You First

by Stephanie Fournet

  She didn’t give him the chance. As soon as they were shut inside his Acura, Meredith sighed.

  “Look, I haven’t been entirely honest with you.” She stared at the steering wheel as she spoke, but then she chanced a glimpse at him.

  Gray could only stare back, speechless. She wasn’t going to pretend that everything was fine. She wasn’t going to act as if nothing had happened. That’s what he would do — even if he thought she knew the truth of what he tried to hide. He was already aware she had hardships he could only guess at, but that didn’t entitle him to an explanation.

  “It’s none of my bus—”

  “No,” she said, shaking her head, “I need to say this… I just don’t like talking about my family. It’s embarrassing.”

  But she didn’t look embarrassed. Not like she had when he’d showed her how to start the car or when he’d complimented her. She looked hurt. If it hurt to tell him, he didn’t want her to.

  “Then you don’t—”

  “I don’t live with my family.” She raised her gaze to his, and instead of sadness or shame, a look of resilience overtook her features. “My parents kicked me out two years ago when they found out I was pregnant.”

  Once, when Gray was nine years old, he’d stepped into a live cattle fence. He and Bax had been exploring a great uncle’s farm, and they’d gone where they shouldn’t have. The voltage of her words reminded him of that fence.

  “Two years ago? How old were you?” Other questions crowded his mouth, but these won out.

  She pulled her head back in surprise as though she expected something else entirely. “I was almost eighteen.”

  “You were seventeen?” The words on his tongue tasted bitter. How could her parents throw her out of their home at seventeen?

  “Almost eighteen,” she said again. As if a few weeks made any difference. How had she survived?

  “You were seventeen.” This time his tone left no room for her to qualify. She blushed, and Gray had an almost overpowering urge to touch her cheek. “So you are nineteen now?”

  “I’ll be twenty next month,” she said before she smiled through her blush. “And my son will be two in May.”

  “Your son…” Again, a jolt ran through him. The girl beside him wasn’t a girl at all. She was a mother. He’d thought of her as someone just out of high school, almost virginal, but she’d already born a child. The knowledge made his pulse race. A strange paradox of reverence and desire stirred him. It was irrational, but he suddenly found the car far too small a space to be enclosed with the beautiful, mysterious woman beside him.

  Unless he were allowed to touch her.

  “His name is Oscar,” she said, her smile growing, and Gray breathed a small sigh of relief. Picturing her son was the remedy he needed in that moment, making the car seem a little less crowded. And thinking about Oscar led him to new questions.

  “Where is he right now?”

  “He’s at home with his grandparents.”

  “At home? With his grandparents?” Gray heard himself ask.

  Meredith nodded, but her look hardened. “We live with Oscar’s father and his parents.”

  Oscar’s father. Of course. There had to be a father. But wasn’t he also a husband? A boyfriend? Meredith spoke as though she could read Gray’s mind.

  “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 LIKE a 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 my boss.”

  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 me pepper 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.

  The cricket match ended just as the orange in the sky slipped into purple. When Meredith noticed the cute striker ambling toward the truck, she hopped off the tailgate.

  “I think I’ll start walking,” she said, eyeing her friend meaningfully. “But I’ll watch you from the front yard until you pull away, so don’t do anything stupid like giving him a ride.”

  Brooke pulled her gaze away from the stranger with the café au lait skin, but she still met Meredith’s eyes with a dreamy look.

  “I’ll text you.” But then she frowned. “Jamie comes home in two weeks?”

  Meredith wrinkled her nose. “Yes. Hopefully, I’ll be at work when he shows.”

  ON MONDAY AND Tuesday, Meredith checked in on Gray after class, but then she spent the evenings at the library working on her first writing assignment for English 102. On Thursday afternoon, she went over to his house to start a soup. She heard his quick footfalls on the stairs while she chopped celery, and as soon as he hit the kitchen, Gray skidded to a halt.

  “What are you doing?”

  Meredith glanced up and took in his faded Loyola Wolfpack sweatshirt, worn, button-fly jeans, and bare feet. She abruptly dragged her eyes back to the celery. “Making soup.”

  “It’s two in the afternoon,” he said, giving her a confused look. “I had a PB&J an hour ago.”

  Meredith tried to breathe evenly through the thought of him standing in the kitchen barefoot, making a PB&J. “I’m sure that was delightful,” she teased. “But this is for dinner.”

  He stepped closer to inspect her work with a raised brow. “What kind of soup?” he asked, hooking a finger in the grocery bag she’d set on the counter and peeking inside. “Wild rice?”

  “Chicken and wild rice.”

  He walked around the island behind her and pointed to the Crock-pot. “Is that a giant rice cooker? Meredith, I couldn’t possibly eat that much rice.”

  This time, she couldn’t help but smile. “That’s a Crock-pot.”

  “A what?”

  “A Crock-pot. You know, a slow cooker,” she explained. “I’ll set it up now, walk away, and by six-thirty, this’ll be ready for you.”

  He pursed his lips and nodded with pretend approval.

  “I can’t believe you’ve never seen a Crock-pot,” she said. “Actually, I can’t believe you didn’t own one before today.”

  “We ate out a lot when I was growing up,” Gray tossed out and then pointed to the appliance, a crook in his brow. “I own this?”

  He was so adorable that Meredith found herself biting her lip to keep her smile under control. “You do. I hope you don’t mind. It was twenty-five dollars at WalMart. It’ll last forever, and they’re super convenient.”

