So it was easy to answer his question. “I like dogs, but writers are a close second,” she said.
Mr. Blakewood laughed again. “Well, this just might work out. How about we set up a meeting?”
Meredith’s heart soared. “Great. What works for you?”
She heard him sigh. “I know it’s short notice, but if you’re free this afternoon, that would be awesome.”
Now, her heart raced. “I… um… I’m free right now.”
“You are?” He sounded as hopeful as she did, and her nerves settled just a little.
“Yeah, I am.”
“Wow… uh… okay… um… Meredith, there are some things we’ll need to… uh… discuss when you get here… some… uh… challenges that come with the position,” Mr. Blakewood said, now sounding more nervous than she was. “But we can go over all of that when you get here.”
Challenges? Meredith hesitated for a moment.
“Meredith? You still there?”
You don’t have to take the job if something’s off, she told herself. You can text Brooke the address so she can send the cops if you don’t come home.
“Yeah. What’s the address?”
“231 St. Louis, one block off St. Mary and Souvenir Gate… Do you know where that is?”
“St. Louis?” Had she heard him right? The address was just blocks away. If that were the case, the job had just got even better.
“Yes, it’s the two-story house. Light brown with white trim.”
Meredith beamed. “I’m not far. Give me two minutes.”
CHAPTER FOUR
“YOU WHAT?” GRAY scowled at his brother.
“I’m interviewing a young lady — a nurse in training — to come help you.” Baxter’s eyes danced with excitement. He looked so pleased with himself. The afternoon sun poured into Gray’s living room, seeming to light his brother with a ridiculous halo. “She’ll be here any minute.”
Frustration pressed against Gray’s temples. Or maybe it was the tumor. He kept seeing a shadow out of the corner of his eye, and straining to unsee it made his headache worse.
“But you’re supposed to be leaving today,” he argued. “You have an empire to inherit. You don’t have time for this.”
Bax’s overnight trip had stretched to two nights, and he’d insisted on watching Gray take his seizure meds for the third day in a row now.
Which meant for the last seventy-two hours, Gray’s novel had grown by only a couple of pages. He was supposed to be writing the scene when Detective Alex Booth discovered the hellhole where a human-trafficking ring kept their latest prey.
But with the meds, Gray couldn’t see it.
Without the Topiramate, he could picture everything. The sweat beaded on his hero’s forehead. The red welts where tie wraps dug into his victim’s wrists. The mottled grays of corrugated tin in the abandoned warehouse.
And he needed to see it to be able to write it. He needed Bax to leave so he could get through the rescue scene — the one where Booth would take a bullet in his shoulder. After that, Gray could tie up the rest of the book, go through it a few more times, and send it to his publisher.
He loved his brother, but he didn’t have time for his worry. Or his fear. He’d learned that lesson two months ago with the diagnosis that narrowed the prospect of his life down to one focus.
Write.
His tumor, benign by pathology but malignant by location, would require surgery if it didn’t kill him first. But situated in his temporal lobe where its removal threatened memory, cognition, nerve function, and even blood flow to the rest of his brain, meant that if he survived the surgery — and he had about a sixty-percent chance of doing that — he might not be Gray Blakewood when he woke up.
He didn’t know who he’d be. Or what.
He might not be able to speak. Or solve complex problems. Or concentrate for more than a few seconds. Or breathe on his own — if he wasn’t lucky enough to die on the operating table.
All of this meant that while Baxter had time to be afraid and worry, Gray did not. If he was going to die — or worse — he needed to finish his fourth book. And if his tumor wasn’t growing, he might get the chance to finish a fifth before he lost the ability to do the only thing that mattered to him.
Alone upstairs in his study with Vulcan and Juno at his feet. A blazing fireplace and a fully charged laptop. That was all he wanted. Was that so much to ask?
“Do you have any questions for her?” Bax asked, ignoring his protest.
“Hell, no. I don’t even want her here,” Gray snapped. “When she shows up, send her away. And then. Go. Back. To. New Orleans.”
