You First

By Stephanie Fournet

Driven. Private. Insanely talented.

Gray Blakewood is the most successful crime writer under the age of thirty—and he has a secret that could cost him his life.

He just wants to finish his latest novel before his world unravels, and the last thing he needs is a beautiful distraction.

Meredith Ryan, his new personal assistant, has seen more than her fair share of hard knocks. And, still, she’s the sweetest person he’s ever met.

She deserves a lifetime of happiness—which he can’t offer.

But he can’t seem to stay away.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stephanie Fournet
• Release date: Nov 5, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005066017

Stephanie Fournet

Stephanie Fournet, author of eight novels including Leave a Mark, You First, Shelter, and Someone Like Me, lives in Lafayette, Louisiana—not far from the Saint Streets where her novels are set. She shares her home with her husband John and their needy dogs Gladys and Mabel, and sometimes their daughter Hannah even comes home from college to visit them. When she isn’t writing romance novels, Stephanie is usually helping students get into college or running. She loves hearing from readers, so look for her on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Goodreads, and stephaniefournet.com.

Book preview

Chapter One

You’re fired.

The words landed like a fist in Meredith’s stomach. She stared at her boss, her mouth hanging open. B-but, Mr. Simmons, I tried to find someone to cover my shift. I told you that yesterday.

Howard Simmons folded his arms over his considerable middle and gave her his fish-faced pout. And yesterday I said you could come in for your shift or not come back at all, he told her with his eyes closed.

Mr. Simmons always talked with his eyes closed. It drove Meredith nuts.

But she couldn’t think about that now. Meredith’s heart, which had been thumping hard, started racing. Mr. Simmons, I need this job. You know I need this job.

Her sour boss blinked at her, his expression never changing, but she plowed on.

Please give me another chance. My… Oscar’s grandmother left me in a lurch. I didn’t have anyone to watch him. I would’ve brought him with me if I could.

She’d beg. She wasn’t above begging. After everything she’d been through in the last two years, a little begging wouldn’t be so bad. Please, she added, wringing her hands together and cursing Jamie’s mother for the ten thousandth time.

I’m sorry, Meredith, Mr. Simmons said, shaking his head and sounding most unsorry. But coming to work with your toddler would’ve been worse than not coming in at all—which is what you did. For the last time, I might add. Please turn in your apron and cashier’s badge. You may collect your last check in the office from Miss Bonnie.

With that, he swiveled on his heel and left her standing at the front of Champagne’s Grocery, her nails digging into her palms and her nose stinging.

Do. Not. Cry.

Meredith refused to let herself cry. She refused to cry over losing her job because it was Leona McCormick’s fault she’d lost her job, and Meredith wasn’t going to let Leona McCormick bring her to tears anymore. It had been six months since the last time, and she wouldn’t break her streak now.

The woman hated her. It was that simple. Leona McCormick hated her, but she loved Oscar. Which meant that Meredith and Oscar had a place to live. And, as Meredith Ryan knew all too well—after her parents kicked her out when she was seventeen and pregnant—there were worse things than living with someone who hated her.

Sharing a bed with her ex-boyfriend was one of them.

A month into her senior year, Meredith would have married Jamie McCormick the minute that stick turned blue. Any of the girls at Lafayette High would’ve. Dimples. Blue eyes. Sandy blond hair that made him look like a golden Harry Styles. And a smile that had her believing she was everything.

Walking out to the parking lot with a pack of Pampers and her last paycheck, Meredith rolled her eyes at the memory. He’d done her a favor, really. By dumping her for Veronica Sanger when she’d refused to get an abortion, Jamie had kept her from making the biggest mistake of her life.

She wouldn’t marry him now. And he’d asked. More than once. That smile, she now knew, meant one thing and one thing only. Jamie McCormick wanted some.

Meredith didn’t know what was worse. That after more than two years, Jamie still tried out his come-hither smile on her. Or that she still gave into it.

Of course, a whole lot of opportunity didn’t exist for either. Jamie worked twenty-one on and fourteen off as a roughneck on an offshore rig, so more than half the time, Meredith didn’t even have to see him. But during those other two weeks, he was doubly persistent in his smiling efforts.

