“We can start them easy. No weight at all.”

“I’m going back to the house,” I mutter, leaning down to grab my towel.

She moves in front of me. “Five. Leg lifts.”

I roll my eyes. “You’re a terrible negotiator. You lower your price too quickly even before you’ve offered an enticing reward.”

“I’m not haggling with you for the thrill of it. I’m just trying to do my job.” She puts her hands on her hips. It reminds me that my hands were on that very spot not so long ago. And that I want them to be there again.

I tear my eyes away from the enticing points of her hip bone.

“Why is this your job?” I ask.

She jerks her shoulders back a little, defensively. Interesting. “What?”

“Why is coaxing me to work my shit leg your job of choice? My little recon exercise says you were a marketing major. Didn’t Daddy want you in the lucrative family business?”

Her eyes flit away from mine. “Sure. That was the original plan.”

“What changed?” I ask, surprised to realize that I’m genuinely interested.

“Life,” she snaps. “And we’re not talking about me.”

“Obviously we are,” I counter, taking another gulp of her water.

She opens her mouth, probably to tell me to f**k off, but then she seems to reconsider. She tilts her head, and just then I realize exactly what I’ve set myself up for.

“I’ll trade you one question for ten leg lifts.”

“Nope,” I reply, already turning around. “No way.”

“Come on,” she says, scooting around to get in front of me. “Don’t you want to know why a hot twenty-two-year-old with everything going for her is hiding out here in Maine?”

I give her a glance over my shoulder. “Did you just call yourself hot?”

Olivia smiles a gotcha smile. “Aren’t I?”

I flick my eyes over her. Yes. “Maybe.”

“So you’re in? Ten leg lifts for one question?”

I hesitate, even though my brain is demanding I walk away now. “Will I get the real story?” I ask. “Or some bullshit evasion?”

“I’ll give you a true statement, but no guarantees that it’s the whole story. Final offer.”

“Not good enough.”

She sighs. “How about I’ll give you a true statement, and I’ll let you give me running pointers tomorrow?”

I put a hand over my chest. “I can’t believe this is happening. All my dreams are coming true.”

“You in or out, Langdon?”

Walk away. Walk the hell away.

Her green eyes are practically bursting with challenge. And, even more intriguing, secrets.

“Fuck it. I’m in.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Olivia

Yeah, okay. So agreeing to answer Paul Langdon’s questions isn’t going to go in my Good Choices Hall of Fame. But to be totally fair, I’ve been pretty short on good choices lately, so this feels about par for the course.

However, that doesn’t make it any easier to think about the possibility of spilling my guts, even though I fully intend to censor the heck out of whatever truth I have to give him.

For a second I’m about to back out and tell him there’s no way I’m going to spill my guts just to bribe him to do something he should have started a long time ago.

But then I see the tension on his face when he looks at the waiting leg-press machine. He’s nervous. I mean, he’s pissed too, because I’m guessing I’m not the only one who’s furious about getting backed into a corner.

But it’s not Paul’s anger that has me swallowing my pride and pushing on with our agreement, even at the expense of my own privacy. It’s his unease.

He’s afraid of failing.

As he starts to head toward the leg-press machine like it’s the guillotine, I mentally throw away the bubblegum pep talk that I figure is written in the Caretaker 101 textbook for this type of situation. We’re supposed to be our client’s cheerleaders, but this guy needs something entirely different. Acting entirely on instinct, my hand reaches out and gives him a sharp smack on the ass.

He halts, throwing me an incredulous look over his shoulder. His very nice, very sculpted shoulder, by the way.

“What was that?” he snaps.

I shrug as though touching his firm and, um, perfect ass cheek is no big deal. “Thought you needed a little encouragement.”

He lifts his eyebrows. “Oh, absolutely. I could use some encouragement. Why don’t I show you what sort of encouragement would rev my engines?” His eyes drop to my chest, and my ni**les tighten in response.

Well . . . crap. That backfired.

I shoo him forward. “Chop chop, Langdon. I don’t have all day. Women need to exercise too.”

He gives me an understanding nod. “Kegels. I get it.”

I make a face and jab a finger at the bench. “Sit.”

There’s no fear on his face anymore. It’s perfectly blank, as though he’s preparing himself for failure.

“Okay,” I say, moving over to the machine, grateful that my mom’s had me going to a personal trainer since I was sixteen. Sort of psycho, now that I think about it, but at least I know my way around weight machines.

His right leg immediately falls into place, but he hesitates before moving his left leg into position. He’s wearing blue sweatpants, so I can’t see his injured leg, and although I hate to admit it, I’m kind of glad.