The door slams in my face.
CHAPTER FOUR
Paul
God fucking damn it.
Damn it all to hell.
Before I can think about it, my arm is in motion, and the crystal shatters against the wall. I barely register that Pappy Van Winkle bourbon is trickling down the wall into an expensive puddle on the hardwood.
I thought I was prepared.
Hell, I was prepared.
I was prepared to greet whatever matronly, pious do-gooder was next in line in my father's endless supply of babysitters, and make her feel right at home. Okay, that's an exaggeration. But I had every intention of not being a dick. I was going to show her my good side-my right side. Maybe even force a smile. Welcome her. I'd spent all night telling myself that a washed-up hag wouldn't care what I looked like.
But the woman on the other side of the door? No, the girl. She's no washed-up hag. This caregiver is . . . beautiful.
And I don't think it's just the fact that I haven't been with a woman in longer than I want to think about, and haven't seen a girl my own age in longer than that. She's hot. Big green eyes, long blond hair that I want to tangle my fingers in. A wide, lush mouth that I want . . .
No. No fucking way.
She can't be more than twenty-two. All of the others were at least in their mid-thirties. This woman-this girl-is exactly the sort of person I exiled myself to Maine to avoid.
She's tempting. Not just in the sexual way, although yeah, there's that. But with that briefest of glimpses, she tempts me with something worse: she makes me long for normal.
She has to go. Now.
I make a fist and ram it hard against my thigh, punching myself in punishment. Of all things, you had to go and tell her you're on suicide watch? But it was instinctive. I wanted to drive her away hard and fast, and that seemed like a surefire way of scaring off someone who has to be a rookie at this business.
She'll be scampering back to the car by now, and I tell myself I'm glad. I don't need a gorgeous blonde to remind me of all the things I can't have.
Except . . .
My eyes fly open.
That damned ultimatum.
To say that my father one-upped me on this is an understatement. The three-month commitment to playing nice was bad enough when I thought I'd be dealing with a crotchety old woman, but this? Asking me to spend three months in the company of this gorgeous blonde?
This is sheer manipulation. My father isn't just trying to lure me back to the real world, he's throwing me into it.
I push my fingers into my eyes as the reality of my situation wraps around my brain and squeezes. What are my options?
I can tell my dad to shove it-let the girl get back into that car with Mick, and as a result be out on my ass with nowhere to go and not a cent to my name. And I can leave Alex's wife and daughter with nothing.
Or . . . I can chase after Goldilocks and pretend that I want her here. Pretend that I need her so that my best friend's daughter can live.
Damn it. There's not a choice. Not really.
I move toward the door, only to falter when pain rips through my calf. Shit. It's been a long time since I've forgotten to favor my left leg. That right there tells me how much trouble I'm in. For a second, I forgot who I am. What I am.
I'm no longer Paul Langdon, hotshot quarterback and all-American hero off to war. I'm Paul Langdon, disfigured recluse and of no use to anyone. Hell, I can't even be of use to myself. I can't even fucking walk.
Before I can give my dad the proverbial finger and tell him I don't need his house or his money, I need to get my shit together. And in order to do that . . .
I turn away from the desk and move as quickly as I can across the room. I hesitate briefly with my hand on the doorknob, all too aware that my life is about to turn upside down.
My heart is thundering and I'm trying to tell myself it's in anger, but I suspect it's something worse. I suspect it's fear. I know the sight that awaits this girl, and it is not pretty. Far from it.
I open the door, wondering how I'm supposed to chase after the girl with this leg.
Turns out I don't have to chase her.
She's waiting for me.
CHAPTER FIVE
Olivia
For five minutes I've been standing outside the library, staring at the door he slammed in my face and wondering just who-or what-Paul Langdon is.
I mean, I wasn't expecting a gentle teddy bear in need of a hug and a listening ear or anything, but that thing is more like a tormented barbarian than a war-weary human. Still, it's not until the door unexpectedly swings open again that I realize just how stupidly unprepared I am.