Another obstacle for him (and safety measure for her) was that they lived with his parents in a 1300-square-foot house with three bedrooms. Leona and James Big Jim McCormick’s bedroom shared a wall with theirs, and the only thing worse than having your baby-daddy’s parents next door while he tries to get it on with you is trying to sleep while said parents get it on with each other. And as much as it made Meredith throw up in her mouth when she heard Leona calling Big Jim’s name, it saved her from Jamie’s advances because, while Jamie McCormick was pervy on many levels, getting off to the sound of his mother’s Os was not on any of them.

And, finally, while the house technically had three bedrooms, that third room was, in fact, Leona’s sewing room. She took in alteration work and made the occasional wedding, bridesmaid, or formal dress, so the third bedroom contained her Bernina, her serger, a dressmaker’s dummy, an ironing board, a worktable, and racks of clothing for alterations, but it didn’t have even one bed.

Which meant that Oscar McCormick, Meredith’s twenty-month-old son, slept between her and Jamie. And if your parents don’t cockblock you, she mused with a smirk, your toddler has that job covered.

When Meredith thought about it—and she tried not to—it seemed to her that there should never be an opportunity for Jamie to make his advances. Especially considering that most of the time Meredith was mad at him. And yet, all too often, she would find herself on her back, catching her breath after Jamie crawled into bed with that goddamn smile.

Jamie and his smile were scheduled to return onshore in nineteen days. Which meant she had a few weeks to find another job so she wouldn’t be hanging around the house with nothing better to do than attract his attention.

Meredith collapsed into her dinky, faded-red Nissan Versa, pulled out her cracked-screened iPhone 4, and texted Brooke.

Meredith: I’m so screwed. Simmons just fired me.

She started the car and cranked the feeble heater before her best friend texted back.

Brooke: Noooooo! Why? Want me to key his car?

Meredith laughed. Brooke Cormier could always make her laugh—even when life was shitty. And in the last two years, she’d encountered her fair share of shitty. Meredith loved Oscar more than she could have thought possible—more than anything in this world or the next—but Brooke was a close second.

She typed.

Meredith: Not worth it. Besides, not his fault.

Before she could press send, the phone rang in her hands.

A glitter bomb, Brooke said as she answered.

What?

Mail him a glitter bomb. He opens the package. Glitter explodes. He’ll look like Tinkerbelle for the rest of his life.

Meredith put the car in gear, laughing.

He’ll never be free, Brooke continued. I mean it. Glitter is the herpes of the arts-and-crafts world. An ounce of glitter detonated in his living room would contaminate every corner of his puny, fish-mouthed existence.

Stop, she begged, wiping her eyes. Really, he’s not the one I blame.

Brooke was silent for a moment. Leona. It wasn’t a question.

You guessed it.

Shit.

Yeah.

Grab Oscar, bundle up, and meet me at the field.

The McCormicks lived near the corner of Dean and St. Landry, right across from the Mickey Shunick Memorial and the electrical substation. The view of the substation sucked, but Meredith ignored it and always focused on the memorial instead. The mounted, white bike made a ghostly homage to the brave young woman who’d been attacked on her ride home. She’d fought that serial-killer bastard with his own knife—a five-foot-three girl macing and cutting a monster.

Even though she lost her life, the nationwide search for Mickey led to the monster’s arrest. And every time Meredith passed the white bicycle—whether she was pushing Oscar’s stroller or taking a walk by herself to get away from the McCormicks for five minutes—she felt stronger for its presence, as though Mickey Shunick’s fighting spirit blessed the place.

Boys! Oscar cheered from his stroller. They passed the substation and were directly behind UL’s Horticulture Center. Across the street lay one of the university’s intramural fields and, as usual on most afternoons, a group of international students was deep in a game of cricket. Brooke had parked her dad’s white Toyota truck in the far corner of the field, and she sat waiting for them on the open tailgate.

Just as Meredith was about to complain that it was too cold to sit in the bed of a truck, Brooke lifted a CC’s to-go cup in greeting.

Is that a King Cake Latte? Meredith asked, breathless.

Her best friend nodded. You know it.

