“Okay,” I say simply. Then I jerk my head in the direction of the treadmills. “Let’s see how good a listener you are.”

“What?” she asks, clearly confused by the change in topic.

“Those breathing tips I gave you the other day,” I reply. “Let’s see them in action.”

She tilts her head a little as though wondering at her easy escape from a shitty conversation, but then she shrugs and heads toward the treadmill.

“So, I changed my mind. I want to talk about the elephant in the room,” she says, putting her hands on her hips.

Good God. What is it about this girl in workout clothes that sets me on fire?

“What elephant?” I ask, trying not to remember that her collarbone tastes as good as it looks.

“Oh, I don’t know. How about the fact that last night you had your tongue down my throat? Your fingers in my panties?”

Heat rushes over my body, and I focus all of my mental energy on the dull ache in my leg to keep from doing exactly that.

“We’re not talking about that,” I mutter.

“You’re really quite bad at it, you know,” she says, punching the treadmill into a fast one. “It’s no wonder you’re single. I mean—”

I open my mouth to tell her that she obviously enjoyed everything I did to her, and if she’s forgotten, I’m happy to give an encore. But then I see the smile that she tries to hide. She’s baiting me.

I narrow my eyes before swatting her hand out of the way and adjusting the speed on her treadmill myself.

Within seconds, I have her sprinting at a pace that makes it impossible for her to talk. Focusing on her running also keeps me from doing what I really want to do, which is yanking her off the treadmill and having my way with her until she can’t even think about complaining.

But even as the thought crosses my mind, a more dangerous one replaces it. Next time my lips are on Olivia Middleton, I want her to be the initiator.

I want her. But more than that, I want her to want me.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Olivia

“Did you know that Andrew Jackson was over six feet tall, but only like a hundred and forty pounds?” I ask, pulling my feet beneath me and turning more fully toward the fireplace.

“Yes.”

I give Paul a look. “How would you know that?”

“Because I’ve read the book,” he says, never looking up from his own book, which, as best as I’ve been able to tell, is some huge tome on philosophy.

“You have?”

“No. I made that up.”

“You did?”

That gets him to look up, gray eyes bursting with exasperation. “Are you trying to drive me insane?”

I give him a shit-eating grin that says, Sure am. “But seriously, you’ve read this book?”

“Yeah, last year. It’s good. Something you’ll figure out once you commit to actually reading it instead of talking at me every two minutes.”

He makes a good point, and in theory I do want to make it through this book. These hours in front of the fireplace in the late afternoon while both of us read are my favorite part of the day.

The only trouble is, it’s not my favorite part of the day because of the reading. It’s because it’s only in these quiet, uninterrupted hours with Paul that he temporarily abandons the haunted look as he loses himself in his book. And that is so much better than anything I’m reading.

Granted, me interrupting his reading to chat sort of counteracts that effect. I try to give him his peace, I really do. It’s just that I sort of underestimated the effect that all this solitude would have on me. I was in such a hurry to escape the world that I didn’t stop to think that escape often goes hand in hand with loneliness.

I’m not totally alone. I have coffee with Lindy almost every morning, and I’ve run into Mick a handful of times. I’ve even tried to make friends with the local girls who come in to clean every Wednesday, and they’re chatty enough.

But my only real companion is Paul. I’ve been here for two weeks now, and although he spends plenty of time avoiding me, I see him at least every morning for our run and gym time, as well as every afternoon for reading.

It’s what I should be doing. I get paid to be a companion, after all. The scary part is that I think I’d be seeking him out even if nobody was paying me to. I think I might like him. As a person.

I’m not so sure it’s the same for him, but every day it gets a little easier to coax him into conversation, so I like to think I’m making some progress, at least on the friend front.

On the other front? Well, he hasn’t tried to touch me. Not once. Not since that night.

I tell myself I’m glad.

“Can I ask you something?” I ask him.

He grunts.

“Why does your father think you need a caretaker? I mean, you make it clear that you neither need nor want anyone.”

I half hope that he’ll deny it, but he doesn’t.

“I told you that first day why my father sends all of you up here,” he says irritably.

“The suicide watch thing?” I say incredulously. “Look, I don’t mean to make light of a serious topic, but pissy as you are, you hardly look like you’ve given up on life. A social, normal life, perhaps. But not life itself.”

His eyes lock on the flames of the fire and I study the tense line of his jaw. He always sits in the chair so that I see only his “good” side, and it really is an almost painfully handsome profile.