Bax’s smile dimmed just a little. “Don’t you think you should at least talk to her? She sounded pretty cool on the phone. Funny,” he said, shrugging. “She might be able to help you.”
“I don’t need help. Everything’s fine.”
Baxter cocked his head at him. “Gray… c’mon.”
Gray drew a breath to lay down his objections, but a knock at the door cut him off. Juno and Vulcan jumped up from their spots in front of the fireplace and raced down the hall, whining steadily.
He followed the dogs into the hall. “Silence.”
The command, spoken lightly, hushed his Czechoslovakian Vlcaks, but both stared at the front door, their necks drawn taut, the fur on their backs rising.
His brother got to his feet. “That’ll be her,” Bax said, amusement twinkling in his eyes.
Gray shook his head in disgust. “Well, get rid of her.”
“No. We’ll talk to her,” Bax insisted. “Maybe this can work.”
That was Bax. He never met a stranger. No problem existed that couldn’t be solved with goodwill and teamwork. Everything happened for a reason. And he’d never lived through an awkward moment in his life.
Gray scowled again. “No, we won’t. You found her… you talk to her.” Gray backed down the hall. “And finish that talk by sending her away. I don’t need some nurse-in-training hovering over me and slowing me down.”
He stalked into his bedroom, shutting the door behind him. Gray wasn’t sure, but he thought he heard Bax sigh before his footsteps clicked against the red oak floors. He half expected his brother to knock on the door and apologize for interfering. Instead, the sound of his footfalls stretched down the hall toward the front of the house.
He heard the front door open. “Hi, Meredith? Baxter Blakewood. Come on in.”
“Hi… Oh, wow.” Nervous laughter, lilting and carrying, drifted down the hall and into Gray’s room. “You have direwolves!”
Baxter’s deeper laugh followed. In spite of himself, Gray smiled. His dogs did look like direwolves. And they were just as loyal. Fearless, too. “They’re Vlcaks, Czech wolf dogs. This is Vulcan. Vulcan, back off!” Bax scolded. “And this is Juno.”
“They’re brother and sister?” the girl asked. “Like the gods?”
Listening, Gray’s chin pulled back in surprise. Most people didn’t get the reference.
“Yeah, littermates. They’re three years old.”
“Have you had them since they were puppies?”
Gray waited for his brother’s answer, remembering the afternoon when they’d gone together to the breeder’s. Gray had only put a deposit on the male, but Vulcan had been so attached to his little sister that Bax wouldn’t let them leave without her.
Gray wouldn’t have left either. Even if he’d been alone. Cecilia’s death six months before was still like an open wound for them both. If there had been a third puppy left to take, Gray would now have a pack.
“Yes… well, my brother’s had them since they were eight weeks. They’re his.”
“Oh… do you look after them often?” Confusion came through her voice. “I assumed from our conversation you had dogs.”
“Yeah… um… about that,” Bax stammered, and Gray found himself grinning as his brother struggled. What had Bax told the girl? Not much, by the sound of it. He leaned closer against his bedr
oom door and strained to hear. “I’m not looking for an assistant.”
“You’re not?” Shock and what Gray thought was a hint of wariness pinched the girl’s voice.
“No, my—”
“My best friend knows exactly where I—” she blurted. “I mean, in case this is… something it shouldn’t be.” Now there was more than just a hint of wariness. She sounded scared. In the next instant, he picked up the low rumble of Vulcan’s growl, and Gray’s hand reached for the doorknob.
“What? No… Vulcan, hush!” Bax scolded. The dog whined in response.
Gray froze, the doorknob in his grip. What his brother didn’t realize — because he was too innocent to think criminal thoughts — was that this girl feared for her safety and was probably ready to fight him off if need be. This was something Vulcan knew. And because Gray thought criminal thoughts for a living, he knew it too. And he recognized that Baxter’s cluelessness only made matters worse.
“I mean, if you’re… like a Craigslist killer or something, I’ll fight you just like Mickey Shunick, and you’ll go down for my murder.”
