Instead my mind is going down a more ridiculous path . . . wondering which bra Paul would most like to see. Wondering what it would feel like to have him take it off me. Wondering . . .

Oh my gawd, Middleton. You are half a dirty thought away from being a revolting perv.

By the time I brush my teeth and wash my face in the small but modern bathroom, I’m surprised to realize that I’m exhausted despite the fact that the sun’s barely set. I wonder if I’m supposed to check on “Mr. Paul,” but from the way he glared at me as I stormed out of his cave earlier, I don’t think another encounter today will do either of us any good.

Changing into my pajamas, I curl up on my side on the large bed, resting my cheek on my hands as I stare out at the dark sky. When I finally drift off to sleep, it’s not picturesque water and boats I see. It’s an angry mouth and gorgeous blue eyes.

For the first time in months, my dreams aren’t about Ethan. Or Michael.

Tonight, my dreams are about someone far more dangerous to me than either of the guys from my past.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Paul

Back when I was in high school, me and football were kind of a big deal. And I always liked it well enough, but football was never really my true passion, cheesy as that sounds.

In fact, I was semi-disappointed when my coach marked me for QB early in my freshman year. The quarterback doesn’t get to run much.

That’s my passion. Running. Tossing a football to a bunch of other guys is nothing compared to the rush I got from running.

I ran every day leading up to Afghanistan. I ran as often as I could around the base after I got there. And since getting back . . . Well, let’s just say that my future holds as much hope for running as it does flying.

But I have a secret.

Not a big one. It’s pathetic, actually. But one that nobody knows. Well, I suspect Mick and Lindy might, but they won’t dare mention it.

The truth is, running is the one area of my life where I let the tiniest ray of hope shine in. Not real hope. Because I can’t actually let myself think that it’s going to happen. But I dream of running again.

It’s that dream that has me getting up at the ass crack of dawn every morning. Before Lindy or Mick or whatever godforsaken caretaker is lurking about is awake . . . hell, before the sun’s even up.

I go outside and pretend I’m running. Not physically pretending, of course. My leg’s not even remotely able to sustain that kind of fantasy. But mentally? I run.

It’s the only time I’ll use my cane. Partially because nobody’s watching, but also because the cane allows me to go longer, farther, faster. Just a mile or so on a trail that winds around the bay. I walk/hobble in the predawn silence and let myself pretend just for an hour that I’m running. That I’m normal. It’s my time.

Of course, being the hermit that I am, all time is my time. But this is different. I’d almost say sacred if that didn’t sound so ridiculous. But save for the fishermen—because this is Maine, after all—I’m alone. And this solitude is different from the rest of my day because it’s intentional.

This time of the day is the only time I feel alive.

And I never dreamed that it could be ripped away from me in the most debilitating way possible.

Olivia Middleton—the very person who kept me up the entire night—is a runner. Worse, she’s running on my path during my time.

She’s running toward me, and although she’s still a good ways off, I know it’s her. That blond ponytail and that tall, slim frame are all I’ve been able to think about since that kiss.

Turning around would be futile. Her jog would easily overtake my walk, so there’s nothing to do but wait. And brace.

I slow to a standstill. It’s bad enough that she has to see me with the cane; I’ll be damned before I give her the spectacle of watching me actually hobble along with it.

She’s got hot pink running shoes, which are ridiculous, especially since they perfectly match the long-sleeved pink running shirt. The hairband is also pink. Come to think of it, wasn’t she wearing a pink sweater yesterday? Just what I need. A bubblegum explosion in my life.

Even if her fashion-forward running gear didn’t clue me in (real runners don’t care about matching their hairband to their shoes), it’s obvious from her slow pace, her pink cheeks, and the gait that’s just slightly off that she’s new at this.

Already my brain is racing with pointers. Breathe in through your nose, out through your mouth. Don’t move your arms so much. You overpronate—do your girly shoes compensate for that?

At first I think she doesn’t see me. There’s no change in her gait or expression as she closes the gap between us. But then she’s almost upon me. Then in front of me. She stops.

My fingers clench on the handle of my cane—a black python affair I ordered on the Internet mostly because it was so ridiculously gaudy—and I resist the urge to turn my head and give her my profile. My good side.

But if the two of are going to be stuck together for three months, she’d better get used to seeing me. I’d better get used to her seeing me.

She doesn’t look at the cane at all, and other than the briefest flick of her green eyes over my scars, she doesn’t really seem to care about those either. Then again, it’s still dark, with the barest hit of early morning sun illuminating us, so perhaps she can’t really see their ugliness. Which reminds me . . .

“You shouldn’t go running alone in the dark,” I growl.