“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.
Chapter Sixteen
Paul
Today’s one of those days. The bad kind.
Last night the nightmares were unending, the sleep nonexistent, and the pain in my leg unbearable.