Sweet Jesus.

“It’s a cane. I can’t use it and not have it in the vicinity of—shit. Just never mind. Can you please just trot along back to the house? Your Barbie shoes are going to get dirty out here.”

Olivia shrugs but doesn’t make any move to head in the opposite direction. “Personally, I think you should have gotten a jaguar cane. That would have been really cool.”

I frown. “The python’s cool.”

“No. The python’s creepy and suggestive. But a sleek, sexy black cat? That would up the cool factor.”

For a second, I almost tell her that I don’t need any help upping the cool factor. Then I remember that I’m not Paul Langdon, Boston hotshot anymore. I’m the crippled, small-town version.

I take in a long breath of cold morning air to keep myself from letting the despair that’s lodged in my throat come rushing out in an angry bellow. If I let her see even a sliver of what’s inside me, she’ll be on her way back to Park Avenue. And tempting as that is, I need her here. At least until I formulate a plan for what the hell to do with my life.

Until then, I have to keep her around in a way that doesn’t make me want to strangle her—or push her against a nearby tree and kiss her senseless.

“How long have you been running?” I ask, almost choking on the inane, unimportant question. It’s been so long since I’ve had a casual conversation that it feels both unnatural and strangely familiar. Plus it keeps my mind off the way she fills out her pink running shirt. Practicality tells me she’s got a sports bra under there—probably pink—but it doesn’t stop me from fantasizing about seeing Olivia in less utilitarian undergarments. Or better yet, none at all.

“The running thing’s kind of new,” she replies, jerking me back to the conversation.

“Shocker,” I mutter.

“Well, sorry I’m not Flo-Jo.”

I smile a little. “That’s the only runner you know, isn’t it?”

“Maybe. Jeez. What is it with you and running? I didn’t realize that track trivia would be part of the job requirements,” she says, her tone exasperated, as we take a sharp right turn in the path, bringing us closer to the water.

“I miss it.” My answer is simple and a good deal more revealing than I intended.

I half expect her to mock me. To inform me that there are more important things in life than the ability to run, or to pacify me by telling me that there are other things I can do that are just as great.

Instead she nods, but not in a pitying way, just a quick acknowledgment of my statement.

“I started running as an escape,” she says after several seconds of silence.

I glance down at her profile, noting that her nose is just slightly upturned and kind of cute. “An escape from what?”

She glances back at me, and our eyes collide for one charged moment. The message is clear: she’ll tell me her secrets when I tell her mine.

Which will be never.

“Your breathing’s all wrong,” I say, tearing my eyes away from hers.

“My breathing’s fine.”

“Not if you want to run more than three miles. Your breaths are too shallow. You need to inhale deeper. Engage your diaphragm. And get used to matching the breaths to your steps. For your slow pace, inhale for maybe three or four steps, then exhale for the same.”

“That seems like a lot of thinking for something that’s supposed to be natural.”

“You’ll get used to it.”

“Okay, what else?” she says, spreading her arms wide. “Am I bowlegged? My ponytail not high enough?”

“Just start with the breathing for now,” I say, irritation starting to set in as I realize how much I want to be the one running, not the one telling someone else how to run.

“Sure thing, Coach,” she mutters.

“So, by any chance, does your sudden affinity for running mean you want to be alone?”

She frowns. “Not really. Why?”

“Jesus, take a hint.”

“Ah. You want me to leave you to your brooding.”

“Yup.”

She stops walking immediately and pivots so she’s facing back toward the house. “Fine. I’ll try to master your little breathing activity on the way back. Same time tomorrow?”

“No. Find another time to run.”

“I’m getting paid to keep you company, you know.”

“Well, do so quietly. And from afar.”

She sighs as though I’m a petulant child. “It’s shocking that none of your other companions stuck around for more than a couple of weeks. Absolutely shocking, I say.”

“Goodbye, Middleton,” I say, gesturing with my cane back toward the house.

“See ya, Langdon,” she says as she begins walking backward so that she’s still facing me. “Also, fun little trivia for this morning? In exchange for your unsolicited breathing advice?”

“No thanks.”

She ignores me and points to the cane. “That cane? All for show. You haven’t used it once to support your weight this entire time.”

I open my mouth to argue, but instead my jaw goes a little slack as it hits me.

She’s right.

And I haven’t once thought about my leg. Or my scars.

She’s already jogging away from me, and I stand still for several minutes, watching her until she disappears around a bend in the path. Then I continue with my walk, telling myself I’m relieved to have my solitude back.