My guilt isn’t exactly assuaged by the belated realization that Lindy is still in Portland and that I’m supposed to be on kitchen duty. Not only am I reminding the guy of all the things he can’t do, but now I’m starving him as well. Granted, the guy can spread cream cheese on a bagel by himself, but I’m getting paid to do it—something I’d do well to start remembering.

I hurriedly shower, throwing on yoga pants and a fuzzy blue sweater and pulling my wet hair into a messy knot at the top before dashing off to the kitchen.

I’ve never been much of a breakfast eater, and usually I just help myself to an English muffin or cereal, but this morning my stomach is rumbling for something more substantial. Probably because my “dinner” last night was a jumbo glass of white wine, followed by a few sips of Scotch.

I scramble up enough eggs for two, throw in some cheddar cheese and mushrooms, and add two glasses of orange juice to the tray. I know Paul has a coffeepot in the library, but I’m betting that he keeps only one mug in there, so I place a mug for myself on the tray as well. As an afterthought I slice up some berries and put those in a pretty crystal bowl.

Paul and I eat dinner together most nights—mostly because I leave him no choice—but usually I eat breakfast in the kitchen with Lindy while we chat about the Today show, or whatever. Come to think of it, I’ve been here about a month, and this is the first time Paul and I will eat breakfast together.

There’s something surprisingly intimate about sharing breakfast with a guy. Maybe because of the whole morning-after connection. Or maybe it’s just that it’s Paul, and I’m remembering last night’s kiss a little too clearly as I carefully carry the tray in the direction of the office.

My footsteps slow when I hear an unfamiliar noise. Voices, plural.

One is definitely Paul’s, but the other is unfamiliar. I pause outside the door. The other voice is decidedly male, which is a good thing. Despite the fact that I don’t think there’s anything remotely flirtatious between Kali and Paul, I have a brief vision of Kali in all of her freckled cuteness sitting in my chair in front of the fire.

But no, it’s definitely a man’s voice.

My hands are full, so I can’t knock. Instead I clear my throat loudly as I use my hip to bump open the library door the rest of the way. My eyes immediately make out the two figures standing tensely in front of the desk.

Shit. Oh, shit. The man standing toe-to-toe with Paul, face contorted in anger, is none other than Harry Langdon.

The prodigal father has returned.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Paul

“I still don’t understand what the hell you were thinking, pulling a stunt like that.” My dad is pissed.

“It wasn’t a stunt. It was going to get a drink at a bar. A drink, I might add.”

Dad pulls a hand over his face as he stares at me. “It’s not the drink part that bothers me, it’s the bar part. Since when after getting back from Afghanistan have you willingly put yourself in front of people?”

Since Olivia.

I don’t say it, of course. I’m confused enough about my feelings around that girl. The last thing I need is to have my dad get wise to the fact that the reason that she’s stayed around longer than any other caregiver has nothing to do with his stupid ultimatum and everything to do with the fact that I don’t want to let her go.

Not yet.

“What’s the problem?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest, hating that he makes me feel defensive. “You’ve been badgering me to be normal for years. Now when I actually try, you act like I’ve tarnished the family honor.”

Deny it, I silently plead. Deny the fact that you’re here because one of your friends saw my hideousness at the bar and called you to complain about it.

“Rick called me last night,” Dad says, confirming my worst suspicions. “Said you got in a fight.”

“He’s wrong.”

“Right,” he snorts. “So your nose has always looked like that?”

“Look, some frat boys were giving Olivia shit. They were drunk. I stepped in, and one of them landed a punch.”

“Of course one of them landed a punch!” Dad explodes. “You’re not exactly in fighting shape, Paul!”

I take a half step closer, getting in his face. “You sure about that?”

His face wrinkles in confusion and surprise, and I realize it’s the first time I’ve ever tried to paint myself as anything other than a victim. My father takes a step back, and I’m both ashamed and gratified—ashamed that he thinks I’d actually go after him, gratified that he recognizes that I’m not some frail invalid.

“The girl’s okay?” His voice is quieter. Calmer.

“Yeah, she’s fine,” I mutter, running a hand over my hair agitatedly as I turn back toward the desk. “She probably didn’t even need my help.”

“Yes, I did.”

Dad and I both turn to see Olivia watching us from just inside the door. Both of us glance at the tray in her hands, and I inwardly groan. Her hair is wet and her clothes casual. There are two plates, two glasses of juice, and God . . . is that a bowl of fruit? I hate fruit. This is not at all what it looks like when a proper employee brings a balanced meal to her charge. This is a cozy breakfast-for-two scene.

Shit.

“Ms. Middleton,” my father says, giving her his best business smile. “Nice to finally meet you in person.”