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 f**k 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?

I guess I should go to him and make some sort of effort to help, but some dark, untapped instinct tells me not to. That’s what he’ll expect, and being predictable with this guy is a mistake.

“A dollar in the hat?” I repeat, shutting the library door quietly behind me. Stupid move. The already dark room now seems intimate, and I’m all too aware that it’s just me and a guy who may or may not want to kill himself. Or me.

“If you’re going to gawk, at least give me the same sympathy dollar you’d give any other circus freak,” he clarifies, still not turning around.

I roll my eyes at his melodrama as I move closer, wanting to see his face. No, needing to see his face.

From the back, he’s practically perfect. He’s wearing a black T-shirt that’s tight enough to show the ripples of his sculpted back, and his dark denim jeans ride just low enough on his hips to be interesting. I’m pretty sure that if he lifted his hands above his head, I’d catch a glimpse of boxers.

Or briefs?

Why is my mouth watering?

I haven’t even seen the guy in full light yet and I’m about fifteen seconds away from asking if his offspring would like to take up residence in my uterus.

I should run. Instead, I move closer.

“Let me guess. You were expecting an old dude in a smoking jacket?” he asks gruffly.

Actually, yes. I absolutely wasn’t expecting Paul to be Harry Langdon’s late-in-life son. Very late in life, if Harry’s as old as he seems in the pictures.

But of course I’ll tell Paul no such thing. I take another tentative step forward, noting the way he tenses as I approach. He really is like a wounded animal, which would make me feel sorry for him if I didn’t suspect that he’s using his injuries to justify being a manipulative son of a bitch.

Well, if he wants to play games . . .

My Chanel cross-body purse is still slung over my shoulder, and I fish around for my wallet as I close in on him.

He turns completely so his back is fully to me, and now he’s trapped between me and the desk, with nothing but late afternoon shadows to hide him.

I pause, waiting. Common courtesy demands that he turns around. He doesn’t. I shift to the side, but he shifts with me, still keeping his back to me.

Seriously? This is beyond childish.

I move to the other side, and he moves again.

“Maybe when we’re done with this activity, we can play Chutes and Ladders or Candy Land,” I say sweetly, even as I glare at his back. “Assuming, of course, that those don’t exceed your maturity levels.”

“Those should be fine,” he says, his tone just as pleasant. “I don’t need working legs to play board games.”

I feel a stab of pity. Maybe I’m being too hard on him. That, and I need to remember why I’m here. I’m supposed to help him mend so that I can start to mend. So I can prove to myself that I’m not some sort of monster.

I see my hand on his elbow before I realize I’ve moved, and I know he’s not expecting the touch, because even as he tenses up, I’ve pulled him around to face me. Not all the way, but it’s enough. I stifle my gasp, but barely.

I was warned that Paul Langdon was crippled. I came prepared for that. But in all of our email conversations, Harry Langdon seems to have forgotten to mention the ragged scars running along the right side of his son’s face.

Everything makes brutal sense now: why he’s been hiding in the shadows, why the hostility and bitterness roll off him in waves.

He throws my arm off with a curse, and I expect him to turn away from me. Maybe even push me back.

Instead, he faces me fully, letting me see him head-on, and the way his eyes betray nothing—not even wariness—almost breaks my heart. It’s like I can actually see him shut off his human side.

We stare at each other for several seconds, both of us barely illuminated by the last bit of daylight coming in through the window. His eyes are a fierce color of light blue that look almost gray, especially when framed by thick lashes. His hair’s too short to get a good sense of its color, but it’s somewhere between blond and brown.

Finally my eyes land on his scars. Now that I’m prepared for them, they’re not as bad as I originally thought. Three raised lines run down the right side of his face, the shortest going from just below the outer edge of his eyebrow to the top of his cheekbone, as though it—whatever it was—just missed taking out his eye. The second is longer, running from the hair near his temple to the middle of his cheek. The last is the longest and ugliest, intersecting the other two as it runs from the corner of one eye and stopping just short of his lip. The straight lines of his lips are unmarred, but his mouth may as well be disfigured too, because I doubt he’s used it to smile in a long, long time.