Page 36 of You First
“His name is Jamie… It’s complicated,” she said, rolling her eyes.
“Say no more.” He made himself smile to reassure her, but he was profoundly curious — more interested in the details of her life than he was about anything else he could imagine. But he could tell the subject was difficult for her.
She shook her head. “I should have explained all this last night on the phone.” She angled her gaze up to his. “I hope this doesn’t make me seem untrustworthy.”
“What?” Gray barked a startled laugh. “No. It’s private. And if you care about your own privacy, then you’re more likely to care about mine. And that’s something I value.”
She looked at him for a moment before Gray could see she believed him. And then she cocked her head with a glint in her eye. “Wikipedia said you were a very private person.”
This was the last thing he expected her to say, and it set him laughing. “Oh really?” Gray had not looked at his Wikipedia page since after the publication of his first book and his subsequent tour. But the information was apt. He liked the acclaim he’d earned as a writer, but he didn’t care for the intrusion that came with it. He’d changed his phone number and had gotten a P.O. box for his mail to protect his physical address when he’d bought the house.
He’d only told his team — his editor at Harcourt, his publicist, and his agent — about his diagnosis a month ago. And that was just because he didn’t want them to find out by some other means. They’d each promised to keep the information to themselves, but at least they were aware in the event that someone leaked the news to the press, and Angela, his publicist, was prepared for that scenario.
Gray knew he should probably follow Meredith’s revelation with some disclosure of his own, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Everyone treated him differently when they learned the gravity of his condition, and he liked the way Meredith treated him. He liked it a lot. And he couldn’t bear the thought of giving that up.
Not yet.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“IT SOUNDS LIKEa date,” Brooke said. They sat on the open tailgate of her truck, watching a cricket match. It was early Sunday evening, and the north wind stung their faces as sunset fell.
“Boys!” Oscar shouted, his cheeks red from the wind. The cricket players seemed oblivious to the cold, but a few of them waved to Oscar after he cheered.
“It wasn’t a date. It’s my job,” Meredith defended. Her own cheeks burned at Brooke’s suggestion, and she hoped her best friend would blame that on the cold.
She’d spent several hours with her boss the day before, and she’d checked on him again that morning, but Meredith couldn’t admit to Brooke how those hours had flown.
After their trip to Academy, Gray had insisted on treating her to lunch, taking her to Saint Street Inn. Even though it was close enough to the McCormicks’ to walk, Meredith had never been to the trendy farm-to-table restaurant. They’d sat on the porch under the electric heaters and shared plates of steamed mussels drizzled with something called Togarashi butter,Ponchatoula strawberry salad, and steak frites. She’d never had mussels, or strawberry salad, or anything as sinfully delicious as steak dredged through onion jam. And it was the best meal she could remember.
But the company had been better. No matter what she’d said to Brooke, it had felt like a date. A really, freakin’ awesome date.
The batsman at the end of the pitch hit a perfect shot, slicing it through the fielders and past the deep cover. Meredith recognized the striker from the week before as soon as Brooke’s shrill whistle pierced the air. As the batsman made his run, he glanced over at Brooke and smiled.
“I’m beginning to think you have a thing for Indian guys,” Meredith muttered, grinning.
Brooke never took her eyes from the player. “Well, maybe not Indian guys in general, but specifically?” She nodded her head toward the tall player — who made running look like an art form — and clapped with pride.
“I don’t blame you,” Meredith whispered.
Brooke shot her a glare. “Hands off. He’s mine. You’ve already got Jamie and the author.”
Meredith sputtered. “Wh-what? Jamie’s the last guy I want.” How could Brooke even speak of Jamie and Gray in a single breath? They were hardly the same species.
Her best friend’s gaze sharpened. “And the author?”
“Well… that’s just… I mean, that’s not even… He’s myboss.”
Brooke laughed at the sky. “So he’s cute, huh?”
“My God, is he cute!” she admitted, folding over with the relief of confessing. She sat up straight again. “And interesting… and really kind. He bought mepepper spray.And I think that was the only reason he left the house at all.”
Brooke winced. “He probably needed to get out of the house. That would totally suck if you couldn’t drive. If you just had to… like… rely on other people all the time.”
Meredith bit her lip. She knew Gray hated that. She’d tried to make their outing as normal as possible, and maybe that was why it had felt like a date. His comfort had been her only goal when they’d left his house. Driving his car had been amazing, but she’d felt so guilty about doing it. All she’d wanted was for him to have a good day out of the house.
But she’d soon forgotten about his illness and any limitations. What had commanded more attention was the way he’d looked at her. Like he could read her every thought. And the way he’d smiled while he listened as she spoke. And the way he had stepped closer to her when someone would pass them in the parking lot or on the sidewalk. It had been subtle, but he’d angled his far shoulder toward her just a little, shielding her.
Or maybe she’d imagined it. But even imagining it had felt nice. The way a book and a blanket by a window in a thunderstorm felt nice. And she hadn’t imagined his scent of wood smoke and parchment. In the car and each time he’d step close to her, she’d caught a hint of it.
