Meredith: Thank you. It’s peaceful here. And thank you for the job. It’s a big help.
Through the slit in the blinds, he could see now that her tears were gone and her smile held. Gray didn’t know how to respond to her thanks at first, so he went with the truth.
Gray: It was Bax’s idea.
He watched her type something and stare at her phone. She bit her lip, looked up at the house, and then back to her phone again.
Meredith: You sure you don’t want to come outside and join me? The fresh air might make you feel better.
The invitation set his heart racing. Gray realized he very much wanted to go outside and sit beside the beautiful girl. If he’d seen her sitting on a bench four months ago, he would have found a reason to talk to her, and he had no doubt — no matter the circumstances — it would have made him feel better.
But now? Like this? No way.
Gray: My head is killing me.
He smiled a bitter smile at the perfection of that statement. This, technically, wasn’t a lie.
Meredith stood, threw the ball one last time, and started toward the house. She waited at the top of the porch steps, and Gray heard her calling the dogs inside. The sound of the door closing let him know they were in, so he moved back to his bedroom door to listen.
The scratch of the dog’s nails on his wood floors told him they were scrambling to the kitchen. It was almost Vulcan and Juno’s dinner time, and the game of catch had riled them up. They tore into his walk-in pantry off the kitchen where he kept their food bowls. Too late, Gray realized that the door separating the utility room and his bathroom wasn’t shut, and an excited Juno bounded through and into his bedroom.
Gray froze.
Juno stared at him impatiently and jumped back, throwing her head in the direction of the pantry. Gray stood, trapped in the middle of his room. In seconds, Meredith would follow the dog and find him standing there, clearly not bedridden with a headache.
“Juno!”
He heard her hissed whisper.
“Come back here.”
Always obedient, Juno turned and disappeared into his bathroom.
“Leave your daddy alone,” she said, and then, to his surprise, he heard the door between his bathroom and the pantry click closed.
Gray texted as fast as he could.
Gray: They want their dinner. Would you mind feeding?
He heard Meredith’s phone ping through the closed door.
Meredith: Found dog food. How much do they get?
Gray: About a scoop each. V gets a little more than J.
He heard her serving the dogs, and he typed again.
Gray: Thank you.
She didn’t respond to this, but a few minutes later he caught the distinct sounds of dishes clinking in the sink and water running. The whir of the sprayer told him she filled up the basin. Meredith was cleaning up after him.
Shit.
Gray: Please stop. Doing my dishes isn’t your responsibility.
She’d either set down her phone, or she was ignoring him, because the sounds of her work never ceased. Gray sighed and sat down on the edge of the bed, facing his darkened bathroom. He had half a mind to walk out and stop her. Gray had never hired a housekeeper — even after his first six-figure book deal. He didn’t believe in paying someone to clean up his messes. Once a person did that, he felt they lost touch with real life. His parents — who ran a successful imports company and had means to staff the entire house — had raised all of their children this way — to be responsible, self-sufficient, and humble. Besides, pushing a broom or scrubbing a tub provided the mind with a perfect opportunity to dream, and books came from dreaming.
Beyond all that, he felt that paying someone to clean up after him was an affront to their dignity. He hated the thought of doing that to the radiant girl in his kitchen.
“Meredith?” he called, his heart pounding again.
The water shut off. “Yes, sir?”
Oh, Jesus. He cringed, putting his head in his hands.
“Please don’t call me sir, and please don’t do the dishes.”
He heard her walk into the pantry, and Gray held his breath.
“I’ve always called my bosses sir,” she said, speaking against the shut door. “And I don’t mind helping with the dishes. I do them all the time at home.”
“Well, you won’t do either here,” he declared.
Silence.
“Sir — Gray… may I come in?”
“God, no,” he said before he could stop himself. “I mean… I’m not decent… I took a shower before you came… to try to soothe my head… and I went straight to bed after.”
The lie tasted putrid in his mouth, but there was no way he could face her.
“Oh, I-I’m sorry. I don’t mean to disturb you.”
She sounded miserable. He couldn’t let her feel miserable.
“You’ve done nothing wrong, Meredith. Thank you for coming by today. I don’t need anything else tonight.”
Again, silence.
“What are you going to do for dinner?”
What the hell? Was she FaceTiming his mother?
“I-I don’t know.” The statement came out in a laugh. He had no idea what he’d have for dinner — if he had dinner. He’d write until he couldn’t write any more, and if he felt like eating, he’d leave to get—
Dammit.
He was a prisoner in his own home, and she knew it.
“Hang on,” she said, and he heard her walk away.
He listened. He could hear her opening and closing cabinets, pulling open the freezer and then the fridge. Then she walked back to the door.
“How about mac and cheese?”
Gray blinked. “Yeah, I can make mac and cheese.”
She made a noise, like a smack with her mouth. “Not you, silly.”
Again, her footsteps faded out, and he heard her opening cabinets again. Clattering told him she was pulling pots out of the cabinet under his stove.
“What are you doing?” he called, even though he already knew.
“I’m making mac and cheese,” she called back. The closed door muffled her voice, but he could still make out her words. “Do you have any PAM? Oh, here it is.”
