I pulled a biography of Andrew Jackson off the shelf in my dad’s library when I was packing, mostly because it was big and had Pulitzer Prize winner printed on the front. Impressive, right? So maybe I hadn’t known straightaway that Andrew Jackson was a former president, but that only reinforced my resolution to read it. The new and improved Olivia is going to know shit like that.

I open my bedroom door, listening for the music coming from Paul’s room. Nothing. I hope this means he’s down in his study. Poor guy doesn’t know it yet, but he’s about to have some company doing whatever it is he does in that room for unhealthy amounts of time.

I put on a quick swipe of mascara and pink lip gloss. I try to tell myself that it’s out of habit (my mom is of the opinion that ladies should always be groomed), but I’m pretty sure it’s because I’m trying to make up for the fact that the last time Paul saw me, I had major boob sweat and a greasy ponytail and was short on oxygen.

My dark jeans and cream sweater aren’t exactly sexy, but they’re a big improvement from my running gear. As is the fact that I’m showered.

You’re an employee, my brain reminds me. So not the time to cultivate your inner tramp.

At the library door, I start to knock, only to realize that’ll give him a chance to throw himself out the window or sneak out some secret passageway that I’m only half kidding about. Instead I go right in, and the scene in front of me is . . . well, it’s ridiculously appealing.

The roaring fireplace in the corner, the sexy guy in the big wingback chair by the fireplace with a book and another of those amber-liquid filled tumblers. It’s all very après-ski chic.

For the first time since arriving in this hellish place, I feel a true pang of regret for intruding on him. He doesn’t seem like a victim who needs a keeper so much as a guy trying to read a book in peace by the fire on a blustery afternoon.

I’m thinking about backing away and leaving him to the quiet when he opens his fat mouth.

“That liquor you tossed earlier came from a five-hundred-dollar bottle.”

Ah. Back to normal. I use my foot to close the door behind me. “I’m sure that really made a dent in the family coffers. You know, right, that all of the artwork in your halls is original?”

“Come on,” he says, still not looking up from his book “You’re a rich girl. Surely you know how stereotypical comments like that can be.”

“Yeah, you look really torn up about it,” I mutter, moving closer to him. “And how do you know I’m rich?”

“Google. Your family’s a big deal.”

I ignore this. We’ll both be better off not talking about me.

“So what is it?” I ask, tentatively sitting in the chair across from his even though I’m uninvited and clearly unwelcome. I study him. Paul has just a bit more stubble than he did yesterday. Normally I prefer a clean-cut guy, but this slightly rough look really, really suits his golden-boy-meets-jaded-war-hero vibe. I wait for him to look at me, mentally bracing myself for the shock of it.

As though he’s sensed my thoughts, his gray eyes flick to mine, and I’m not sure why I thought bracing for it would make a damned bit of difference. It still sends ripples of want from my eyelashes right down to my toes.

“What is what?” he asks.

It takes me a moment to realize that I asked him a question. “The precious liquor I threw out. What is it?”

His eyes flicker in irritation and I think he’s going to tell me to get the hell out, but something seems to stop him, and he very slowly lifts the crystal glass from the table and hands it to me.

I sniff. “Scotch.”

He nods. “A thirty-year-old Highland Park. Not the best we have, but not something to be tossed down the drain, either.”

“Very alpha.”

He rolls his eyes, and I take a tiny sip, knowing from past experience that I don’t really like Scotch. Turns out I don’t like the $500 one either, and I hand it back to him with a little shrug.

“Want anything?” he asks. “Wine?”

“I’m good.”

Actually, water would be great right about now. Between the hot look in his eyes and the heat of the fire, I’m a bit, um, parched.

“What are you reading?” I ask.

He groans. “Not this again. I know we’re stuck with each other, but do we have to do the get-to-know-each-other chat? Can’t we just sit in silence?”

The way he says stuck with each other gives me pause. I know why I’m sticking this out, but why is he? From what I’ve heard from Lindy and what I inferred from his father, Paul has no qualms about driving people away.

Is he treating me differently? Or just biding his time until he figures out how to add me to his list of banished caretakers?

I really, really want it to be the first one.

“Fine,” I say, sitting back in the chair and settling in. “I’ll give you twenty minutes of silence in exchange for a shared dinner.”

“Hell no,” he says calmly, his attention already returned to his book as he turns a page.

“Thirty minutes of silence.”

“I don’t share meals with anyone.”

“Come on,” I cajole. “I promise not to try to feed you your soup airplane style like a child.”

“No.”

“Paul.”

His eyes flick up again, and for the briefest of moments the look on his face is almost one of longing. I realize it’s the first time I’ve spoken his name out loud.