Broken (7 page)

She frowns. “Not really. Why?”

“Jesus, take a hint.”

“
Ah
. You want me to leave you to your brooding.”

“Yup.”

She stops walking immediately and pivots so she's facing back toward the house. “Fine. I'll try to master your little breathing activity on the way back. Same time tomorrow?”

“No. Find another time to run.”

“I'm getting paid to keep you company, you know.”

“Well, do so quietly. And from afar.”

She sighs as though I'm a petulant child. “It's shocking that none of your other companions stuck around for more than a couple of weeks. Absolutely
shocking,
I say.”

“Goodbye, Middleton,” I say, gesturing with my cane back toward the house.

“See ya, Langdon,” she says as she begins walking backward so that she's still facing me. “Also, fun little trivia for this morning? In exchange for your unsolicited breathing advice?”

“No thanks.”

She ignores me and points to the cane. “That cane? All for show. You haven't used it once to support your weight this entire time.”

I open my mouth to argue, but instead my jaw goes a little slack as it hits me.

She's right.

And I haven't once thought about my leg. Or my scars.

She's already jogging away from me, and I stand still for several minutes, watching her until she disappears around a bend in the path. Then I continue with my walk, telling myself I'm relieved to have my solitude back.

And if there's the slightest undercurrent of loneliness, I ignore it.

After my shower, I go looking for Paul.

He's not in his library or the kitchen. Halfway back up the stairs, I hear the hard, driving music from the direction of his bedroom. I didn't grow up with a brother (or a sister, for that matter), but I'm pretty sure all that scary guitar noise is dude code for “keep the hell out.”

Fine with me.

I'm not sure which encounter feels more strange: the kiss in the library last night, or the unexpected predawn walk/run, where we almost connected for like a half second before he reverted to asshole mode.

Returning to my bedroom, I check my email, ignoring everything except the message from Harry Langdon. I hit reply and proceed to vomit out a bunch of lies about how “Paul and I are going to do just fine together!”

It's not like I can tell him the truth: that I'm not at all sure how to survive three months with his gorgeous, tormented son.

And then, because I have
no
idea what else I'm supposed to be doing, I take myself on a little tour of the Langdon estates.

The compound is just as enormous and impressive in the morning as it was at twilight, and although everything is state-of-the-art, right down to the sound system in the small house, which Mick insists on showing me, I can't help but feel I've stepped back into another era where some desolate duke reigns over a semi-abandoned estate.

The gym in particular is depressing. It has enough equipment for an entire football team, which is a little pathetic considering there's only one person using it, and according to Harry Langdon's earlier emails, Paul only works his upper body—not the leg that so desperately needs rehabilitation.

Yet…wasn't lying this morning when I pointed out that he doesn't seem to
need
his cane. Admittedly, my psychology expertise is limited to one throwaway psych class my freshman year at NYU, but I'd bet serious money that Paul Langdon's issues are a lot more in his head than in his leg. And I suspect that, deep down, he knows it too.

Which is why he's avoiding me.

He's not trying to run me off with the same sort of hostile enthusiasm he displayed yesterday, but he's certainly not seeking me out. I'm disappointed but not surprised. After all, he's made it very clear that he can't stand anything about me. Not my personality, not my running technique, not my pink shoes…

Later, Lindy asks me to take Paul lunch—homemade minestrone and a ham sandwich—but when I bring it into the study, the room is still empty. However, there's a glass of some brown alcohol on the desk that I know wasn't there earlier, so he's obviously not locked in his bedroom anymore.

Yup. Definitely avoiding me. I take the tumbler of liquor out with me after setting the tray on the desk. I'm not a teetotaler by any means, but the last thing this guy needs is to be drinking before noon. When I get back to the kitchen I dump the alcohol down the sink, perversely hoping that I've just tossed something extremely expensive.

I spend the next couple of hours in my room. I call my mom and give her a glossy, half-truth-filled version of my first day. Next I call Bella, and although I fill her in on the fact that Paul is younger than expected and ridiculously sexy (best friend privilege; I can't
not
tell her), I stop short of confiding that I'm both drawn to him and utterly terrified by him. I certainly don't tell her about the kiss.

Then I kill as much time as I can checking in on the various social media stops, spending an extra few minutes studying the newest pictures of Ethan and Stephanie, just to punish myself.

Seeing the wide smile on my ex's face when he looks at the tiny brunette feels a bit like a knife in the chest. He used to look at
me
that way. Didn't he? Ugh. What if he
didn't
? What if nobody does again?

Once I've exhausted every social media network and every celeb gossip site I know, I'm about to close my laptop when a new email comes through.

It's from Harry Langdon.

Ms. Middleton:

Glad to hear you're settling in nicely. I hope Paul wasn't too unwelcoming. He can be a bit rough around newcomers given his condition. I know he'll be difficult, but I'm confident that even just an hour or two of human contact each day is vital to his recovery. Be patient with him. He's a good boy.

I'll be in touch,

Harry

P.S.: Watch his drinking.

I read the message twice.
Really
? “A good boy”? Clearly Harry hasn't spent much time with his “boy” in a while, because the guy I met is far from
good,
and well on his way out of boyhood.

Also, what
condition
? Hostility? General asshole-ness? Being allowed to wallow in self-pity for too long?

Plus there's a detached quality about the email that's bugging me. Sure, the man is paying ridiculous amounts of money to hide his son away in luxury, but can paid babysitters really make up for the lack of family? And where's Paul's mom? I make a mental note to ask Lindy.

The only thing about the businesslike email that gives me
any
peace of mind is Mr. Langdon's mention of “an hour or two” of human contact. I admit I've been feeling a little weird about getting free room and board plus a decent salary to watch over a guy I can't even seem to locate. But hey, if they want to pay me to intrude on his morning walks and dump out his booze, bring it on.

