

I should be thrilled. I accomplished my goal of distance quite easily.  It's supposed to feel like a reward. Instead, it feels an awful lot like  punishment.

I miss her.

But that's not to say that there aren't alarm bells going off in my head  right now. Because without warning, the old Olivia is back. And I'm way  too relieved for comfort.

Her long, slim fingers appear in front of my face and she snaps rapidly,  three times. "Yo. Langdon. A toddler can do more squats than you.  Focus."

See what I mean? Old Olivia. The sassy version who doesn't treat me like  an invalid. We're in the gym, and she's doing her tough-love physical  trainer thing, which is both annoying and cute as hell.

Her hair is pulled into a high, perky fountain, reminding me a little of  a cheerleader, and she's wearing purple instead of the usual pink.  Except for the shoes. The shoes are still pink. She insists on wearing  the old pink ones on days when she doesn't run because she has a limit  on how many days per week she's willing to look like, and I quote, "a  freaking hobo."

What she's wearing doesn't really matter, though. Because she's got me right where she wants me.

I'm doing squats.

With weight. Not much weight, and nothing even close to what I was  managing before the ambush. But the steady, repetitive  bend-and-straighten motion isn't something I imagined doing ever again  in any capacity. My leg doesn't even hurt. Much.

I refocus my efforts, and with Olivia looking on, I finish the last set of reps.

She grins, making it all worth it. "How'd it feel?"

"Shitty," I say, doing my best to resist her good mood.

She takes a step closer. I step back, but I'm penned in by the weight  machine. The little minx has me cornered. She scoots up nice and close.  In other words, torment.

"Liar," she says. "It feels good, and you know it."

Christ. Is she talking about the exercise or her nearness? Because one felt great, but the other is bittersweet agony.

Her eyes flick to my lips just briefly before she takes a step back.

My eyes narrow. She's up to something.

"I don't suppose I could talk you into doing my yoga routine with me?" she asks, rolling her shoulders as though to loosen them.

"Hell, no," I mutter. "I've got nothing against yoga. It's just that  watching you do yoga is a good deal more interesting than  participating."

Her eyes go dark, and I smile in satisfaction. Two can play at this game.

But by the time she unrolls her yoga mat-pink-and starts with the now  familiar poses, it's clear that she's winning. Watching Olivia do yoga  is in fact interesting, but it's also torment. Is it just my  imagination, or is she holding that downward-facing dog position just a  second longer than necessary? And I'm pretty sure I don't remember that  position where she arches her back quite like that from previous days.