“I was married, twice, and divorced, twice. I know my way around exes. I take it things didn’t end well?”

“Eh, let’s just say I’m still getting over it.”

Lindy surprises me by laughing.

“What?” My tone is a little testy.

“That bothers him.”

“What bothers who?”

Lindy pauses in dropping balls of dough on the cookie sheet. “It bothers Paul that you don’t feel good about your breakup. It bothers him that you’re still hung up on this Ethan guy.”

“I didn’t say I was hung up on Ethan. But even if I were, that wouldn’t bother Paul.”

“Uh-huh,” she says, licking dough from her finger. “Don’t you dare be that girl who plays dumb. You know what I’m talking about.”

Oh gawd. She knows. “So you, um, know that things haven’t been entirely professional?”

“You mean, have I been alive long enough to know when two attractive twentysomethings are setting off enough sexual sparks to burn down the house? I do, yes.”

“Awesome,” I mutter. “Do you think Mick knows?”

“Definitely.”

Shit.

“Mr. Langdon?”

“Probably.”

Double shit.

“Well,” I say, pushing back from the counter, “good talk. I’m going to go drown myself now.”

She wiggles her fingers in a sassy little wave, looking way too pleased with herself. “Cookies will be ready to eat in fifteen. Oh, and Olivia?”

“Yah?”

“I’d tell you, you know. About Paul. If I knew.”

It takes my brain a second to catch up. “About Afghanistan, you mean?”

She nods. “I know about the effects, of course. The leg. The scars. The nightmares. But I don’t know what actually happened. I don’t know that anyone does.”

Huh.

“What does he say when people ask?”

She gives me a funny look. “They don’t.”

I come to a halt in the doorway as the implications of that roll over me. “Nobody? Nobody’s asked?”

“Well, I’m sure plenty of people asked him right after it happened, but he was too messed up to talk about it. For the last year or so, I think we’ve all just given him his space.”

I chew the inside of my cheek as I think about this. Maybe there’s such a thing as too much space. Maybe getting real crowded is exactly what he needs to heal from the inside out.

I’ve been avoiding him lately because I need the distance. But it’s time to remember what I’m doing here. I’m here to fix Paul, first and foremost.

And despite what he thinks, distance isn’t what he needs.

The prospect makes me almost giddy. Brace yourself, Paul Langdon. Shit’s about to get real messy for you.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Paul

It’s official: I don’t get women.

Olivia should be pissed at me. Just a few hours ago, I would have sworn that she was. But now she’s changing it up, and I don’t like it at all. I don’t trust forgiveness I didn’t earn.

The weird thing is, I never used to be so clueless with girls. I won’t pretend that I’m a mind reader or anything, but of course I know that fine never means fine, and if you ask a girl if you can skip a date to go to a Red Sox game with your friends, she will probably say, “Go ahead,” which means you’re a dead man.

I’ve had a few girlfriends. Only one was serious. Serious enough that we did the long-distance thing when I went to Afghanistan. When I got back, a well-meaning nurse told me that Ashley had come by to see me.

Once.

Honestly, I don’t blame her for not sticking around after she saw my mangled face. My scars are ugly now, but early on when the wounds were fresh, I was downright grotesque.

My dad mentioned that Ashley got married to the son of one of his vice presidents and had twins. I don’t know if he meant it to be a wake-up call or what, but the truth is I didn’t feel much of anything when he told me.

The point is, I used to know girls. But this thing with Olivia is a whole other ball game.

Sometime in the past hour she’s gone from acting like I’m a ticking bomb to being, well, friendly. Which is not to say that she’s been unfriendly. In the couple of weeks since I basically called her a useless hooker and then threw her ex-boyfriend in her face, leaving her to cry alone at night (is there a gold medal for ass**les? I’ve earned it), Olivia hasn’t done the prissy silent treatment thing, and I give her props for that.

But even though she’s been perfectly civil, things have been different. Conversation is shallower. She never touches me anymore, not even accidentally. More often than not she avoids prolonged eye contact, and she’s taken to “reading alone” in the afternoons so she can concentrate.

I should be thrilled. I accomplished my goal of distance quite easily. It’s supposed to feel like a reward. Instead, it feels an awful lot like punishment.

I miss her.

But that’s not to say that there aren’t alarm bells going off in my head right now. Because without warning, the old Olivia is back. And I’m way too relieved for comfort.

Her long, slim fingers appear in front of my face and she snaps rapidly, three times. “Yo. Langdon. A toddler can do more squats than you. Focus.”

See what I mean? Old Olivia. The sassy version who doesn’t treat me like an invalid. We’re in the gym, and she’s doing her tough-love physical trainer thing, which is both annoying and cute as hell.