Spraying ensued.
“I don’t want you to cook for me.”
Meredith turned on the faucet but talked over it. “Well, your brother asked me to take care of you. You’re not feeling well right now; it’s almost dinner time, and you don’t have any food on hand,” she argued — competently, he noted. “If you don’t feel well enough to get dressed, I’m guessing ordering a pizza is not an option, so this is the best I can do under the circumstances.”
She had him there. Only, ordering a pizza would have worked fine if he hadn’t told her he wasn’t dressed. A sinking feeling — one that started between his eyes, pushed down against his shoulders, and landed squarely in his gut — made Gray flop back on his bed and stare at the ceiling.
Hiding in his bedroom hadn’t spared him any humiliation. It had only compounded it. Now she thought he couldn’t feed or dress himself, and that was no one’s fault but his own.
“My head will feel better in a little while,” he groaned. This was another lie because now it really was beginning to hurt again. “I can make my own dinner.”
“Gray, it’s just mac and cheese,” she said softly. “Besides, the pasta’s already on the stove.”
“What if I don’t want mac and cheese?” He heard the words as they left his mouth, and too late, he realized he sounded like a child.
Laughter. She was laughing at him. Quietly, yes, but she still laughed.
Oh, great.
“Then you don’t have to eat it,” she said, the smile clear in her speech. “But I will have done my job.”
Gray rolled his eyes. “Leave it to Baxter to find the most dedicated personal assistant on the planet.”
She was silent for moment, and Gray wondered too late if he’d offended her. He w
as about to apologize when she responded.
“He said you might be a challenge.” She didn’t sound offended. In fact, she still seemed amused.
A challenge?
“And, frankly, that’s fine. This job is saving me from a truly horrible fate, so you won’t hear me complaining,” she said. Her words had him sitting up again so he could hear her better. “Besides, I can already tell you’re a lot better than my old boss.”
Gray had so many questions he didn’t know where to start. “Wh— How am I better than your old boss? Who was your old boss?”
“I worked at Champagne’s in the Oil Center. My boss, Mr. Simmons, was this crabby, paunchy, old— Wait a minute…wait a minute,” she repeated. Then she stopped talking completely.
Gray leaned forward on the edge of his bed, trying to listen harder.
“I… don’t think it’s a good idea to rag on my old boss to my new boss. Then you might think that I’d do the same thing to you.”
Gray found himself chuckling. “Well, wouldn’t you?”
Meredith laughed, too. “Not if you didn’t suck, and, trust me, on my first day at Champagne’s, I already knew that Simmons sucked.”
He laughed outright. “Please, I’m dying to know. Why was Mr. Simmons so horrible?”
“Well, first of all…” Her voice drew nearer, so Gray knew she’d stepped back into the pantry. “…he’d lose his mind if you took a sick day. And if you forgot to clock out, he’d dock you a quarter of your last hour on-shift, sure you’d knocked off early and were trying to scam the system.”
Gray frowned. “Sounds like an asshole.”
“Definitely. But the thing that drove me nuts about Mr. Simmons was that he wouldn’t look at you when he was talking to you.”
His stomach seized. “Wh-what do you mean?”
“I mean, he’d stand in front of you and talk with his eyes closed. So. Annoying.”
If a boss who made eye contact with her was high on her list, he was going to disappoint her.
“I don’t think I’m much better than Mr. Simmons at this point,” he admitted. “You can’t even see me.”
At this, her laughter rippled through the space separating them, and Gray smiled, glad he’d made her laugh even if he hadn’t meant to.
“That’s true. I don’t even know what you look like. Do you look like your brother?”
Gray’s response was immediate. “What? No. I’m far better looking.”
It was what he would have said if Baxter was around. It was what he would have said three months ago. And Gray found himself surprised to hear his joke echo through the room. Meredith’s renewed laugh made him forget his mounting headache, and he lay down on his bed, listening to her.
How could someone who laughed like that have been crying in his back yard just a few minutes ago? What had she meant when she said that this job had saved her from a horrible fate? How could she make him so easily forget that he’d spent all day on the same two pages, waiting for his meds to wear off?
“That’s it. I think I’m going to have to Google you,” she said casually.
“What?!” Gray propped himself up on his elbow.
“I’m Googling you.”
He flopped back down again. “Oh, you don’t need to do that,” he groaned. Everything she’d find would be headshots and signing appearances — all vetted and approved by his publicist before they were released. In other words, all pictures that looked a hundred times better than he looked in real life — especially now.
Before he’d received his diagnosis, when he was just dealing with the headaches, he’d started to lose weight. The headaches often made him nauseous, and he’d skip meals at a time. Even with meds, his face still looked gaunter than it should. This and the look in his eyes aged him.
His pace to finish his novel hadn’t improved his appearance, either. Most of the time, he wore dark circles.
“Wow,” Meredith said. “Did you know I work for a famous author?”
Gray rolled his eyes. “Just ignore that. It’s all B.S.”
“Yes, clearly. Because everyone else has written three bestselling novels. I mean, I have.”
“She’s funny,” Gray muttered to himself.
