Broken:Flirt New Adult Romance(33)

"Out. Help me by setting the table."

"Fine," I mutter, relenting only because I'm desperate to do something  to feel like I'm earning my paychecks-which, after that disastrous  conversation with Paul about me being a daddy's girl, are now all  deposited in my very own savings account.

It pains me to say it, but Paul was right about that. I hadn't done crap  with my paychecks until two weeks ago. I'm guilty of the very thing I'd  accused Paul of: living off my dad. We were pathetic, privileged  monsters, and I, for one, am determined to change, even if he isn't.

When this is over-whatever this is-I'll get another job. And then  another after that. There'll be no more using my father's credit cards,  no more treating this as a little charity break from real life. This is  my real life. And I'm determined to own every aspect of it. Even if that  means wearing a lot more of my ugly NYU sweatshirt now that my clothing  budget is about to become nonexistent.

I find the dining room easily enough. It's through a huge set of double  doors I'm embarrassed to say I never bothered to open. The room's about  what I would have expected given the house: lots of dark wood, and a  long wood table that's the perfect combination of formal and rustic  charm.

There is a stack of table linens on the table as promised, but wisely  Lindy didn't go all clichéd and formal with anything white and prissy.  Instead there are merlot-colored placemats and cream-colored cloth  napkins with contemporary silver napkin rings. Instead of fussy china,  there's a stack of the usual everyday dishware.

I set the table quickly and take a step back to make sure everything  looks right. The table lacks a centerpiece. Flowers would be perfect,  but since we don't have any, I rummage around in cabinets until I find a  bunch of pillar candles. They're all mismatched in size and color, but  I've arranged enough charity fund-raisers in my life to know that once  they're lit, it'll look classy and modern, not hodgepodge.

I fuss with the candles as long as I can, knowing full well that I'm stalling. It's decision time.

Am I going to play whatever game he's setting up? Or am I going to do  what he would do and lock myself in my bedroom, refusing to come out and  be a pawn?         

     



 

In the end, it comes down to curiosity. I'll play along. But only  because I'm dying to know who could motivate Paul to willingly end his  own solitude.

It's not likely his father-Lindy would have known if Harry was coming in.

So who?

Kali? No, she would have mentioned it. Wouldn't she?

It had to be someone from his former life.

Oh God. What if it's an ex-girlfriend? What if he's trying to torture me  that way? One hand flies to my damp ponytail as I glance down at the  admittedly ugly sweatshirt Lindy frowned at. Maybe a little primping  isn't a horrible idea.

I race up the stairs, but once in the safety of my room, I take my time  getting ready. My shower is long and hot, and I finally get around to  shaving legs that have been just a wee bit neglected the past couple of  weeks. I not only blow-dry my hair but also take a flat iron to it,  giving it that extra bit of sleek shine. The ends are looking a little  ragged, and I smile as I remember Bella's concern about my hairdresser  being inaccessible while I was on my Maine hiatus. It's been only two  months since my parents threw me that going-away party, but it feels  like another lifetime.

My smile fades a little as I realize I haven't heard from Bella in days.  She's dating some guy named Brian, who's "a little short but makes up  for it in every other way." Apparently he keeps her very, very busy.

But as much as I try to tell myself that it's just her new love life  that has us drifting, I suspect it's more than that. Our lives are never  again going to overlap as effortlessly as they have in the past.

I pause in putting on mascara as it hits me that this is a part of  post-college life that nobody ever warns you about. Your social life is  no longer dropped into your lap by virtue of shared classes and  extracurricular activities. Relationships, whether with friends, family,  or romantic partners-from here on out, they're going to take a lot more  work. No more built-in friends at the sorority, or hollering down the  stairs when I need my mom. It's certainly not going to be as easy to  meet guys now that I'm done with school. It's not like I can just chat  up the cute guy in econ class anymore.

Thinking about my romantic future inevitably leads my thoughts to Paul,  and I make a little growling noise at my brain for even going there.

