Same with the second time.
And the third. And the fourth. And the fifth. The right leg doing all the work, with the left just along for the ride.
No way. Not good enough. Now I do touch him. Just a gentle touch above his good knee, but it’s enough to make him pause. His eyes fly to mine, although he quickly turns his head so he’s not facing me head-on. Like in most gyms, the lighting in here is fairly bright, and abruptly I realize it’s the first time I’ve had the chance to see his scars up close, without the shadows of dawn or dusk, or his gloomy den, or his dark bedroom.
There are no shadows to soften his scars in here, but I didn’t even notice. I know they’re there, of course, but somehow they’re just part of the complex package that is Paul Langdon.
But I know he doesn’t see it that way. So when he turns away, I avert my eyes. First we’ll fix the leg. Then we’ll work on getting him to accept his new face.
I press my hand gently on his knee again, silently telling him to relax his good leg and let the other one do the work. From the shuddering breath he lets out, I know he understands my request.
His hands fist at his sides, and for a second I think he’s going to tell me to fuck off, but then the bar starts to rise again. Slower this time. But steadily.
Six, I mentally count.
He lowers his leg, staring at it as though surprised to find that it’s actually moving when he wants it to.
The bar moves again. Still slowly, but still steadily. Seven.
This time the bar drops with more of a clank, and my heart twists as I realize just how much weaker that leg really is.
But he doesn’t quit. Again, slower still. Eight. Then a painstaking ninth rep.
The bar halts halfway through the tenth, and his breathing is harsh. I slip my hand in his, trying to communicate palm to palm that he can do this.
His fingers clench around mine so hard I swear I hear bones crunch, but it’s worth it to see him lift a few more inches. The bar falls quickly this time as his leg gives out, and the clank of metal seems to go on forever before I finally tear my eyes away from his leg to meet his gaze.
He’s staring at me, and my mouth goes dry at the intensity of his stare. I want to cheer. He’s defeated this first demon. But the victory didn’t come for free.
I start to pull my hand away, but he holds me still.
“Your turn, Goldilocks. Start talking.”
I want to say something witty, but the best I can do is a pathetic little eye roll, and his smirk tells me he knows I’m backed into a corner I don’t want to be in. It doesn’t stop him for going from the kill.
“My burning question, Ms. Middleton…and I’ll have the truth, please…”
I hesitate only slightly before giving a curt nod.
“Don’t worry. It’s an easy one.” He leans forward. “Who, my dear, is Ethan Price?”
Chapter Fourteen
Paul
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.