And if there’s the slightest undercurrent of loneliness, I ignore it.

CHAPTER NINE

Olivia

After my shower, I go looking for Paul.

He’s not in his library or the kitchen. Halfway back up the stairs, I hear the hard, driving music from the direction of his bedroom. I didn’t grow up with a brother (or a sister, for that matter), but I’m pretty sure all that scary guitar noise is dude code for “keep the hell out.”

Fine with me.

I’m not sure which encounter feels more strange: the kiss in the library last night, or the unexpected predawn walk/run, where we almost connected for like a half second before he reverted to ass**le mode.

Returning to my bedroom, I check my email, ignoring everything except the message from Harry Langdon. I hit reply and proceed to vomit out a bunch of lies about how “Paul and I are going to do just fine together!”

It’s not like I can tell him the truth: that I’m not at all sure how to survive three months with his gorgeous, tormented son.

And then, because I have no idea what else I’m supposed to be doing, I take myself on a little tour of the Langdon estates.

The compound is just as enormous and impressive in the morning as it was at twilight, and although everything is state-of-the-art, right down to the sound system in the small house, which Mick insists on showing me, I can’t help but feel like I’ve stepped back into another era where some desolate duke reigns over a semi-abandoned estate.

The gym in particular is depressing. It has enough equipment for an entire football team, which is a little pathetic considering there’s only one person using it, and according to Harry Langdon’s earlier emails, Paul only works his upper body—not the leg that so desperately needs rehabilitation.

Yet . . . I wasn’t lying this morning when I pointed out that he doesn’t seem to need his cane. Admittedly, my psychology expertise is limited to one throwaway psych class my freshman year at NYU, but I’d bet serious money that Paul Langdon’s issues are a lot more in his head than in his leg. And I suspect that, deep down, he knows it too.

Which is why he’s avoiding me.

He’s not trying to run me off with the same sort of hostile enthusiasm he displayed yesterday, but he’s certainly not seeking me out. I’m disappointed but not surprised. After all, he’s made it very clear that he can’t stand anything about me. Not my personality, not my running technique, not my pink shoes . . .

Later, Lindy asks me to take Paul lunch—homemade minestrone and a ham sandwich—but when I bring it into the study, the room is still empty. However, there’s a glass of some brown alcohol on the desk that I know wasn’t there earlier, so he’s obviously not locked in his bedroom anymore.

Yup. Definitely avoiding me. I take the tumbler of liquor out with me after setting the tray on the desk. I’m not a teetotaler by any means, but the last thing this guy needs is to be drinking before noon. When I get back to the kitchen I dump the alcohol down the sink, perversely hoping that I’ve just tossed something extremely expensive.

I spend the next couple of hours in my room. I call my mom and give her a glossy, half-truth-filled version of my first day. Next I call Bella, and although I fill her in on the fact that Paul is younger than expected and ridiculously sexy (best friend privilege; I can’t not tell her), I stop short of confiding that I’m both drawn to him and utterly terrified by him. I certainly don’t tell her about the kiss.

Then I kill as much time as I can checking in on the various social media stops, spending an extra few minutes studying the newest pictures of Ethan and Stephanie, just to punish myself.

Seeing the wide smile on my ex’s face when he looks at the tiny brunette feels a bit like a knife in the chest. He used to look at me that way. Didn’t he? Ugh. What if he didn’t? What if nobody does again?

Once I’ve exhausted every social media network and every celeb gossip site I know, I’m about to close my laptop when a new email comes through.

It’s from Harry Langdon.

Ms. Middleton:

Glad to hear you’re settling in nicely. I hope Paul wasn’t too unwelcoming. He can be a bit rough around newcomers given his condition. I know he’ll be difficult, but I’m confident that even just an hour or two of human contact each day is vital to his recovery. Be patient with him. He’s a good boy.

I’ll be in touch,

Harry

P.S.: Watch his drinking.

I read the message twice. Really? “A good boy”? Clearly Harry hasn’t spent much time with his “boy” in a while, because the guy I met is far from good, and well on his way out of boyhood.

Also, what condition? Hostility? General ass**le-ness? Being allowed to wallow in self-pity for too long?

Plus there’s a detached quality about the email that’s bugging me. Sure, the man is paying ridiculous amounts of money to hide his son away in luxury, but can paid babysitters really make up for the lack of family? And where’s Paul’s mom? I make a mental note to ask Lindy.

The only thing about the businesslike email that gives me any peace of mind is Mr. Langdon’s mention of “an hour or two” of human contact. I admit I’ve been feeling a little weird about getting free room and board plus a decent salary to watch over a guy I can’t even seem to locate. But hey, if they want to pay me to intrude on his morning walks and dump out his booze, bring it on.

I set the laptop aside and reach for the book I brought with me. One of my personal goals for this little Maine adventure is to read more. I mean, I’ve always been really good at reading gossip magazines, and I read my textbooks carefully enough to get good grades. But lately I’ve had a little craving to get more substance into my life.