Broken (10 page)

Confession: my research on Olivia Middleton has gone beyond just getting her vital stats, like her age and where she's from. I may or may not have snooped through every picture she's ever been tagged in.

And the star of the Olivia show was Ethan Price. A guy who'd been glued to her side in almost every picture for a very,
very
long time.

Then, a few months ago,
bam.
All couple shots ceased.

And now? This Ethan guy's profile features a cute, edgy-looking brunette, which makes me think a reconciliation between Olivia and her onetime suitor isn't likely.

I shouldn't care. I
don't
care. Olivia Middleton's love life has nothing to do with me, but the timing is interesting. She drops out of school months after her romantic life explodes? High-tails it to Maine? I'm thinking the two are connected.

Her shocked expression tells me I've caught her off guard with my stalker-worthy information. But it's not the surprise on her face that intrigues me. It's the flash of guilt.

Interesting.

“How do you know about Ethan?” she asks.

No big deal. Just dabbling in cyberstalking.

I absently rub my leg as I study her. In truth, the leg doesn't hurt as much as I expected, but the fact that such a simple exercise is even
remotely
difficult is an appalling reminder of exactly how weak the leg has become.

No, how weak I've
let
it become.

As much as I hate myself, I hate
her
more for forcing this upon me. Not only the pain in my leg, but the realization of its weakness. If this keeps up, the next three months just might destroy me. And if that's the case, I'm taking her with me on the road of destruction. My leg is my weak spot, but I'm betting that Ethan Price is hers.

“Your privacy settings on your social media profiles leave a lot to be desired,” I finally say in answer to her question.

“I have nothing to hide.” She lifts her chin a little.

“Great. Then there should be no problem telling me about your boyfriend.”

“Ex-boyfriend,” she corrects automatically.

“Ah,” I say knowingly, even though I've already figured that much out. “
Do
tell.”

“I just did. You asked who Ethan Price was, and I told you. He's my ex-boyfriend. I said I'd give you the truth; I didn't say I'd give you a rundown on my entire love life.”

I make a bigger show out of massaging my leg, as if to say,
You owe me.
Her lips purse for a second, making her look a tiny bit prissy and a lot cute.

“So,” I prompt, sensing an opening. “He was your
entire
love life, huh?”

Her torso twists, as though to turn away, but then her eyes land on my leg and she sighs. “Ethan and I grew up together. We were pretty much dating before either of us knew what dating was. Our families are friends.”

“Betrothed from the womb?”

“Something like that,” she mutters.

“So what happened? You two looked like an after-school special together.”

Olivia makes a face as she tugs her long sleeves over the tops of her hands in a girlish, protective gesture. “We broke up. It happens.”

“Sure, but if you guys were dating since before you had pubic hair, there had to be a good reason for the breakup. Unless it was just that you got sick of each other.”

I know it's not the latter. She wouldn't be this edgy if they'd just decided to go their separate ways.

Her eyes narrow. “Why so interested?”

“Why so defensive?” I counter.

But why
am
I so interested? I tell myself it has everything to do with the fact that I want to know what makes this girl tick in order to keep us on an even footing, and nothing to do with the weird burn of jealousy I felt when I saw that Ethan guy's arm around her shoulders or the way she'd grinned with a carefree happiness that
I
had yet to see from her.

“I'm just ensuring you keep your end of the bargain,” I say, trying to appeal to her sense of fairness. “Wouldn't want you to feel guilty about tricking poor little me into an aching leg in exchange for nothing.”

“Your leg will be better off from this and you know it,” she snaps.

“I do,” I concede quietly. “Just like you'll be better off from telling someone about it.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

I shrug and swing my legs around so I can stand. Up until now, we've been at eye level, since I've been sitting and she's been standing. I push into a standing position, being careful to keep my weight on my good leg. Even with the infinitesimal lean to my right, I still tower over her.

“I'll make it easier,” I say. “No need for the whole sob story. Just tell me this: were you the dumper or the dumpee?”

It's a rude question, but then, I've been a rude guy for a couple of years now.

Her eyes flit away briefly, but when her gaze comes back it's calm and unwavering.
Good girl.

“It was his decision to end it,” she says quietly.

The way she says it tells me that's just the tip of the iceberg. That there's so much more to the story than her childhood sweetheart simply moving on. But more information would require another bargain on my part, and I'm not about to do jumping jacks or pose for glamour shots featuring my scars, so I don't dig any deeper. Yet.

