Broken:Flirt New Adult Romance(30)

"God, no," he says gently.

"So what, we just lie here?" I say, even though that sounds like heaven to me.

"That's the plan. I'm counting on your shitty cuddling skills to keep the nightmares away."

I snuggle closer. "Done. And in exchange, you can take back what you said about my hair and my pajamas."

His fingers toy with the tips of my hair. "I'll admit that bedhead has a  certain sexy appeal. But I stand by what I said about your tank top.  It's ugly and inside out."

"But hey, it is a tank top," I say, "So at least you got to see the boobs."

"See, but not touch," he grumbles.

In my flirty, relaxed mood, it's on the tip of my tongue to say "next  time," but I catch myself before the words get out. Still, for the next  hour I'm definitely thinking about next time.

And if his agitated breath is any indication, so is he.





CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Paul


Olivia wasn't kidding. She really is a terrible cuddler.

For the first twenty minutes or so after she curls up at my side, it's  nice. Really nice. Then, about five minutes after her breathing becomes  regular and I'm just starting to drift off, her hand jerks,  karate-chopping my jugular. I'm still recovering when she abruptly flops  over onto her back, hitting my still-sore nose with the back of her  hand.

Luckily, I catch her knee before it nails my nuts. Barely. She makes a  little huff of irritation before spreading her arms out to the sides as  if the king-size bed is all hers for the taking.

Which, of course, it is.

More alarming is that I'm afraid I'm becoming hers for the taking.         

     



 

I roll onto my side to face her, although I keep my distance from her  flailing limbs. For now, it's enough to be close to her. Never before  was I so tempted to tell someone about my dreams. To lay my head against  her and just talk. About Alex. About that day. About the godforsaken  war that ruined my life and took so many others. About the Afghani  insurgents and their lethal knives. About the fact that my best friend,  bloody and barely breathing, used the last of his life to save mine.

I reach out a hand, resting my fingers against her palm as she sleeps,  and try to let the simple contact with another person take away all of  the bad memories. At least for now.

It apparently works, because when I wake up, it's nearly dawn.

I smile to realize that Olivia's still in my bed, although this isn't  one of those sexy scenarios where the guy and girl fall asleep only to  wake up tangled in each other. Nope. This is more her stretched in every  direction while I get a tiny sliver of my own bed.

It's worth it, though, especially because my fingers linked with hers sometime during the night.

I ease my hand away and sit up, and she immediately scoots over to take  up the newly opened space. I smile, and for the first time in a long  time, the smile is easy. Genuine.

I pull out one of my workout T-shirts and reach for one of my many pairs  of workout pants, but then I pause. I open a different drawer instead,  and pull out gym shorts.

There's this weird thing I used to have about working out in shorts. No  matter the time of year, except on the very coldest of Boston days, I  liked to wear shorts. After I got back from Afghanistan, that, along  with about a million other elements of the "old me," disappeared. I  couldn't bear to look at the skin of my own leg, much less watch other  people's reaction to it.

But last night Olivia looked. And touched. And there wasn't an ounce of  disgust or pity or morbid curiosity. It was merely an observation, like,  Oh, so that's what that looks like.

I take a deep breath and put on the shorts. Maybe it's time to let the old Paul back in, even in a tiny, insignificant way.

I sit on the edge of the bed as I tie my tennis shoes. Olivia rolls onto  her side, her body sort of curling around me, although she doesn't wake  up. For a moment I contemplate waking her for her morning run. She'll  be pissed that I didn't. But it's my fault she didn't get much sleep.

That, and because I want to be alone for what I'm about to do. If I fail  miserably, as I'm likely to do, I don't want there to be any witnesses.

Gently unfolding her fingers from where they're tangled in the fabric of  my shorts, I slip out of the room with only the briefest of glances at  the cane in the corner.

I'm about to head down the stairs when I hear a sharp beeping coming  from Olivia's room. An alarm clock. It makes me smile to know that she's  not naturally an early riser the way I am. It means that she very  deliberately sets her alarm to make our daily walk/runs together.

