I put on the shoes, which are exactly my size. The boy must have done some creeping.

The new shoes seem to fit pretty much the same as my cute pink ones, but maybe I’ll feel a difference after a couple of miles in them. Paul is always squawking about the importance of injury prevention, and supposedly the right shoes will keep me from shin splits, stress fractures, and “all sorts of other bullshit.”

As expected, Paul’s waiting, his back to me as he stares out at the predawn darkness toward the water. He’s wearing a long-sleeved navy shirt and matching workout pants. He looks like a fit twentysomething ex-Marine who should take off at a run any second.

And then there’s a cane. A cane I’m still not entirely sure he needs. Still, one thing is certain: this is not a guy who’s about to start running.

“Hey,” I say softly.

I’m braced for him to be at his worst. After his stupid, clichéd “What’d you think of Kali?” move last night, I’m fully prepared for him to do whatever he can to push me away.

He turns. He’s not smiling—shocker—but his eyes are warm. And they grow warmer when they drift down my body, lingering on the right spots before settling on my feet.

“How are they?” he asks, jerking his chin in the direction of the new shoes.

Okay, then—guess we’re not going to talk about the kiss. But at least he’s not being a dick, which is more than I expected given the fact that the man’s emotional armor is thick.

“They’re hideous, exactly as you planned.”

“They’ll keep your feet from rolling in. You’ll thank me when you’re older.”

I choke out a little laugh. “Gosh, that’s romantic.”

His face goes blank, and I realize my mistake immediately. He can exercise with his caregiver, read with his caregiver, even flirt with and kiss the caregiver . . . but there’s no room for romance. Not with us.

And although I didn’t mean anything by it, words like romance are lethal to a guy like Paul.

To a girl like me too. I once had all the romance in the world with Ethan, and I managed to screw it all up. Maybe some people just aren’t meant for relationships.

Paul’s expression goes from wary to bemused. “Okay then.”

“What?”

He gives a little smile, and my heart twists when I see a flash of sadness. “I was about to put up all sorts of warning signs about how I’m not looking for a girlfriend,” he says ruefully. “But judging from the look of disgust on your face, I don’t have to.”

“No!” I burst out. God, he thinks my disgust is directed at him? I ache to tell him that whatever issues he has, he’s a good deal less toxic on the inside than I am. But I lack the guts. “I just—do you really want to talk about this?” I ask, throwing my hands up in the air.

He studies me for a second before glancing down at where his hand rests on the cane. “I don’t.”

I force a smile. “So . . . is there any trick I should know about these shoes? Do I need to mutter a secret code, or do they just work their magic by themselves?”

Paul rolls his eyes and uses his cane to gesture in the direction we usually start our run. “Go forth and trot. Try not to trip, waddle, or otherwise embarrass my tutelage.”

“Tutelage? Is that what you call it?” I ask. “Because it feels a lot more like sanctimonious lecturing.” Stalling, I start to stretch.

The tip of his cane gently taps my knee. “The latest word on the running circuit is that pre-run stretching doesn’t help prevent injury.”

I drop my foot back to the ground. “But magic shoes do?”

His lips twist in what’s almost a smile. “They do.”

“I hope nobody sees me,” I mutter good-naturedly. “Although on the plus side, I hope these shoes last me a long time, because they’ll fit in great at the nursing home.”

“Bet you’ll drive the old guys crazy.”

Do I drive you crazy? I want to ask. What I actually say is, “Okay, let’s do this.” I’m not sure if I’m talking about the run or something infinitely more treacherous.

He nods once.

I make it about five steps before a forbidden thought crosses my mind. When I turn back, I find him watching me, and the longing look on his face prompts me to ask the bold question.

“Have you tried running? Even a couple of steps? You know . . . since?”

Pain rolls over his face before all expression shuts down completely. “Run, Olivia? I can’t even walk without assistance.”

I c**k my head a little to the side. “Can’t you?”

With that, I turn on the heels of my ugly new shoes and take off at a trot. I try to concentrate on the breathing techniques Paul’s always yammering about, but the last thing I care about at the moment is breathing from my diaphragm. I’m too lost in thought about the gorgeous disaster that is Paul.

I lose track of how long I run, but I slow down when I start to see unfamiliar sights. I’ve come farther than I usually do. As expected, Paul’s nowhere to be seen when I turn around, but unlike every other day, I don’t see him on my return run either. I pushed him too far with my question about running, and he retreated.

I head into the house, determined not to be disappointed. What did I expect, that all it would take was just a late-night kiss and the mere suggestion that he try running, and all of a sudden he’d be striding along beside me in all of his prewar glory?