Meredith grabbed the cup with both hands and inhaled the warm, sugary promise with its hints of cinnamon. You’re a saint. If I ever have another kid, I’m naming her—or him—after you.

Brooke glared at her cock-eyed. And who will be fathering this kid? Because I like the naming idea, but I don’t want to encourage this line of thinking.

Taking a sip of the liquid heaven, Meredith pushed the question aside. It was too depressing to consider, and she didn’t like to talk about Jamie’s favorite pastime. Brooke was right. Even though she wanted more kids at some point in her life, she did not want them with Jamie McCormick.

Which should have been excellent motivation to stand firm each time she tried to shut him down. But Jamie McCormick was not a big fan of no.

Boys! Oscar yelled again, pointing to the cricket players and kicking his chubby legs against the stroller. Boys playing.

That’s right, baby, Meredith said, reaching down and tugging the knit beanie over his ears. Tufts of his golden curls flattened against his forehead. The boys are playing cricket.

Boys playing cweaket. Oscar watched starry-eyed as the bowler let the ball go, bouncing it down the pitch where it connected with the batsman’s paddle. Ya-a-ay!

Meredith and Brooke laughed as Oscar cheered. He tracked the ball as it cleared the boundary, earning the team six runs. Cweaket!

Wow, he’s good, Brooke murmured, her eyes on the tall batsman with café au lait skin. Oscar wasn’t the only one who liked watching the boys play cricket.

Meredith’s butt was cold against the tailgate; she didn’t have a job, and Jamie would be back in a few weeks. But she also had a best friend who had brought her a King Cake latte, a son who would be happy watching a cricket match for another hour, and a plan to build a better life for herself.

So, eventually, life would get better. It had to.

Chapter Two

You have to take them.

I take them. I told you that.

"Gray, you have to take them every day."

Grayson Blakewood glared at his brother. His kitchen island separated them, and Baxter glared back, holding the bottle of those goddamned pills.

I can’t. His simple shrug drew Bax’s scowl.

You mean you won’t.

Gray blinked in concession. You’re right. I won’t.

A frustrated breath left Bax’s lungs. Do I have to move in and become your nursemaid? You may be my big brother, but I’ve got twenty pounds on you. I bet I could pin you and shove one of these down your throat every morning.

Gray let himself grin. He ran his thumb over the faint scar Bax had given him just below his lip when Bax was seven and Gray was nine. He’d give almost anything to have his brother tackle him to the ground like he’d done when they were boys. Pound him with his fists. Go for a chokehold.

Anything was better than being treated like an invalid.

Because he wasn’t an invalid. Not technically. Not yet.

If Gray thought his brother would fight back, he’d actually throw the first punch just so he could feel normal again—even for a little while. But Baxter wouldn’t hit back. He’d just let Gray whale on him, afraid one touch would break him.

Like a fucking egg.

You know, finishing your latest novel won’t matter very much if you’re dead, Bax said, trying to sound scary but instead sounding scared.

Gray bit his tongue. Nothing mattered more than finishing his fourth novel. The latest installment in his Alex Booth detective series had sold more than 4,000 copies in the first week, landing him a spot on the New York Times bestseller list for the third time. The fourth book would be his best yet. Gray could feel it. And if he were lucky, he might have time to knock out a fifth. After that, there were few guarantees.

But his little brother didn’t like to be reminded of that.

If I can take them every third or fourth day, I can keep things under control.

Bax rolled his eyes. That bruise on your forehead? Is that a sign of you keeping things ‘under control?’ He mocked him with air quotes.

Gray turned toward the fridge and lingered over the business of pouring a glass of orange juice so Bax couldn’t study the mark. It had faded since his last seizure and subsequent fall, but it clearly hadn’t faded enough.

Please tell me you’re not driving. Baxter’s voice had gone soft with real worry, the sound making Gray turn.

His brother gripped the edge of the counter, the pills still in his hold. Tension sharpened the lines of his shoulders, the veins in his hands. His posture spoke of anger, but his brown eyes held only sadness.

Gray found himself telling the truth. Just on days when I take my meds.

Jesus Christ, Bax swore, going pale. Do you realize what could happen—

On the days I take my meds, I’m g—

You could kill yourself. My God, you could kill someone else.