“Okay,” I say simply. Then I jerk my head in the direction of the treadmills. “Let's see how good a listener you are.”

“What?” she asks, clearly confused by the change in topic.

“Those breathing tips I gave you the other day,” I reply. “Let's see them in action.”

She tilts her head a little as though wondering at her easy escape from a shitty conversation, but then she shrugs and heads toward the treadmill.

“So, I changed my mind. I want to talk about the elephant in the room,” she says, putting her hands on her hips.

Good God.
What is it about this girl in workout clothes that sets me on fire?

“What elephant?” I ask, trying not to remember that her collarbone tastes as good as it looks.

“Oh, I don't know. How about the fact that last night you had your tongue down my throat? Your fingers in my panties?”

Heat rushes over my body, and I focus all of my mental energy on the dull ache in my leg to keep from doing exactly that again.

“We're not talking about that,” I mutter.

“You're really quite bad at it, you know,” she says, punching the treadmill into a fast one. “It's no wonder you're single. I mean—”

I open my mouth to tell her that she obviously enjoyed everything I did to her, and if she's forgotten, I'm happy to give an encore. But then I see the smile that she tries to hide. She's baiting me.

I narrow my eyes before swatting her hand out of the way and adjusting the speed on her treadmill myself.

Within seconds, I have her sprinting at a pace that makes it impossible for her to talk. Focusing on her running also keeps me from doing what I really want to do, which is yanking her off the treadmill and having my way with her until she can't even
think
about complaining.

But even as the thought crosses my mind, a more dangerous one replaces it. Next time my lips are on Olivia Middleton, I want her to be the initiator.

I want her. But more than that, I want
her
to want me.

“Did you know that Andrew Jackson was over six feet tall, but only like a hundred and forty pounds?” I ask, pulling my feet beneath me and turning more fully toward the fireplace.

“Yes.”

I give Paul a look. “How would you know that?”

“Because I've read the book,” he says, never looking up from his own book, which, as far as I've been able to tell, is some huge tome on philosophy.

“You have?”

“No. I made that up.”

“You did?”

That gets him to look up, gray eyes bursting with exasperation. “Are you trying to drive me insane?”

I give him a shit-eating grin that says,
Sure am.
“But seriously, you've read this book?”

“Yeah, last year. It's good. Something you'll figure out once you commit to actually reading it instead of talking at me every two minutes.”

He makes a good point, and in theory I
do
want to make it through this book. These hours in front of the fireplace in the late afternoon while both of us read are my favorite part of the day.

The only trouble is, it's not my favorite part of the day because of the
reading.
It's because it's only in these quiet, uninterrupted hours with Paul that he temporarily abandons the haunted look as he loses himself in his book. And that is so much better than anything
I'm
reading.

Granted, me interrupting his reading to chat sort of counteracts that effect. I try to give him his peace, I really do. It's just that I sort of underestimated the effect that all this solitude would have on me. I was in such a hurry to escape the world that I didn't stop to think that escape often goes hand in hand with loneliness.

I'm not
totally
alone. I have coffee with Lindy almost every morning, and I've run into Mick a handful of times. I've even tried to make friends with the local girls who come in to clean every Wednesday, and they're chatty enough.

But my only
real
companion is Paul. I've been here for two weeks now, and although he spends plenty of time avoiding me, I see him at least every morning for our run and gym time, as well as every afternoon for reading.

It's what I should be doing. I get paid to be a companion, after all. The scary part is that I think I'd be seeking him out even if nobody was paying me to. I think I might like him. As a person.

I'm not so sure it's the same for him, but every day it gets a little easier to coax him into conversation, so I like to think I'm making some progress, at least on the friend front.

On the other front? Well, he hasn't tried to touch me. Not once. Not since that night.

I tell myself I'm glad.

“Can I ask you something?” I ask him.

He grunts.

“Why does your father think you need a caretaker? I mean, you make it clear that you neither need nor want anyone.”

I half hope that he'll deny it, but he doesn't.

“I told you that first day why my father sends all of you up here,” he says irritably.

“The suicide watch thing?” I say incredulously. “Look, I don't mean to make light of a serious topic, but pissy as you are, you hardly look like you've given up on life. A social,
normal
life, perhaps. But not life itself.”

His eyes lock on the flames of the fire and I study the tense line of his jaw. He always sits in the chair so that I see only his “good” side, and it really is an almost painfully handsome profile.

