“Hurry up, Middleton!” he hollers from where he stands in front of the house, hands on hips, watching me limp up to him.

“I think someone broke my shins,” I say, panting.

He has the decency to look sympathetic. “Shin splits. The worst. We’ll get you iced and take a day or two off.”

I gape at him. “By day or two, I’m assuming you mean a minimum of a week. It feels like my legs are shattered.”

He pats my butt as I go through the door in front of him. “Take it from someone whose leg practically was shattered. You’re fine.”

“You get to play that card for a long time, huh?” I say.

“Um, yeah. Pretty much forever,” he says with an unrepentant grin.

Three months ago, I’d have bet my favorite Chanel purse that there was no way Paul Langdon would ever be able to joke about his injuries.

Not that it’s a joking matter. At all. What he went through, what all soldiers go through, has nothing but my respect.

But maybe him joking about it means that he’ll one day be able to lose that haunted look that still crosses his face from time to time.

“Do you want to see a movie today?” I ask, settling myself at the kitchen counter as he pulls two packages of frozen peas out of the freezer and plops them unceremoniously on my shins. “Is there even a movie theater around here?”

“Sure, it’s right between the three-star Michelin-rated restaurant and the high-end couture mall. You haven’t seen it?”

I make a face. “So that’s a no.”

He peels a banana and hands me half. “Actually, I think there is a small theater in town. At least there used to be.”

“Ooh, yay! So you want to go?”

He nips the banana between perfect white teeth. “Nope.”

I frown, even though I’ve been expecting it. He never wants to go anywhere except Frenchy’s, and as much as I tell myself that it’s no big deal, that it’s just because Bar Harbor doesn’t exactly have a lot going on, somewhere in the back of my mind I’m terrified that it’s so much bigger than that.

“What’s the deal, Langdon? I can maybe understand why you weren’t all gung-ho about going to Portland, but you refuse to try any other restaurant, you won’t go over to Kali’s when her new boyfriend is there, you won’t go home with me for Thanksgiving, you won’t go for a run in the middle of the day because there are too many people, and now you won’t even humor me by going to a movie?”

He ignores me.

I knew he would, but I’m starting to get a constant knot in my stomach about the direction we’re headed. The sex is great. The conversation is wonderful.

But there’s just the two of us. All the time. With no plan of leaving ever. I get why he doesn’t want to go to New York with me for Thanksgiving—it was a stretch to even ask. But this is getting ridiculous.

“How about a bookstore?” I challenge.

“You can buy books online. Free two-day shipping.”

“I need more running shorts,” I shoot back.

“Online.”

“I need my hair cut,” I say, a little desperately. “Can’t do that online.”

He shrugs. “So go get your haircut.”

“Will you come with me?”

“Why would I come with you? My hair is like a centimeter long, and I can keep it that way myself with a buzzer.”

“But—”

“Drop it, Olivia.” His voice is sharp.

My mouth snaps shut and I look down quickly at the counter. And then, because there’s also anger simmering beneath the pain, I toss the bags of frozen peas none too gently on the counter and stand. “I’m going to go shower.”

“’Kay.” He’s fiddling with his cell phone and not even looking at me.

I bite back a sharp retort and mentally count to three, giving him a chance to pick up on the fact that he’s being an ass.

One, two, three . . .

“Hey,” he says, still not looking at me. “I ordered the DVD set of The Bourne Identity series and it came yesterday. Want to have a marathon after we’ve showered?”

I wait. He still doesn’t look up.

Okay. That’s it.

I snatch the cell phone out of his hand so that he’s forced to look at me. Instead of looking apologetic, he looks puzzled, and that is so much worse.

“No, I don’t want to have yet another endless movie marathon, Paul. Nor do I want to spend all freaking day reading, or take another long walk that’s just the two of us. I don’t want to continue my chess-playing lesson, I don’t want to try out the new audiobook subscription you got, I don’t want to try my hand at video games, and I don’t want to go to the gym again.”

“You said you liked chess,” he mutters.

“This isn’t about chess! Or spy movies! It’s not about whether or not I enjoy reading by the fire with you, which I do. It’s that this isn’t healthy! We can’t just stay locked up in here forever.”

His eyes darken, and the wary confusion is replaced by defensive anger and stubbornness.

I start to panic a little, although there’s definitely still mad in there too. With narrowed eyes I say, “Do you ever plan to take me to dinner, Paul? Are we ever going to go on a vacation, even a simple weekend getaway?”

His jaw tightens. “Olivia—”

“No, wait,” I say, holding up a hand. “Let me ask the question in a different way. Are we ever going to leave this house?”