Gray cringed. It’s not like that. The medicine works when—

Do you have any idea what that would do to Mom and Dad? To me?

Gray’s head snapped back. He’d expected a lecture. Bax was always good for a lecture, but he wasn’t ready for a guilt trip.

Low blow, Bax, he muttered. The Blakewood family had already suffered enough.

His brother shook his head, bitterness crimping his lips. No. It’s not. Take the fucking meds. Every day.

I can’t. Gray pressed his fingers against the granite countertop between them. I can’t write when I take them.

Baxter eyed him with doubt. Yes, you can. I’ve seen you write with them.

No. He shook his head. "You’ve seen me type words and string sentences together, but there’s no story, no imagination. I’m writing shit. And when I’m off the pills, the ideas are pouring in."

So talk to Dr. Cates and switch to something else, Bax said, shrugging.

Gray gritted his teeth and spoke through them. I don’t have time for that.

What do you mean? The worry in Bax’s voice spiked. Do you think it’s growing? Are your symptoms changing? When’s your next scan—

Bax. Gray raised a brow at his brother. You’re a twenty-six-year-old man, not a fifty-nine-year-old woman. Please don’t turn into Mom.

Answer my questions.

Gray studied his brother. Bax used to be the fun one. Growing up, they’d all had their roles. Gray, the wunderkind, shutting himself in his room and writing plays and poems and short stories as early as third grade. He’d needed to be the observer, not the entertainer at the dinner table. That had been Bax’s job, telling stories, doing impersonations, and charming their parents and the occasional guests—anything to amuse Cecilia while still shielding her from the attention of others. Their little sister—the painfully shy baby of the family—could forget her self-consciousness when she watched Bax command the spotlight.

But that was so long ago.

Bax belonged in a space that rippled with laughter. Half the people Gray considered friends had really been Baxter’s friends first. They flocked to him, drawn and held by his warmth and humor. The playful mischief in his eyes had dimmed when they’d lost Cecilia, but it hadn’t died. Looking at his brother across his kitchen, Gray realized he hadn’t seen him laugh in weeks.

And this was his fault.

I don’t think it’s growing, he lied. Everything’s the same as it was two months ago. The headaches. The vision. And if I take my medication, the seizures—

When’s your next scan? Bax asked again.

He didn’t have time for this. He needed Bax to leave. He needed quiet so he could make the most of the hours before he took the seizure pills. No distractions. No disruptions. No people. Gray sighed. Next month.

His brother stared at him, wheels turning.

And Gray suspected he wouldn’t like whatever Baxter would say next. He braced himself. He’d likely urge Gray to go back to Dr. Cates sooner. Run more tests. Waste more time.

It wasn’t going to happen. He had to write.

You need to hire someone to look after you.

What?!

Baxter’s face brightened as the idea gained appeal. Like a home-health aide or an adult sitter.

Are you out of your mind? Even though this earned him a smile—the first since Baxter had walked through his door and seen the bruise—Gray wasn’t joking. He’d die before he let an adult sitter into his home.

The indignity, he thought with a shudder. The annoyance.

Of the two of us, I’m not the one with a broken brain, Bax jabbed.

It’s a meningioma, Gray leveled. "It might give me seizures and headaches and one day stop my breath, but it’s not ever going make me agree to a…a… babysitter."

"An adult sitter, Baxter corrected, his smile growing. And you forgot the part about memory loss."

I wish some of that would kick in right now. Gray glared at his brother. I’d like to forget this whole conversation.

You need to hire someone. To help out—if nothing else, Bax said again. If you’re not going to take your seizure medication as prescribed, someone needs to take care of you.

Gray pointed to the door. Go. Go back to New Orleans. Aren’t you Vice President of Sales? Shouldn’t you be at Blakewood Imports right now?

Vice President of Sales and Marketing. Bax gave him an evil grin. See, you’re forgetting already.

Gray shook his head. That’s not funny. Ten minutes ago, he would have welcomed Bax’s jabs and gallows humor, but the threat of a caregiver was worse than the prospect of death at twenty-eight. He needed to get Bax off this bent before he started thinking about doing real damage. Blakewood Imports was a huge corporation with the best law firm in New Orleans on retainer. Would his family get to a point where they thought they knew what was best for him? When they and their lawyers could take away his control? Gray wondered if it was time to call André Washington, his old friend and attorney.

