I sink into the desk chair. My leg is killing me, although it’s nothing compared to the pressure in my chest at the finality in my father’s tone.

“She’s young, Dad,” I say, hating the desperation I hear in my own voice. “About my age.”

“And?”

God, is he really so clueless? Heartless?

“She just . . . she’s too much like someone I would have hung out with . . . before.” Hell, she’s like someone I might have dated.

“Well, maybe that’s a good thing, Paul.” His voice sounds tired. “It would do you some good to remember that even though you don’t look the same or move the same, you’re still the same person.”

Except I’m not. Not even close. The worst of my scars aren’t the ones I see in the mirror, and just once I wish the old bastard would try to understand that.

“I’m not spending the next three months with her. There’s no way.”

“Fine. I’ll tell Lindy and Mick to start packing your bags.”

I close my eyes and slump back against the chair, getting a little desperate. “I swear to God, whoever you send next, I’ll welcome them. Anyone but her.”

He’s silent, and for one hopeful second I think he’s going to relent. Then he repeats: “It’s her or no one.”

“Goddamn it!” I explode.

“I’ve got to go—I’m already late to a meeting with the board.”

Of course. The man eats, breathes, and shits his work.

Think about Lily. Think about Amanda. Do it for Alex.

“Fine,” I mutter, hating myself for sounding like a petulant child, but I draw the line at pretending I’m okay with his manipulation.

“I’ll call you on Sunday,” he says.

I start to hang up the phone, but his voice halts me.

“Paul?”

I don’t respond, but neither do I disconnect.

“It’ll be okay, son. You’ll see.”

Bull-fucking-shit.

But he’s already gone before I can tell him that I gave up on things being okay a long time ago.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Olivia

I stomp out of Paul’s creepy depression cave with my head held high, but as soon as the door shuts, I round the corner and slump against the wall, trying to gather my thoughts.

I’m immediately regretting my uncharacteristic burst of . . . well, actually, I have no idea what that burst was. I’d like to think it was me being bold and noble—following through with my commitments, or something virtuous like that.

But the truth is, everything about Paul Langdon plain pisses me off and I lost my temper. I didn’t even know I had a temper.

I find my way back into the kitchen and find Lindy covered up to her elbows in flour. “What are you making?” I ask before she can inquire about my disastrous encounter with Paul.

She gives me a curious look. “What does it look like?”

I eye the beige blob she’s flopping around on the granite countertop. “Pizza dough?” I ask, her motions reminding me of watching the guys behind the counter at Grimaldi’s.

Lindy gives me a little half smile. “I make that too. But this will just be good old-fashioned bread.”

“Oh,” I say, feeling stupid. Of course it’s bread. It’s just that bread in the Middleton household means stopping by a local bakery or the Italian market down in the Flatiron District. I watch Lindy punch the dough around for several moments, and though her movements are rhythmic and soothing, they do nothing to calm my racing brain.

“You want to talk about it?” she asks, not looking up.

“I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

“He does tend to have that effect on people. They come in expecting to feel sympathetic but walk away wanting to strangle him.”

“That about sums it up,” I say, tracing a finger through the flour dusting the counter.

“But you’re staying?” she asks.

I press my lips together as I consider. I don’t want to stay. I want to scream for Mick at the top of my lungs and hightail it back to Manhattan, where people buy bread, and where it’s not so freaking quiet, and where crippled war vets don’t have sexy blue eyes and shitty attitudes.

But then I picture Paul’s smug condescension as he stared down at me from that ravaged, once-gorgeous face. He knew I would feel this way. Heck, he’s made sure that there’s nothing to hold me here. It’s as though he saw right through my plan to swoop in here like a saintly guardian angel in order to absolve my own sins, and he’s telling me he isn’t going to play.

Clearly getting forgiveness isn’t going to be as simple as ladling soup into a weary, appreciative soul’s mouth.

Lindy gives another of those half smiles that she seems to have in endless supply. It’s a smile that says, Life sucks, but it’s always worth living. “Most people don’t admit how frustrating he is,” she is. “Most of them pretend he’s an absolute dear and claim they’re the one who can fix him. Although sometimes they don’t bother to pretend. They just leave within minutes of meeting him.”

“Can’t say I blame them,” I say, pushing away from the counter. “But it just so happens I have nowhere else to be. And I’m also probably not the right person to help him, but then I don’t know if there is such a thing when you’re dealing with him.”

“Well then.” Lindy gives the dough a satisfied pat before wiping her hands on a dish towel. “I’ll show you to your room.”