I set the laptop aside and reach for the book I brought with me. One of my personal goals for this little Maine adventure is to read more. I mean, I've always been really good at reading gossip magazines, and I read my textbooks carefully enough to get good grades. But lately I've had a little craving to get more substance into my life.

I pulled a biography of Andrew Jackson off the shelf in my dad's library when I was packing, mostly because it was big and had “Pulitzer Prize Winner” printed on the front. Impressive, right? So maybe I hadn't known straightaway that Andrew Jackson was a former president, but that only reinforced my resolution to read it. The new and improved Olivia is going to know shit like that.

I open my bedroom door, listening for the music coming from Paul's room. Nothing. I hope this means he's down in his study. Poor guy doesn't know it yet, but he's about to have some company doing whatever it is he does in that room for unhealthy amounts of time.

I put on a quick swipe of mascara and pink lip gloss. I try to tell myself that it's out of habit (my mom is of the opinion that ladies should always be groomed), but I'm pretty sure it's because I'm trying to make up for the fact that the last time Paul saw me, I had major boob sweat and a greasy ponytail and was short on oxygen.

My dark jeans and cream sweater aren't exactly sexy, but they're a big improvement on my running gear. As is the fact that I'm showered.

You're an employee,
my brain reminds me.
So not the time to cultivate your inner tramp.

At the library door, I start to knock, only to realize that'll give him a chance to throw himself out the window or sneak out some secret passageway that I'm only half kidding about. Instead I go right in, and the scene in front of me is…well, it's ridiculously appealing.

The roaring fireplace in the corner, the sexy guy in the big wingback chair by the fireplace with a book and another of those amber-liquid filled tumblers. It's all very après-ski chic.

For the first time since arriving in this hellish place, I feel a true pang of regret for intruding on him. He doesn't seem like a victim who needs a keeper so much as a guy trying to read a book in peace by the fire on a blustery afternoon.

I'm thinking about backing away and leaving him to the quiet when he opens his fat mouth.

“That liquor you tossed earlier came from a five-hundred-dollar bottle.”

Ah
. Back to normal. I use my foot to close the door behind me. “I'm sure that really made a dent in the family coffers. You know, right, that all of the artwork in your halls is original?”

“Come on,” he says, still not looking up from his book “You're a rich girl. Surely you know how stereotypical comments like that can be.”

“Yeah, you look really torn up about it,” I mutter, moving closer to him. “And how do you know I'm rich?”

“Google. Your family's a big deal.”

I ignore this. We'll both be better off not talking about me.

“So what is it?” I ask, tentatively sitting in the chair across from his even though I'm uninvited and clearly unwelcome. I study him. Paul has just a bit more stubble than he did yesterday. Normally I prefer a clean-cut guy, but this slightly rough look really,
really
suits his golden-boy-meet
s-jaded-war-hero vibe. I wait for him to look at me, mentally bracing myself for the shock of it.

As though he's sensed my thoughts, his blue eyes flick to mine, and I'm not sure why I thought bracing for it would make a damned bit of difference. It still sends ripples of
want
from my eyelashes right down to my toes.

“What is what?” he asks.

It takes me a moment to realize that I asked him a question. “The precious liquor I threw out. What is it?”

His eyes flicker in irritation and I think he's going to tell me to get the hell out, but something seems to stop him, and he very slowly lifts the crystal glass from the table and hands it to me.

I sniff. “Scotch.”

He nods. “A thirty-year-old Highland Park. Not the best we have, but not something to be tossed down the drain, either.”

“Very alpha.”

He rolls his eyes, and I take a tiny sip, knowing from past experience that I don't really like Scotch. Turns out I don't like the $500 one either, and I hand it back to him with a little shrug.

“Want anything?” he asks. “Wine?”

“I'm good.”

Actually, water would be great right about now. Between the hot look in his eyes and the heat of the fire, I'm a bit, um, parched.

“What are you reading?” I ask.

He groans. “Not this again. I know we're stuck with each other, but do we have to do the get-to-know-eac
h-other chat? Can't we just sit in silence?”

The way he says
stuck with each other
gives me pause. I know why
I'm
sticking this out, but why is he? From what I've heard from Lindy and what I inferred from his father, Paul has no qualms about driving people away.

Is he treating me differently? Or just biding his time until he figures out how to add me to his list of banished caretakers?

I really,
really
want it to be the first one.

“Fine,” I say, sitting back in the chair and settling in. “I'll give you twenty minutes of silence in exchange for a shared dinner.”

“Hell no,” he says calmly, his attention already returned to his book as he turns a page.

“Thirty minutes of silence.”

“I don't share meals with anyone.”

“Come on,” I cajole. “I promise not to try to feed you your soup airplane-style like a child.”

“No.”

“Paul.”

His eyes flick up again, and for the briefest of moments the look on his face is almost one of longing. I realize it's the first time I've spoken his name out loud.

I'm pretty sure I'm not
just
another caretaker. Thing is, I don't know what I am.

“I can keep a one-sided conversation going for a
long
time,” I press on, quickly trying to move us away from the charged moment. “Let's see, I was born on August thirtieth, which means that my birthstone is peridot, which is a fancy word for ugly green. And speaking of color,
this
hair color? So not natural. I mean, I was one of those adorable blond toddlers, but it all went mouse brown right about the time I started third grade, and I've been adjusting it ever since. I got my first period when I was—”

“Okay!” he interrupts. “I cave. You give me an hour and a half of silence now, and I'll eat dinner with you later, but we can't talk during that either.”