I enter her bedroom. She uses her cell phone as an alarm, and it's going  crazy on the nightstand. I pick it up, sliding my finger across the  screen to turn it off.

She has eight new text messages.

Eight?

Somehow I've let myself forget that just because I'm cut off from the  outside world, it doesn't mean she is. Of course she'd stay in contact  with friends and family.

I'm tempted to read the messages.

I want to know if she tells her friends and family that she's happy here.

I want to know if she says anything about me.

I want . . .

Pull yourself together, Langdon.

And then, God help me, I'm unlocking her phone. Not to read the messages, just to scan who they're from.

My eyes catch the names Bella and Mom and Michael. Who's Michael? She's  never mentioned him. She's allowed male friends, of course, but . . .  what the hell. I'm resigned to the fact that I'm no longer one of the  good guys. Might as well act on it.

I open the message, ignoring the jab of guilt that tells me I'm a sick son of a bitch.

I miss you.

The short text says volumes, and the jealousy that rips through my gut  is as foreign as it is unwelcome. There are no other texts to or from  this Michael, which either means it's the first time he's contacted her  in quite a while or she's deleted previous messages. I want to know why.

When it comes to Olivia, I want to know everything, but I want to know  because she tells me about it, not because I went snooping.

I close my eyes briefly as I realize what I need to do. If I want her to  trust me, I need to start by trusting her. I need to tell her  everything.

I slowly put the phone back on the nightstand. With any luck, her groggy  morning self won't register that it's already been read, and if she  does, I'll come clean. The alternative is deleting the message  altogether, and that's a line even I won't cross.         

     



 

It's misty outside, and there's a definite nip in the air. It's October,  after all. But I stand perfectly still for several minutes, relishing  the feel of the cold air against my bare legs. How long has it been  since I did something as simple as wear shorts? Too long.

It's been way too fucking long in so many areas of my life.

I walk toward the path, waiting for the twinge in my leg that will halt  my plans in their tracks. But there's no pain. There's nothing but the  glorious feel of damp sea air against my damaged skin.

I start to walk a little faster now, still giving the leg a chance to  protest the lack of support from my cane. And although I do feel a  little off-balance, I can't tell if I'm actually limping or just  mentally limping.

A lone seagull cry pierces the perfect quiet of the early morning. I increase my pace.

A drop of water runs down the center of my forehead, and I realize that the mist has turned to rain.

And then my walk turns into a run.

I'm running.

For the first time in three years, I'm running.

Not a fast run. To anyone else, it probably looks like some awkward  speed walk or failed jog. But I know the importance of it. I'm running.

It's raining harder now, and I don't care. Hell, I barely notice.

I'm concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other, careful to  make sure that my left leg hits the ground squarely each time. I still  feel a little off-balance. My good leg is doing more of the work, and  the shitty leg is definitely letting me know that it's not used to this.

But I'm running. I'm fucking running.

Of course, I reach my limit quickly. I make it less than a mile before  the slight awkwardness starts to dip into discomfort. Still, it's a  start. And that's what really has me feeling like taking on the world.  It's the start to normalcy.

The leg's never going to be pretty-I'm always going to get a stare or  two on a beach vacation-but for the first time in a long time, normal  seems within reach.

And I know exactly whom to thank.

I take my time walking back. The rain is heavier now, and I'm soaked but  invigorated. Cheesy as it sounds, it's one of those good-to-be-alive  moments.

I pause inside the back door long enough to peel off my shoes and soaked socks. I need a shower, stat, but first, coffee.

I can't help it. I grin when I see Olivia perched at the kitchen counter  with her laptop. She's changed into long flannel pajamas with pink and  white stripes. Her hair's still a mess, but she looks adorable. Lindy's  nowhere to be seen, and Olivia's humming tells me she has her headphones  in like she usually does when she's checking email or shopping online.

Still in a ridiculously good mood, I move up beside her, wanting to wrap  my arms around her and beg her to take a chance. On me. On us.