“What?!”
It would have been funny if it weren’t happening in his kitchen. After all, he might not have to send the poor girl away if his brother scared her off. But he didn’t like the idea of a woman in his home being afraid, so he was just turning the knob to put them out of their misery when Baxter course-corrected.
“Oh, no. No, no, no. Meredith, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. No,” he said again. “These are my brother’s dogs, and this is my brother’s house, and he’s the one in need of an assistant.”
Finally. Gray held his ground and listened to see what the girl would make of Baxter’s explanation. He figured she’d be out the door in about two seconds. Then he’d send his brother on his way, take the dogs for a walk, and wait for the Topiramate to wear off.
“So… why am I talking to you?” she asked, and if Gray was ready to laugh before, he felt the onset of hysterics now.
“My brother’s unwell.”
Laughter dried up in his throat. What the hell?
The term made him sound like a lunatic.
“His condition doesn’t allow him to drive, so he needs someone to run errands for him.”
A soft gasp preceded her “Oh!”
Gray narrowed his eyes at the door and pictured punching his brother in the head.
“He’s not feeling up to meeting you today,” Bax went on smoothly. “But he needs someone to help him with errands, and he can work around your school schedule.”
“That…that would be perfect.” All traces of fear left her voice. She now sounded dangerously eager to take the job.
“I could give you a key so you could come and go as you needed, and he or I could text or call you with lists and stuff like that.”
“What about driving him places? Does he need transportation? Is he in a wheelchair?”
Gray turned the knob. Ready to storm across the house and prove that he was not, in fact, a bed-ridden lunatic, he pulled open the door and froze.
At the end of the hall just in his kitchen, standing with her face angled almost directly toward him, was the loveliest girl Gray had ever seen. The sight of her sent a shock through his body. His belly, the base of his spine, and the front of his thighs all tingled.
Her face was a holy promise. Her raven hair swept into a ponytail. Not high and tight, but low and soft. Loose wisps escaped her hair tie and fell along the sides of her face, framing delicate features.
What struck him most was her skin. So fair and luminescent against her dark hair, it almost glowed. If he stepped out of his room and into the hall, her eyes would find him, and Gray knew at once he couldn’t stand that. Carefully, he swung the door closed until only a one-inch crack remained.
Spellbound and rattled in equal measure, he couldn’t help but watch. His end of the hallway lay in shadow. If she hadn’t seen him open the door, she wouldn’t notice him there now.
The afternoon sun shone down through his front windows, bathing her in light. Her skin was so fair and pure he was almost certain she wore no makeup. Her beauty was natural. Real. Yet the blush of her lips probably commanded Baxter’s every thought, the flesh there a ripe, dusky pink.
Likewise, she looked up at Gray’s brother as if he made the world. She looked up, because Bax topped out at 6’1” — a full inch above him. An inch his brother never let him forget. And this girl stood no taller than 5’3” or so.
“Oh, no,” Bax was saying. “He’s not in a wheelchair.” And then Baxter lowered his voice. “But he does fall sometimes.”
Humiliation scalded him. He closed his eyes and pressed his forehead to the doorsill. Gray Blakewood understood the moment for what it was.
This was the beginning of the end.
His life and its limits were closing in on him. One cell. One bruise. One fall, and this small, beautiful — and by all appearances — young girl was assuming responsibility for him.
He’d thought of himself as a man since he turned eighteen. Able to direct his own course. The strongest force in his own life.
A man.
How could he — at twenty-eight — lose that? There was nothing but shame to take its place.
“And if you’re available to drive him where he needs to go, that would be very helpful,” Bax continued. “Otherwise, he can Uber.”
The beautiful girl nodded. “What’s he… What’s wrong with him?”
Gray could see that her pretty brows creased in a frown as she spoke. He looked at his brother and wished he could stare lasers at the back of his head.
“I’m…” Bax hesitated. “I’m going to let him tell you that when he’s ready. He’s sensitive about it.”
