But by the time she unrolls her yoga mat—pink—and starts with the now familiar poses, it’s clear that she’s winning. Watching Olivia do yoga is in fact interesting, but it’s also torment. Is it just my imagination, or is she holding that downward-facing dog position just a second longer than necessary? And I’m pretty sure I don’t remember that position where she arches her back quite like that from previous days.
Those damned tight yoga pants girls like to wear are tempting enough when they’re not actually doing yoga. But when her butt’s in the air all tight and cute?
Shit. By the time she contorts herself into something that’s basically her grabbing her ankles, I’m fucking sweating.
Is there a yoga position that involves her beneath me, hands pinned above her head, clothing optional? Because then I might rethink her yoga offer. By the time she’s finished, I’m hard, even though I’ve been pretending to be adjusting the weights on one of the machines. She carefully ignores me. I ignore her right back as I move to refill my water bottle.
She tucks her yoga mat under her arm and we move toward the door together.
“So…” she says, her voice easy and sweet. Too sweet. I instantly go on guard as I hold the gym door open for her. Here it comes. Whatever she’s been working up to is finally coming to light.
“Any nightmares lately?” she asks.
I tense even further. “Nope.”
That’s a lie, and I can tell immediately that she knows it. Her lips flatten a little in disappointment that I don’t confide further, but what the hell does she expect? That she just has to wiggle her butt around and badger me into exercising and I’ll suddenly go all “Dear Diary” on her?
She recovers quickly. “Okay. Next question. Why’d you say that thing about Ethan when your dad was here?”
I almost choke on my water. Talk about a subject change.
“I’m an ass,” I say, glancing briefly at her profile.
“Finally, a true statement,” she says as we get closer to the house.
She’s probably waiting for an apology, but I’m not really in the mood.
Olivia doesn’t ask anything more, but I’m still tense, certain that I’m missing something. Two unrelated questions delivered back to back, but with no push for a real answer? It’s all very un-female—very un-Olivia. What the hell is she up to this time?
Once inside the main house, she immediately starts up the stairs. Still lost in thought, I start to follow her up, my eyes still sort of checking out her ass, because, you know, yoga pants. That and more than two years of celibacy. My dad knew exactly what he was doing, sending a twentysomething in here for my “recovery.”
Olivia turns around abruptly, and I’m caught staring, but I don’t really care. She’s a step in front of me, so I’m looking up at her, and I lift my eyebrows in question, bracing.
Here it comes. Her trump card.
“Hey, I just realized something,” she says.
I roll my eyes. Sure you did. “Okay?”
Her eyes sparkle in triumph. “Your cane. You left it in the gym.”
Her casual observation has me taking a full step backward on the stairs. She’s right. What. The. Hell.
I stand there long after she’s skipped up the steps. I’m unable to move. Almost unable to breathe.
She’s right. I walked the entire way, not only without my cane but without even realizing I didn’t have my cane.
The thought should elate me, but I can’t shake the dark sense of foreboding. No matter where I look, my walls are crumbling, and this damned girl keeps presenting me with the most dangerous element of all.
Hope.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Olivia
On some level, I guess I must be bracing for his nightmares. My bedroom is on the same floor as Paul’s but not exactly next door, so I’m not sure I’d hear his shouts through two closed doors if I wasn’t listening for them.
But I am listening for them.
I’ve heard them the past couple of nights too, but things have been so weird between us that I knew my presence was the last thing that would be of comfort to him.
Tonight, however, instinct leads me in a different direction. It leads me straight to Paul.