Wait, what? My father is giving his employees free vacations now? And the two of them are taking it together? I try to think back to the times I’ve seen Mick and Lindy together. Not often, but then I make a point of ignoring everyone as often as possible. Are they . . . you know? Good for them if they are. At least someone should be getting some.

“Cool,” I say.

Lindy purses her lips. “You’ll be fine. For food and stuff. I mean, it won’t be my cooking, but . . .”

Technically she’s talking to me, but I know from her tone she’s trying to reassure herself that she’s not abandoning me.

I give her a look. “Do you have any idea what they feed soldiers in Afghanistan? I’ll be fine.”

“Olivia tells us she’s handy enough around the kitchen,” Lindy responds, as though she didn’t hear me. “I’m sure you can survive on scrambled eggs or grilled cheese, or whatever she has in her repertoire.”

Olivia.

Me and Olivia.

Alone. In the house.

Olivia in itty-bitty pajamas, with full br**sts and long, toned legs.

Olivia with her don’t-fuck-with-me green eyes and lips that taste better than the most expensive Scotch on the market.

I won’t survive it.

“Whatever,” I mutter.

I keep one eye on the door as I eat, half expecting Olivia to come barging in with that Andrew Jackson book she’s about two pages into, insisting that we share a meal. But the door stays shut. The house stays quiet.

After lunch, I try to read, but I can’t concentrate. Instead, I head to the gym. Usually I hit the gym first thing in the morning, after my walk along the water and before my shower, but I didn’t have the energy this morning. Not after last night.

The gym is, admittedly, ridiculous. It’s huge by normal standards, but considering that only one person uses it, it’s downright absurd. Mick and Lindy are welcome to use it, but they’re not exactly fitness buffs. It’s just me.

I move steadily through my routine, relishing the familiar burn as I push my upper body to the limit. The truth is, from the waist up, I’m in better shape than I was at the peak of my military training, and that’s saying something. On some level, I guess I know that it has to do with overcompensating for the bad leg, but I don’t give a shit.

For some reason, I can’t stop thinking about my leg today, all too aware that it’s only going to get weaker and weaker. I keep it in usable shape by taking my daily walks. I’m not a complete idiot. I might not buy any of that physical therapy bullshit, but I know that unused limbs atrophy and all that. But I draw the line at any lower-body exercises in here, even for my good leg. It’s too much of a reminder of where I used to be, and where I’ll never be again. No squats. No lifts. No leg presses . . .

I push the thought aside, and with a last grunt I finish my set of presses. I lie on my back on the bench, chest heaving.

“You’re going to wind up hideously out of proportion if you keep that up.”

The voice is unexpected, and I sit up so quickly that I almost hit my head on the bar.

Olivia.

She’s wearing a sports bra and matching athletic shorts in . . . wait for it . . . pink. There’s an iPod in her hand and a water bottle under her arm. It’s obvious that she’s here to use the gym herself, not to hound me. Probably could have figured that out from the way she looks. The boobs might be God-given, but the rest of her has been well earned.

She moves toward me, and although her ponytail is as perky as ever, she has shadows under her eyes and her expression is more guarded than it was yesterday. She’s put walls between us, keeping me at a distance.

I feel a flash of regret, even as I mentally congratulate her. And myself. Mission accomplished, ass**le.

“You’re going to be disproportionate,” she repeats. “All bulky and ridiculous on top, and scrawny on the bottom.”

“I’m not scrawny,” I say immediately. Why are we talking about this instead of last night?

She comes closer, reaching out a hand and plucking at the fabric of my pants. She raises an eyebrow. “Yeah? When was the last time you wore shorts?”

I lift my eyebrows right back. “You saw me in boxers last night. Did you see scrawny?”

She snatches her hand back. “We’re not talking about last night.”

“I thought you’d be back in New York by now. Or at least all up my face demanding an apology.”

Her expression never changes. “I thought about it. But I need some distance from New York, and I know better than to expect an apology, so . . .” She holds out her arms as though to say, Here we are, deal with it.

Her matter-of-fact reaction to last night pisses me off. She should be demanding an apology—what the hell is wrong with her that she isn’t? Even more annoying . . . why do I want to give one?

“When was the last time you did any sort of lower-body workout?” she asks, oblivious to my inner turmoil.

I snatch her water bottle and take a long drink as I study her. “Not your business.”

She pretends to think about this. “Oh, wait a second, actually it is my business. If you want, I can get you my job description. It specifically says—”

“I’m sure it does,” I interrupt. “But you can go ahead and scratch that physical portion off because I’m not doing it.”

“Ten leg lifts,” she says calmly, ignoring me.

“What?” I ask, annoyed, as I get into a standing position. “No way.”