At least Gray wouldn’t have to murder him. Caning would probably suffice.
“I understand,” she said, her voice hushed, her dark eyes serious. “What does he like?”
“Excuse me?”
“What does he like to eat? Where does he like to go? What does he enjoy doing?”
“He…he really just wants to write.”
Her brows rose in surprise. “You’re both writers?”
Both writers?
“No, no. He’s the writer. Maybe you’ve heard of him. Gray Blakewood…?”
She stared blankly.
“The Alex Booth crime novels…?” Bax tried again.
The girl shook her head. Gray couldn’t pretend that didn’t sting. Three-time bestseller? A whole table at the local Barnes & Noble dedicated entirely to him? He’d been on the cover of Lafayette’s The Independent in September, and she’d never heard of him?
“Well, he’s good,” Bax offered.
Gray hoped Bax couldn’t sense him listening. His brother had made it plain that he loved his books, but hearing him say it always felt good. Gray was proud of his work. His novels held the best of himself, and if that was all that remained after this brain tumor had its say, then Baxter would still be left with something they both treasured.
The left side of the girl’s mouth lifted in a smile. “I’ll have to check him out.”
From his hideout, Gray wondered what it felt like to be on the receiving end of that half smile. Before he could wonder if she was flirting, she spoke again.
“If he’s just interested in writing, I’m happy to bring him whatever he needs. Take-out. Groceries. Whatever. Does he like sweets?”
“Uh… I… guess?” Bax ventured, sounding confused. “I mean, he likes the oatmeal chocolate chip cookies at Great Harvest.”
Her smile grew. “I like to bake,” she said. “I can make him something like that.”
Gray felt a surprised breath leave him. He watched Baxter shake his head.
“You don’t need to do that.”
She shrugged. “I want to do it,” she said. “If I didn’t get out much, it would be nice to have something I liked.”
Oh, God. She thinks I’m a shut-in.
Bax nodded slowl
y. “Okay. Suit yourself. Um… so, yeah. You’re hired if you want the job.”
Her eyes went wide. “Seriously? Yes, I want the job.”
Her all-out smile was like a blow to the sternum. Gray knew in that moment he’d never want to look her in the eyes. Pity in a face like that would kill him.
CHAPTER FIVE
“GRAY BLAKEWOOD!? MY dad loves his books.” Brooke said, wide-eyed.
They stood in the McCormicks’ kitchen while Meredith mixed cookie dough. Leona didn’t have any rolled oats, so she was using cornflakes instead. Cornflakes and chocolate chips made a killer cookie, and she hoped her new employer would like them as much as she did.
“Would he let me borrow them?” Meredith asked, carefully folding in the flakes. Oscar played with his fire engine at their feet.
Brooke reached into the bowl, nabbed a chocolate chip, and popped it in her mouth. “You know it. I’ll bring them tomorrow.”
Friday afternoon had arrived. Big Jim was still at work, and Leona had gone to her quilting club, so Meredith and Oscar had the house to themselves — which was the only time Brooke came over.
“So, what’s he like?” her best friend asked.
Meredith gave a half shrug. “Don’t know. I didn’t meet him yesterday. I guess he’s really sick because he never came out of his room the whole time I was there,” she said, remembering the closed door to the downstairs bedroom when Baxter Blakewood had given her a tour of the house. “He’s got these two huge wolf dogs like on Game of Thrones. That was pretty cool.”
The dogs had followed them all over the house, even upstairs to Mr. Blakewood’s study. Study was far too plain a word to describe the room. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, a writing desk, a leather-upholstered loveseat near the fireplace, and French doors that led to a balcony rounded out the most perfect writer’s roost.
As soon as she stepped in, all she’d wanted to do was browse the shelves for a well-worn book, curl up on the loveseat, and drift away. While she and Mr. Baxter talked, both dogs settled down on a patch of sun on the floor. If that was where Mr. Blakewood worked, it probably wouldn’t seem so lonely. The dogs, the fireplace, and the view would feel like company.
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