“Well, you’re very handsome.” She spoke clinically, like a news anchor, so Gray had to smile even though he felt a rush of embarrassment. “I mean, you’re no Mr. Simmons, but…”
Real laughter shook his chest and belly. “Alas, we can’t all be Mr. Simmons.”
He heard her give an obvious fake sigh. “Such a pity,” she teased. The scrape of a spoon on the bottom of a pan echoed a few times from his kitchen. “This is just about ready. Should I fix you a plate?”
Gray’s stomach jerked again. Did she expect him to come out and eat the meal she’d prepared?
“No, thanks. I’m not ready yet.”
He heard the lid settle over the pan on the stove. “You do know you could get dressed, and I could bring this to you on a tray, right?”
“Uh, no. That’s not going to happen. I’m not that pathetic.” Yet.
“Nothing wrong with having dinner in bed — especially when you feel like crap,” she said.
“Oh really?” Gray goaded. “I bet you haven’t done that since you were a kid.”
She paused.
“Well… maybe… but, dude, if someone offered to fix me dinner and bring it to me in bed, I wouldn’t feel pathetic. I’d feel awesome.”
There was an edge to her voice. Not irritated or impatient. But one that sounded… tired. She was telling the truth. And in that one truth, he heard a dozen others. Meredith Ryan was tired. She needed this job. She might be young, but she still had to take care of herself.
A twinge of guilt made him frown. Gray promised himself then that no matter how embarrassed he was about needing her help, he wouldn’t take it out on her or make her job harder than it needed to be.
“I’ll come make myself a plate in a few minutes. Thank you, Meredith. You can go.”
She seemed to hesitate for a minute. “You sure? You don’t need anything else tonight?”
“I’m sure. But I’ll text you tomorrow with a grocery list, okay?”
“Okay. Great.” She sounded relieved, even excited, and thinking that she’d come back tomorrow, Gray realized he felt the same.
“I’m going to turn off the stove in case you fall asleep, but it should stay warm in the pot for a little while,” she said, and he heard her moving around in the kitchen, putting things away. “If you need anything tonight, don’t hesitate to contact me. I don’t live far.”
Where did she live? What would she do when she got home? He wanted to pose the questions, but he thanked her instead.
“That’s very kind. I think I’ll be okay.”
“Okay. Goodnight, Gray. See you tomorrow.”
Gray knew he couldn’t let himself hide in the bedroom for a third time, so he would, in fact, see her tomorrow. Wouldn’t it be better to talk to her face to face?
“Tomorrow. Goodnight.”
He heard her talking to the dogs, telling them goodbye, and then his front door shut, and the lock slid home.
His house, which was always quiet — just as he liked it — fell silent again, but this time the silence felt huge. Gray waited until he heard the car start in the driveway before he sat up and ventured out of his room.
Vulcan and Juno stood in the kitchen, both staring at him with their tails wagging steadily. Gray imagined that they were saying, “Hey, did you know someone came over, played with us, and fed us before leaving again? You may still play with us and feed us, if you’d like.”
“Keep dreaming,” he told them, taking a bowl down from the cabinet. The mac and cheese steamed as he scooped a heaping serving. The headache that had threatened earlier kept its distance, so his appetite was intact, and the food smelled good. He leaned with his back against his kitchen island and took a bite.
Mmm.
It was pasta out of a box — which he�
�d always take in a pinch — but Meredith had done something to dress it up. Gray took another bite.
Garlic… and is that… ground mustard?
He devoured the whole bowl and served himself seconds, savoring bite after bite.
Lifting the lid of the pot to scoop out thirds, Gray spotted the plate of cookies in the middle of the island, and he covered the mac and cheese again. Instead, he reached for the plate, peeled back the plastic wrap, and eyed the thick cookies. Chocolate chunks, walnuts, and — as promised — corn flakes filled each cookie. Gray grabbed one and took a tentative bite.
“OhmyGod!”
Decadent. Arresting. Hypnotic.
Cookie crack.
There was no other way to describe the rush of delicious that overtook him. He moved to the fridge to pour himself a mandatory glass of milk so the rest of the cookie could be enjoyed as God intended.
With the glass full, he dunked the cookie perfection for the requisite three seconds and took a greedy bite.
He thought his brain might explode. Gray guessed he wouldn’t even need surgery if he ate enough cookies because the pleasure overload on his neurons was already obliterating all other brain function. The seduction of the chocolate… the give of the walnuts… the crunch of the corn flakes. The potent fusion of flavors and textures ruined him for any other cookie on earth.
Gray took out his phone and typed in a rush.
CHAPTER SEVEN
MEREDITH KNELT ON the bath mat, trying to keep from getting a soaked shirt. Oscar splashed in the tub and dunked his washcloth under the bubbles. She’d already washed his hair, so his golden curls now hung straight down his chubby neck, touching the top of his back. Jamie always talked about cutting his hair, but Meredith kept refusing. Her baby still looked like a baby, and she wasn’t ready for that to change.
“Rub-a-tub-tub,” Oscar chanted.
Meredith smiled. “Rub-a-dub-dub. Three men in a tub. And who do you think they be? The butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker. Throw them out. Knaves, all three.”
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