chance of keeping the upper hand.
Lindy heads toward the door. “There’s a phone in the kitchen and at the end of the hall, and both have a number listed for the small house. I usually head over there shortly after I get Paul his dinner, so if you need anything…”
“I’ll be fine.”
She studies me for a moment, and I’m pretty sure she wants to call my bluff.
Instead, the door closes behind her, and I stand for several moments staring at bobbing sailboats, wishing I could be on one of them sailing to anywhere that’s not here.
It’s a testament to just how cushy my life has been up until the past couple of months that I’ve truly never given much thought to being unhappy. I mean, I never really thought about being happy either. I guess you could say I’ve floated, but in a harmless,
life-is-good
kind of way.
And now?
Now I can’t bear the thought of returning to my life with all of its glossy ease, and yet staying in Maine is almost as unfathomable. Not just because it’s foreign, and not just because Paul is a complete asswad who may or may not turn me on. But because
I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.
Tomorrow morning is right around the corner, and I’ll be expected to do the job that they’re paying me for: being a companion to a guy who can’t take care of himself. Except, beyond that limp and the sneer, he seems to be managing just fine. I can’t imagine he’ll want me to read the classics aloud to him while he dabbles in watercolors. I’ll be lucky if he even lets me in the same room.
The futility of it all threatens to choke me, and I go through the motions of unpacking the suitcase that Mick carried upstairs for me. With each bra I drop into the dresser drawer, I keep hoping it’ll help my brain accept that I’m staying.
Instead my mind is going down a more ridiculous path…wondering which bra Paul would most like to see. Wondering what it would feel like to have him take it off me. Wondering…
Oh my gawd, Middleton. You are half a dirty thought away from being a revolting perv.
By the time I brush my teeth and wash my face in the small but modern bathroom, I’m surprised to realize that I’m exhausted despite the fact that the sun’s barely set. I wonder if I’m supposed to check on “Mr. Paul,” but from the way he glared at me as I stormed out of his cave earlier, I don’t think another encounter today will do either of us any good.
Changing into my pajamas, I curl up on my side on the large bed, resting my cheek on my hands as I stare out at the dark sky. When I finally drift off to sleep, it’s not picturesque water and boats I see. It’s an angry mouth and gorgeous blue eyes.
For the first time in months, my dreams aren’t about Ethan. Or Michael.
Tonight, my dreams are about someone far more dangerous to me than either of the guys from my past.
Chapter Eight
Paul
Back when I was in high school, me and football were kind of a big deal. And I always liked it well enough, but football was never really my true passion, cheesy as that sounds.
In fact, I was semi-disappointed when my coach marked me for QB early in my freshman year. The quarterback doesn’t get to run much.
That’s
my passion. Running. Tossing a football to a bunch of other guys was nothing compared to the rush I got from running.
I ran every day leading up to Afghanistan. I ran as often as I could around the base after I got there. And since getting back…Well, let’s just say that my future holds as much hope for running as it does flying.
But I have a secret.
Not a big one. It’s pathetic, actually. But one that nobody knows. Well, I suspect Mick and Lindy might, but they won’t dare mention it.
The truth is, running is the one area of my life where I let the tiniest ray of hope shine in. Not
real
hope. Because I can’t actually let myself think that it’s going to happen. But I dream of running again.
It’s that dream that has me getting up at the ass crack of dawn every
Lindy heads toward the door. “There’s a phone in the kitchen and at the end of the hall, and both have a number listed for the small house. I usually head over there shortly after I get Paul his dinner, so if you need anything…”
“I’ll be fine.”
She studies me for a moment, and I’m pretty sure she wants to call my bluff.
Instead, the door closes behind her, and I stand for several moments staring at bobbing sailboats, wishing I could be on one of them sailing to anywhere that’s not here.
It’s a testament to just how cushy my life has been up until the past couple of months that I’ve truly never given much thought to being unhappy. I mean, I never really thought about being happy either. I guess you could say I’ve floated, but in a harmless,
life-is-good
kind of way.
And now?
Now I can’t bear the thought of returning to my life with all of its glossy ease, and yet staying in Maine is almost as unfathomable. Not just because it’s foreign, and not just because Paul is a complete asswad who may or may not turn me on. But because
I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.
Tomorrow morning is right around the corner, and I’ll be expected to do the job that they’re paying me for: being a companion to a guy who can’t take care of himself. Except, beyond that limp and the sneer, he seems to be managing just fine. I can’t imagine he’ll want me to read the classics aloud to him while he dabbles in watercolors. I’ll be lucky if he even lets me in the same room.
The futility of it all threatens to choke me, and I go through the motions of unpacking the suitcase that Mick carried upstairs for me. With each bra I drop into the dresser drawer, I keep hoping it’ll help my brain accept that I’m staying.
Instead my mind is going down a more ridiculous path…wondering which bra Paul would most like to see. Wondering what it would feel like to have him take it off me. Wondering…
Oh my gawd, Middleton. You are half a dirty thought away from being a revolting perv.
By the time I brush my teeth and wash my face in the small but modern bathroom, I’m surprised to realize that I’m exhausted despite the fact that the sun’s barely set. I wonder if I’m supposed to check on “Mr. Paul,” but from the way he glared at me as I stormed out of his cave earlier, I don’t think another encounter today will do either of us any good.
Changing into my pajamas, I curl up on my side on the large bed, resting my cheek on my hands as I stare out at the dark sky. When I finally drift off to sleep, it’s not picturesque water and boats I see. It’s an angry mouth and gorgeous blue eyes.
For the first time in months, my dreams aren’t about Ethan. Or Michael.
Tonight, my dreams are about someone far more dangerous to me than either of the guys from my past.
Chapter Eight
Paul
Back when I was in high school, me and football were kind of a big deal. And I always liked it well enough, but football was never really my true passion, cheesy as that sounds.
In fact, I was semi-disappointed when my coach marked me for QB early in my freshman year. The quarterback doesn’t get to run much.
That’s
my passion. Running. Tossing a football to a bunch of other guys was nothing compared to the rush I got from running.
I ran every day leading up to Afghanistan. I ran as often as I could around the base after I got there. And since getting back…Well, let’s just say that my future holds as much hope for running as it does flying.
But I have a secret.
Not a big one. It’s pathetic, actually. But one that nobody knows. Well, I suspect Mick and Lindy might, but they won’t dare mention it.
The truth is, running is the one area of my life where I let the tiniest ray of hope shine in. Not
real
hope. Because I can’t actually let myself think that it’s going to happen. But I dream of running again.
It’s that dream that has me getting up at the ass crack of dawn every
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