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?