Gray sighed. His parents and Baxter weren’t monsters. They loved him, and they were good people. But they worried about him. Too much. And he knew that kind of worry could make people take drastic measures.

Gray reached across the counter for the stupid bottle, cracked open the lid, and popped a pill in his mouth.

He swallowed. There. Happy?

Baxter leaned back against Gray’s fridge and tucked his thumbs in the pockets of his jeans, smirking. For now.

Chapter Three

So, nothing yet? Brooke asked as they raced across St. Mary Street to the chirp of the crosswalk alarm.

Nothing. Meredith sighed. She had six minutes before her Human Anatomy Physiology lecture started, and she wanted to claim a decent spot in the auditorium, but she also wanted to commiserate with her friend. I filled out applications in three stores yesterday. Whole Foods wants me to be able to close at eleven. Drug Emporium—which is the closest—said they’re looking for someone to open the store at six in the morning, and Albertson’s told me they just filled the position, but they’d keep my application on file.

Brooke gave her a sympathetic look as they approached the entrance to Wharton Hall. You’ll find something, she said.

As long that happens before Jamie gets back. Meredith hugged her friend, said goodbye, and dashed inside Wharton. She found a seat in the second row surrounded by other nursing students who’d been in her organic chem class last semester. She told a few of them hello and got out her notebook and pen.

It wasn’t just that she wanted to be too busy for Jamie to harass when he came home—restless and horny after three weeks offshore. She also didn’t want him to think she was relying on him to take care of her. Of course, she relied on him to put a roof over her head—for now—but Meredith paid for her own clothes, her own birth control pills, her own gas and insurance, and all of the school expenses that Louisiana’s TOPS program didn’t cover. Jamie’s insurance took care of Oscar, but Meredith insisted on meeting all the co-pays for his check-ups and shots.

After putting what she could in savings, she didn’t have much else, but her small income let Jamie know she had her independence. And her independence—her autonomy—was a shield. The more desperate Jamie thought she was, the more often he’d want to talk about getting married. That wasn’t going to happen whether she was unemployed or not, but Jamie didn’t see it the same way. Her vulnerability was his opportunity.

So Meredith needed a job—and fast. But it had to be the right job. Waiting tables could earn her more money in tips, but with her school schedule, she’d be expected to close. Depending on where she worked, that might put her home at midnight, and Meredith didn’t want that. Even though Oscar went down at eight, and she almost always missed his bedtime, their special time was right at dawn.

Her baby would wake up just as the sun came through the blinds, and he’d crawl to Meredith and draw her from sleep by snuggling close. Smiling with his golden curls sticking up like a halo, Oscar was almost always happy in the morning. They’d read picture books—Good Dog, Carl was his current favorite—and sing songs in bed for a few minutes, but they’d be up and about by six-thirty. Meredith would change Oscar’s diaper, get them both dressed, make him a Sippy cup of warm milk, and they’d head out with the stroller for an early walk.

Every morning, Oscar pointed to birds and talked to the dogs they passed along the way. Meredith would greet their neighbors, who always smiled and told Oscar hello. It was peaceful. It was joyful. And it was totally theirs.

It wasn’t much, but their mornings were the best part of her day, and if she took a job that made her work late, she’d be too exhausted to enjoy them.

Her anatomy professor walked in and saved Meredith from these depressing thoughts when she projected the course syllabus on the auditorium screen before launching into Topic I: The Human Body—An Orientation.

An hour and a half later, Meredith made her way to the lobby of Wharton. She had less than fifteen minutes to get across campus to Mouton Hall for her General Psychology class, but before she pushed through Wharton’s double doors, her eye caught on an orange flyer tacked to the lobby bulletin board.

---

Personal Assistant Needed

Hours Flexible

Must Have Own Transportation

$20 per hour plus mileage

---

The bottom of the flyer had been fringed into tabs bearing a phone number, and Meredith ripped the first for herself. She frowned at the 504 area code. Why would someone in New Orleans post a job position at the University of Louisiana in Lafayette?