He's not for you.

Going back to my makeup, I add more eyeliner than usual, going for a  subtly smoky look. I also add lip gloss and blush, even though any  guests of Paul the bastard barely deserve deodorant, much less makeup.

I have no idea when his guest is coming, so I sit down on the window  seat and pretend to read my book. Really, though, I just do a lot of  staring at the water and thinking. All the while I'm braced for a knock  at the bedroom door. Surely Paul will tell me himself that my presence  is expected, or even mandatory?

The knock never comes. Lindy's order to freshen up is apparently the only invitation I deserve.

I tense when I hear the doorbell, but force myself to relax. It'll be  fine. My parents hosted more parties in a month than most families do in  a lifetime. I can small-talk strangers in my sleep. With one last  glance in the mirror, I open the door to my room.

I hear voices, but they're too muffled to make out whether they're male  or female. As I descend the stairs, I listen more carefully. There's  Paul's familiar timbre, but I can't hear the other person.

Seriously, if it really is an ex-girlfriend, I-

I freeze when I hear it. A male voice. I know that voice. Why do I know it?

Recognition takes my breath away. Oh my God.

Somehow, even as I register the familiarity of it all, I'm not fully  prepared for what I see when I round the corner into the foyer. I'm not  sure anyone could ever be prepared.

My eyes lock on the dark-haired guy still standing in the doorway. The  heated longing on his face when our gazes collide feels like a punch in  the face. I close my eyes to block it out, and take a deep breath.

I swallow. "Michael."

He smiles. "Liv."

Kill me. Kill me kill me kill me. This is not happening. The very guy  I'm trying to escape is standing in the house that's supposed to be my  hiding place.

I tell my manners to override my panic, but fail miserably. "What are you doing here?"

For the first time, the heated adoration on his face flickers. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, how did you even find me? Did my parents give you the address?"

Michael frowns and takes a step toward me. I step back.

"What are you talking about?" he asks. "You told me to come."

I blink. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Your texts, Liv. You told me you needed to see me. Said you couldn't  get away, and asked if I could come here-" He breaks off when he sees  the truth on my face. "You didn't ask me to come."         

     



 

But I'm barely listening, because a dangerous buzzing has taken over my brain. Very slowly I turn my head to face him.

Only then does Paul emerge from the shadows. "Surprise, darling." His voice is lethal.

I meet his gaze, and cruel triumph is written all over his features.

The pieces click together as I read his face. I get it now. I get what's  going on. This is some sick revenge plot. I snooped in his business,  behind his back-I dragged his ghosts out of the closet without  permission.

Now it's his turn.





CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Paul


It was ridiculously easy-just a couple of quick texts to the mysterious Michael when Olivia was out for her morning run.

Runs that I once joined her on. Right up until she went and acted just  like the rest of them, reading up on me like I was Soldier X instead of  Paul.

But that's not the point. The point is that my instincts about Michael  were dead on: not just a friend, but not a boyfriend either, though he  wanted to be. It was written all over his whipped face when she came  down the stairs.

It's not Michael's face I'm looking at now, though. It's Olivia's. I was  prepared for surprise and anger. No, I was counting on them. It's the  very nature of revenge, after all. But what I see on her perfect  features is pure, undiluted agony.

I am an ass. But then, I've always known I'm an ass. It's time she knows  it too. And I'm a big fan of the eye-for-an-eye philosophy. She snoops  in my business, I snoop in hers. Did I go overboard? Sure. But it was so  fucking easy.

I'd assumed that Olivia's reasons for fleeing New York were a little  more interesting that a clichéd love triangle, but when Michael thought  it was Olivia asking him to come see her, he responded in about two  seconds. He had it bad, and Olivia was avoiding him.

The need to fuck with her life the way she'd fucked with mine was too  great to resist, and now . . . now I regret it. The tension in the foyer  is almost palpable, and my plan no longer feels cleverly devious. It  feels cruel.