Paul's silent for so long that I think he's going to ignore my question, as he does often when I push the envelope and get too personal. But then he answers, his voice low and gruff.

“He doesn't want me to be alone.”

I keep my expression blank, but I'm surprised by the admission. He hardly ever mentions Harry Langdon, and when his father's name does come up, it's generally accompanied by a sneer. This is the first time he's even hinted that his father might be acting in Paul's interest.

“I think that's probably a pretty typical paternal instinct,” I say softly.

“Which would be awesome if I were twelve,” he mutters.

“Don't get your boxers all in a snarl about this, but do you really have the right to be petulant when you're living on his dime?”

His already tense jawline goes even tighter for a second, but then he shrugs. “What's your suggestion? My leg prevents me from doing anything involving physical work, and the repulsive face is a little too distracting for the corporate world, don't you think?”

“That's crap. Sure, professional soccer is probably out, and you can take modeling off the list, but you could make a living if you wanted to.”

“Sure. I could be a caretaker. That's a
great
career path.”

“Knock it off,” I snap. “At least I'm doing something.”

“All out of the goodness of your heart, right? You just care so much about other people, is that it?” He leans forward slightly, his eyes mean, and I hate that he seems to see right through me.

“I care.”

“About me?” He gives a sick semblance of a smile, and I'm wondering how the hell this friendly, casual conversation veered so far off track so quickly.

“About
people,
” I grind out.

“Of course,” he says, leaning back in his chair, deceptively relaxed. “Olivia Middleton, the reformed do-gooder.”

How does he know I'm reformed?
“We're not talking about me.”

“Maybe I want to,” he says.

“Well, when
I
become so unhinged and mentally unstable and reclusive that my father pays
you
to spend time with me,
then
we can talk about me!”

His head snaps back a little, and I clamp my mouth shut. My words can't hurt him. I'm sure of it. The guy doesn't give a shit about me, and he's only tolerating me for reasons I have yet to figure out.

So what is it that I saw flash across his face just now? Because it looked an awful lot like pain.

“Sorry,” I mutter. I don't lose my temper often, and the hot feeling in my cheeks is as unfamiliar as it is uncomfortable.

“Don't be,” he says, opening his book again. “You make a good point. My father pays you to spend time with me, and as long as I want to live under Daddy's roof, I have to tolerate that. Doesn't mean I have to entertain you, though, so if you don't mind…”

It's my turn to lean forward, and I kick him none too gently, although I'm careful to kick his good leg. “I'll leave you to your sulky reading, but don't think for one second that I don't know that I'm the first caretaker to stick around. For some reason, you're
letting
me stay. You're even being mostly pleasant, although something tells me that's fake as hell. So anytime you want to come clean, I'd love even just a
tiny
clue as to what the hell's going on here. What's with the fake-friendly routine? Why me, and none of the others?”

Paul couldn't appear more bored if he let out a huge yawn, but to my surprise, he does look up from his book when I finish my rampage.

“You want to know why you're here when all of the others ran off?”

“More specifically, I want to know why you've decided to be civil to me. Something tells me that ill-tempered monster I met the first day is the real you.”

“That much is true,” he says, his voice all easy agreeability. “As for why I'm up for keeping you around?” His eyes move over my body, and not in a flattering way…in an insulting, degrading way.

My body responds anyway.

“The only reason you're still hanging around is because you're hot,” he says. “Because as far as being a caretaker goes, you're worthless. You don't know shit about physical therapy, you're more annoying than you are comforting, and when Mick and Lindy take off for their weekend outing in a couple of days, I have a pretty good idea that I'll
also
find out you're a miserable cook. But don't worry, sweetie. You'll always find work from the male clients. The old ones will call you eye candy and the young ones will call you a hot piece of ass.”

On some level I know I'm supposed to be offended, but it's almost painfully apparent that offense is exactly his intention. Which makes it
really
easy to disregard his meanness as pathetic self-defense.

I settle back in my chair and open my own book. “Nah, that's not why you keep me around,” I muse, as though talking to myself. “But for the record, I
am
a really good cook. You'll see.”

Paul's face goes incredulous over my refusal to get upset, but almost immediately he recovers his usual indifferent expression. “You're one messed-up piece of work.”

“Yeah, but you're starting to worry that you might like me,” I say confidently. “Considering I
also
give you a boner, shit's gonna get
reaaaaal
complicated here in the next few months.”

Paul's soft laugh is the best sound I've heard in weeks.