Granted, I could have looked at it last night when I barged in on him in his boxers, but I had more important things to worry about. Like the fact that the guy had some seriously messed-up dreams. And that he knew his way all too well around my body in way too short a time.

I shake my head a little to clear it, carefully avoiding meeting his eyes.

“You’re blushing,” he says. “Whatcha thinking about?”

I give him a glare. I’m pretty sure he knows exactly what I’m thinking about. His expression flickers with something—remorse?—and for a second I think he’s going to apologize for last night. He should apologize.

And yet . . . I don’t want him to. That would somehow make me into the victim of the situation, and I was very much in control. Well, not in control of my hormones. But I know that if I’d told him to back off, he would have. He hurt my pride, but not me. I’d wanted every second of pleasure that he gave me, even if it was for all the wrong reasons. I don’t want an apology for that.

My gaze locks with his. Drop it.

His eyes narrow slightly before he looks away.

Good boy.

I make a big show of checking the weight, but it’s already at the lowest setting. Probably the factory setting, since I bet it’s never been used.

“Ready when you are,” I say quietly.

His lips press together for a second as he rolls his shoulders in irritation. “Do you have to watch?”

I give a careless little shrug. “I watched the rest of your workout.”

“That was different,” he grinds out. “And, for the record, creepy.”

“Couldn’t be helped. You can do a crazy number of pull-ups. I doubt I could do five.”

“You think you can do one?”

“Hey!” I say.

Paul lifts his hands, all innocence. “They’re hard. I knew a handful of women in boot camp who couldn’t do more than two. Men too.”

I open my mouth to argue, except I have no idea if I can do even one pull-up. I jab a finger toward his chest. “You’re stalling. And I already said I’d answer one of your dumb questions. Don’t try to sweet-talk me into a pull-up too.”

“Yeah, that’s what every guy wants to see. A girl trying to do a pull-up.”

If it’s anything like watching men do pull-ups, it wouldn’t be half bad. There was something about Paul in his gray tank top and those blue sweatpants hugging lean hips as he lifted himself over and over and . . .

My thoughts about his perfect back scatter as I realize his legs are moving. I have to dig my nails into my palm to keep from touching him in encouragement.

The first time is ridiculously easy for him, and it’s clear he’s using his good leg to lift the weight.

Same with the second time.

And the third. And the fourth. And the fifth. The right leg doing all the work, with the left just along for the ride.

No way. Not good enough. Now I do touch him. Just a gentle touch above his good knee, but it’s enough to make him pause. His eyes fly to mine, although he quickly turns his head so he’s not facing me head-on. Like in most gyms, the lighting in here is fairly bright, and abruptly I realize it’s the first time I’ve had the chance to see his scars up close, without the shadows of dawn or dusk, or his gloomy den, or his dark bedroom.

There are no shadows to soften his scars in here, but I didn’t even notice. I know they’re there, of course, but somehow they’re just part of the complex package that is Paul Langdon.

But I know he doesn’t see it that way. So when he turns away, I avert my eyes. First we’ll fix the leg. Then we’ll work on getting him to accept his new face.

I press my hand gently on his knee again, silently telling him to relax his good leg and let the other one do the work. From the shuddering breath he lets out, I know he understands my request.

His hands fist at his sides, and for a second I think he’s going to tell me to f**k off, but then the bar starts to rise again. Slower this time. But steadily.

Six, I mentally count.

He lowers his leg, staring at it as though surprised to find that it’s actually moving when he wants it to.

The bar moves again. Still slowly, but still steadily. Seven.

This time the bar drops with more of a clank, and my heart twists as I realize just how much weaker that leg really is.

But he doesn’t quit. Again, slower still. Eight. Then a painstaking ninth rep.

The bar halts halfway through the tenth, and his breathing is harsh. I slip my hand in his, trying to communicate palm to palm that he can do this.

His fingers clench around mine so hard I swear I hear bones crunch, but it’s worth it to see him lift a few more inches. The bar falls quickly this time as his leg gives out, and the clank of metal seems to go on forever before I finally tear my eyes away from his leg to meet his gaze.

He’s staring at me, and my mouth goes dry at the intensity of his stare. I want to cheer. He’s defeated this first demon. But the victory didn’t come for free.

I start to pull my hand away, but he holds me still.

“Your turn, Goldilocks. Start talking.”

I want to say something witty, but the best I can do is a pathetic little eye roll, and his smirk tells me he knows I’m backed into a corner I don’t want to be in. It doesn’t stop him for going from the kill.

“My burning question, Ms. Middleton . . . and I’ll have the truth, please . . .”

I hesitate only slightly before giving a curt nod.