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As a single mom living alone with her kids, she would have to have one stashed somewhere, right? For safety and all. If she didn’t, I’d get her one as soon as I dealt with this Paul. Just his name sounded like a train wreck waiting to happen. There would not be a place setting at Christmas dinner with that kind of name on it.
The sheer number of Paul Bunyan jokes running through my head made it difficult to think straight enough to continue my search for a hidden weapon. Or Paul-a Abdul. Apostle Paul. My brain was spinning. Too much at once.
“Ugh, stop that. It’s not what you—”
Suddenly, Paul walked in without even knocking. He stopped at the threshold, looking between Marigold and me. He had a large gym bag slung over his right shoulder. And believe me, I did not want to know what was in there.
“Paul, this is my ex-husband, Liam. Liam, this is—”
“Paul!” His name echoed off the walls. I sounded like a really grumpy announcer at one of those fancy celebrity events. “It’s good to meet you. How long have you—”
“Been my physical therapist?” Marigold interrupted me, her eyes wide. “About three months now.”
I squinted at her, then took in the man in the doorway again. Physical therapist?
“Paul has been helping me work on my shoulder.”
Oh…ohhh.
Well, this was embarrassing. How many years would it take to erase this mistake from my mind? To be fair, the boys’ explanation sounded sketchy. It wasn’t like I’d let this whole thing blow up in my head. Okay, maybe I had. But I had their best interests at heart. The boys and Marigold.
During my senior year of college, Marigold injured her shoulder while we were on a ski trip.
The two of us trash talked each other on the ski lift. She was so excited to race me to the bottom. She even threatened to push me down. I was honestly a little scared. She had always been the overachiever, especially when she got worked up about something, and my safety was on the line that day.
Only, as we jumped off, she fell into the snow and pulled her shoulder out of socket. We spent the rest of the week by the fireplace, drinking hot chocolate while I rubbed Icy Hot on her shoulder. After that, her shoulder would give her trouble periodically, and she’d found physical therapy to be the most helpful in easing the pain and keeping her shoulder in place.
And here I was, being an inconsiderate creep for assuming the worst. It was hard not to. Marigold was a beautiful, single, perfectly available, not-taken-by-me woman. If I was curious about her love life, I could have simply asked. I should have. Sure, I hadn’t technically seen anyone since the divorce, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t.
“And a pretty good one, if I say so myself,” Paul said. “Mari has made wonderful progress.” He had an accent I couldn’t decipher. It sounded fancy and way cooler than I had hoped. French maybe? No, Paul wasn’t a French name. Was it? Regardless, his voice was exotic. No wonder he came once a week. I could relax my own shoulders just listening to the guy talk.
“Oh, I left my other bag in the car. I’ll be right back.” Paul exited as quickly as he’d blown in. Like a tornado of giant muscles and olive skin.
I was the worst. The absolute worst. I mentally took back all of my Paul Bunyan jokes and shoved them deep, deep down into the darkest cave of my brain, where they’d hopefully never see the light of day again.
I scratched the back of my neck as warmth spread to my cheeks. “I-I didn’t know your shoulder was hurting again.”
She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose, and shame sank into me further. “I wouldn’t think you’d care about that kind of thing.”
Why would she? We didn’t talk unless the topic was the boys. Or when we occasionally found ourselves locked in an argument at family dinners. That was the only safe place for us to argue. Otherwise, we’d likely burn down the structure around us.
“I do. I do.” We hadn’t been together in years, but that didn’t mean I’d relish her pain. “I could’ve—”
The boys rushed down the stairs, cutting me off. Each was holding a light jacket.
“We’re ready.”
Marigold pointed at them and tilted her head. “Why do they have their jacke—”
“Gotta go. See you later. Have fun with Paul. Say bye to Mom.” I rushed the words out as I pushed the boys out the front door.
I cringed as the physical therapist pulled the other bag out of the back of his SUV. He smiled and waved. “Hey, boys. I’ll see you guys later.”
“Bye, Paul!” they chirped.
When he was out of earshot, I hissed at Dallas. “You knew who he was?”
He blinked, unaffected. “Yeah.”
