She all but collapses against the tree, and for a second I can’t do much more than rest my forehead between her shoulder blades before I force myself to move, pulling up her shorts, then my own.

I turn her toward me, pulling her into my arms.

After what we just did, the chaste hug feels almost laughably tame, and she must think the same, because she giggles against my chest.

“Oh my God.”

I laugh along with her. “So. That happened.”

She tilts her head up to look at me, her eyes close to adoring, and I feel a punch of longing so intense it almost takes my breath away. Not longing for her body . . . although that’s always there, just beneath the surface. Longing for her, and her laughter, and the simple way she expects good things of me because she thinks I’m good.

Somewhere inside me, a demon is telling me that I’m going to disappoint her. That I’m going to destroy her. For the first time since Afghanistan, though, I push the thought back. For the first time, I let myself believe that my past—my scars—don’t define me.

I kiss her forehead. “Ready to run back?”

“Um, not unless these ugly shoes you made me wear have wheels. Or wings. I can’t run after that,” she says with a little nod toward the tree.

I give a mock sigh and hold out my hand. “Walk?”

She takes my hand without hesitation, her fingers locking with mine.

For three years I’ve thought there’d be no better feeling in the world than being able to run again. But I’m wrong.

Walking hand in hand with Olivia is better.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Olivia

I still love my afternoons in front of the fire with Paul as much as I ever did. Only now that things have changed, I’m finding that big leather chairs aren’t exactly ideal for snuggling.

I content myself with putting my feet in his lap while we read. He doesn’t seem to mind.

With one hand, he steadily turns the pages of his book. With the other, he alternates between rubbing the arch of my sock-clad foot and taking a sip of the tea I made us. Not so long ago it would have been booze by his side. He still drinks it occasionally, but now it’s more of an afterthought in the evenings instead of a crutch he needs to get through the day.

No matter where I look, I see only progress. Not that I think of Paul as my project. Not anymore. He’s no longer an undertaking I need to conquer in order to vanquish my own demons and earn my paycheck. He’s a person.

One that I care about at levels that are starting to worry me.

My smile fades, just slightly, as I try to push the thought away. But the thought won’t budge, and I force myself to face it head-on. So what if we haven’t exactly exchanged words of love? I’m twenty-two. I don’t need a vow of undying devotion, a ring, or one of those long talks about “us” that make guys crazy.

But a hint on where we stand would be nice. Just a hint.

“You’re scowling,” Paul says idly, his attention still mostly on his book.

“This Andrew Jackson biography’s just got me thinking,” I lie.

“Uh-huh. You’re really flying through that,” he says with a pointed look. He’s referring to the fact that I’m a tenth of the way through, even though I’ve been attempting to read it for months.

I open my mouth to retort that I’m savoring it, but abruptly I slam the book shut.

“Okay, fine. I don’t like it.” I toss the heavy book onto the end table with a disgruntled glare. “I’m trying to like it. I know I’m supposed to, and it’ll enrich my mind and all that, but I’m bored out of my mind.”

He presses his lips together as though to hide a smile, and I narrow my eyes at him. “Go ahead. Judge,” I say.

He shrugs. “No judgment. I’ve just been wondering how long it would take you to admit that you’re not into it.”

“You probably think all I want to read is celebrity magazines,” I mutter.

“Nah,” he says, giving my big toe a tweak. “Give yourself a break. Biographies aren’t for everyone. You’ll find some topic you like. I have a couple books I could recommend.”

I nod unenthusiastically, and he watches me carefully before slowly closing his own book.

“Okay. More than the book is on your mind. Let’s hear it.”

I smile. “You know, for someone who’s been out of the dating game for a while, you know how to read women.”

“Like riding a bike,” he says. “Only so much scarier. But seriously, what’s up?”

“I don’t even know,” I say, telling him the truth. “Don’t feel like reading, I guess.”

Both of his hands are on my feet now, massaging in deep kneading motions that feel amazing. “Okay. So we’ll talk.”

I give him a wry smile. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch. Actually, that’s not true. I fully intend to trade conversation for a blow job later.”

I roll my eyes. “The sad thing is, I know you’re only half joking.”

“Less than half, actually. I really like blow jobs.”

“Shocked. I’m completely shocked.”

“Seriously though, Middleton. Say what you need to say, or ask what you need to ask. Your mental anguish is giving me heartburn.”

I start to tell him that he can go back to his reading, and that yeah, I’d love another book recommendation. Preferably one that doesn’t double as a lullaby like that biography.