“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.
Chapter Nine
Olivia
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.