He was completely in the shadows before, but this time the hallway light catches him, and it feels like my stomach drops to my feet.
Paul Langdon is not the crippled, middle-aged recluse he's supposed to be.
He steps back into the shadows before I can see him properly, but my first impression is broad shoulders, military-short blond hair, and piercing blue eyes. And young. Like my age young.
"What the hell are you still doing here?" he asks, taking another step backward into the darkness of the library.
I instinctively take a step forward, and he goes back another step just as quickly, and for the first time I notice that despite giving the overall impression of youth and vitality, he doesn't move nimbly.
I stop in my tracks, as though not to scare a wounded animal. Aren't wounded animals the most likely to lash out? And this guy is definitely wounded.
"What the fuck are you still doing here?" he repeats, this time with a snarl.
Well. At least I didn't imagine that whole surly caveman episode from a few minutes ago. Seconds after he'd dropped that little bomb about a suicide watch, Lindy sighed and patted my shoulder, telling me to be "patient with the boy."
Patient my ass. Sure, the guy has likely seen more horror that I can possibly imagine, but if there's anything that a rich Manhattan girl is familiar with, it's the tone of a self-indulgent jerk. Paul Langdon definitely has some of that going on.
I'm probably supposed to answer his testy question about what I'm still doing here with something calm and straightforward and soothing. Nothing comes to mind, so instead I stay silent.
He remains in the shadows, and I'm suddenly desperate to know what he's hiding. What would turn someone who looks like him into a suicidal recluse?
"At least throw a dollar in the hat," he bites out before turning away and moving toward the desk. He walks with a slight limp, but . . .
Is it my imagination, or did the limp come after he started moving? Almost like he had to remind himself to limp?
I guess I should go to him and make some sort of effort to help, but some dark, untapped instinct tells me not to. That's what he'll expect, and being predictable with this guy is a mistake.
"A dollar in the hat?" I repeat, shutting the library door quietly behind me. Stupid move. The already dark room now seems intimate, and I'm all too aware that it's just me and a guy who may or may not want to kill himself. Or me.
"If you're going to gawk, at least give me the same sympathy dollar you'd give any other circus freak," he clarifies, still not turning around.
I roll my eyes at his melodrama as I move closer, wanting to see his face. No, needing to see his face.
From the back, he's practically perfect. He's wearing a black T-shirt that's tight enough to show the ripples of his sculpted back, and his dark denim jeans ride just low enough on his hips to be interesting. I'm pretty sure that if he lifted his hands above his head, I'd catch a glimpse of boxers.
Or briefs?
Why is my mouth watering?
I haven't even seen the guy in full light yet and I'm about fifteen seconds away from asking if his offspring would like to take up residence in my uterus.
I should run. Instead, I move closer.
"Let me guess. You were expecting an old dude in a smoking jacket?" he asks gruffly.
Actually, yes. I absolutely wasn't expecting Paul to be Harry Langdon's late-in-life son. Very late in life, if Harry's as old as he seems in the pictures.
But of course I'll tell Paul no such thing. I take another tentative step forward, noting the way he tenses as I approach. He really is like a wounded animal, which would make me feel sorry for him if I didn't suspect that he's using his injuries to justify being a manipulative son of a bitch.
Well, if he wants to play games . . .
My Chanel cross-body purse is still slung over my shoulder, and I fish around for my wallet as I close in on him.
He turns completely so his back is fully to me, and now he's trapped between me and the desk, with nothing but late afternoon shadows to hide him.
I pause, waiting. Common courtesy demands that he turns around. He doesn't. I shift to the side, but he shifts with me, still keeping his back to me.
Seriously? This is beyond childish.
I move to the other side, and he moves again.
"Maybe when we're done with this activity, we can play Chutes and Ladders or Candy Land," I say sweetly, even as I glare at his back. "Assuming, of course, that those don't exceed your maturity levels."