  Gray shook his head, mischief glinting in his eyes. “I don’t mind.” He nodded toward the small appliance. “You’re a good cook. I can’t wait for dinner.”

  The compliment poured through her, golden and slow, like honey. She demurred. “Everyone’s a good cook with a Crock-pot.”

  He arched his brow again. “You used a Crock-pot for the magic cornflake cookies and the tater tot casserole?” he asked doubtfully.

  Meredith laughed. “No, of course not.”

  Gray nodded once. “My statement stands.” He stepped closer, and Meredith’s heartbeat picked up pace. “Can I help with anything?”

  “I’m supposed to be helping you.”

  “Stubborn girl,” he muttered, almost inaudibly. “I need a break.”

  “You feeling okay?”

  Gray narrowed his eyes at her. “I’m fine. I just need a break.”

  “Your detective isn’t cooperating?” she teased.

  “The detective is fine,” Gray leveled. “It’s the girl who’s giving me trouble.”

  “Giving you trouble? Aren’t you in charge?” Meredith asked, forcing her eyes back to the celery chopping. She had to stop hanging on his every word. It was pathetic.

  Gray huffed. “You’d think, but characters have the habit of coming to life and doing their own thing. This one wants to help too much in the big escape. She’s making it hard for my guy to be heroic.”

  Meredith couldn’t help it. She laughed.

  Gray shook his head. “She’s stealing the scene, and you’re laughing.”

  Meredith tamed her giggles. “So what’s wrong with a little help? Your hero doesn’t have to do it all by himself.”

  A low rumbling came from Gray’s throat. “That’s what she just told him. He’s got a bullet in his shoulder, and she wants his gun.” Gray shook his head. “It isn’t what I planned.”

  Meredith pictured the scene in her mind. “Sounds interesting.”

  “Dammit,” he hissed, a smile playing on his lips. “I knew you’d say that.”

  “Here,” she said, handing him the bag of carrots. “Wash six of these. It’ll help take your mind off your troubles.”

  Gray took the bag and stepped behind her to the sink. “Now that the idea is there, I can’t picture it any other way. My initial plan seems too easy.”

  Hearing him talk about writing as something so messy and uncertain was fascinating. It seemed organic and magic at the same time.

  “So what’s the worst that could happen if he gives her the gun — from a plot perspective, I mean,” Meredith asked.

  Gray joined her by the cutting board with a half-dozen washed carrots, and he shrugged. “Well, by giving her his gun, he’s letting her protect him, not the other way around,” he explained. “It’s pretty much handing over his masculinity.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Meredith said, giving him her best bullshit face. “Lots of women have guns. A gun is a gun, not a penis.”

  As soon as the word was out, Meredith slapped her hand over her mouth. She stared at Gray, bug-eyed, and didn’t have to wait long for his reaction.

  Though the corners of his mouth twitched, his brows reached as high on his forehead as they could possibly go, and his eyes smiled full-tilt.

  He leaned back against the island and casually crossed his arms over his chest, looking down at her with a mock contemplative expression.

  “‘A gun is a gun, not a penis,’” he mused.

  Meredith covered her eyes. “Oh my God,” she groaned. “I can’t believe I said that out loud.”

  “I’m fairly certain you did,” he teased. “And now that you put it that way, I’d have to say, unfortunately, in some cases, you are probably wrong.”

  She moved her hands and eyed him. “Now, you’re just being silly.”

  “No, think about it. You don’t think there are some men who use weapons as a form of compensation?” he asked, completely serious. “I mean, what about dictators and gang leaders and warlords? I’ll bet some of them — maybe even most of them —
are substituting.”

  Meredith got over her embarrassment enough to give it some thought. “Okay, I see your point.”

  “And I guess, unfortunately, the reverse is sometimes true.” He said this frowning. “Sometimes a penis is a gun.”

  It took everything in her power not to react to his words. Because the first thought that came to her mind was Jamie. Fairly or unfairly, she thought of him. It was as though he walked around with a loaded weapon. Meredith certainly feared it. She pushed the notion and the shame it carried aside and saw her opportunity.

  “Well, then,” she said, giving him a pointed look. “You definitely want Alex Booth to hand it over. Because he’s surely man enough to share it.”

  Gray tilted his chin up, thought this over a moment, and nodded. “You’re absolutely right.”

  Meredith smiled, and then she couldn’t help herself. “And, you know, chances are she knows how to use it.”

  Gray’s sharp inhale beside her made her cheeks burn, so she busied herself by dropping chopped celery into the Crock-pot.

  THE FOLLOWING TUESDAY, Gray needed a ride to the vet’s. Both dogs were due for their annual check-up. This meant Meredith would get another chance to drive his awesome Acura. Her own car had started making this weird screeching sound every time she made a right turn, so she was glad he wouldn’t be riding in it.

  Meredith was worrying about the screeching sound when she let herself into the house.

  “Gray?” she called, suspecting he was working in the study. To her surprise, Juno and Vulcan ran into the kitchen to greet her from the living room.

  “Gray?” she called again, standing at the foot of the stairs.

  “In here.” His voice was a croak, and the croak came from the living room.

  Meredith walked in to find him curled on the couch in a white T-shirt and jeans, his eyes shut tight, and a compress on his forehead.

  She crossed the room and perched by his side, hesitating for a moment before pressing her hands to his cheeks and forehead in search of fever or injury. “What happened? Did you fall?”