It might be a scam, but the job she’d had at Champagne’s only paid $9.25, two bucks above minimum wage. Twice the money and flexible hours? Maybe it was too good to be true, but Meredith would go in with skepticism. Any hint of a scam, and she’d pull back.

She stuffed the scrap of paper into her bag and headed to class.

Thursdays were her short days. Two classes. No labs. So after psych, she hopped on her bike—with the child seat over the back tire—and headed home. She crossed Johnston Street and passed Bisbano’s. When she pedaled past Studio Ink, her eye fell on a turquoise Mustang coupe in the parking lot. It wasn’t the car that caught her attention, but the couple in the front seat—arms inked up and down and locked in a searing kiss.

Meredith pulled her gaze away and tried to ignore the sudden pounding in her chest. It had been a long, long time since anyone had kissed her like that. She didn’t want to remember the fool she’d been then, and it would be years before she could meet someone new, so it was best not to think about kissing at all.

It was just after 12:30 when she walked through the kitchen door to find a sleepy Oscar finishing his lunch.

He drooped in his booster seat until he saw her. Mama! Oscar sat up straight and pointed a finger at her—a finger that was coated in peanut butter. Sit down.

Meredith let her book bag slip to the floor as she took a seat beside him, smiling widely. Yes, Mama will sit. I don’t need to leave.

Mama sit? Oscar questioned, smiling now, too, but still unsure. Her son was used to Meredith rushing in from school only to change into her Champagne’s uniform before setting off again. The fact that he was so accustomed to her leaving made her heart ache.

Yes, Mama’s sitting with Oscar. I want to sit with you.

Leona emerged from the utility room, shaking her head and giving a tsk. Of course, you had to come back right before his nap, she complained. Now he’ll never settle down.

Meredith ignored the woman’s tone and turned back to her son. I’ll get some lunch and then take him back to my room. He’ll get sleepy again in a little while.

Leona cocked a brow at her. Oh? You mean you aren’t gonna run out and look for another job this instant? You’re actually gonna spend time with your baby?

The stab of guilt was well aimed. Leona knew exactly how to make her feel awful, and, because Meredith sensed this, she tried to push the hurt aside. But instead of firing back, she rose to her feet and headed toward the fridge.

Mama sit, Oscar echoed, a whine creeping into his voice.

She turned and locked eyes with him. Mama’s going to make a sandwich and sit with Oscar. Okay, baby? Mama’s hungry.

He needs his nap, Meredith. He’s just gonna get cranky.

It was better to say nothing. If she said nothing, Leona would take her silence as surrender, and, in her victory, she’d consider the subject closed. Most of the time, Meredith could allow this. Bite her tongue and bow her head.

Today was one of those times.

She hid her head in the fridge as she searched for sliced turkey, mayo, mustard, and lettuce, and set about making a sandwich.

Mama make lunch? Oscar asked, hope lifting the question.

Meredith smiled over her shoulder at him. His big brown eyes watched her with unbroken focus.

Yes, baby. Mama’s making lunch, and I’ll sit with you while I eat. And then we’ll take a nap. Okay?

Oscar shook his head, smiling with mischief. No nap, Mama.

Leona tsked again. Little man needs a nap, she told him.

Oscar frowned at his grandmother. No nap, Meemaw!

Four months early, and he’s already hitting the terrible twos, Leona said, shaking her head. I just hope he’s better than Jamie at that age. When that boy didn’t get his way, look out!

And that’s changed how? Meredith wanted to ask, but she finished making her sandwich in silence.

Mama sit.

She carried her sandwich to the table and joined her baby. I’m sitting, my love.

Oscar’s lip curled in a satisfied smile, and he patted the table next to her. Mama sitting, he said softly.

Meredith took a bite and spoke through a mouthful. You are so sweet, little buddy. I love you so much.

Love you, Mama.

After Meredith loaded her plate and silverware into the dishwasher, carried Oscar to their room, and read him four stories, he finally crashed. She held him tucked against her for a moment, smelling his sweet baby-shampoo smell. When it was safe to slide away from him, she tiptoed out of the room.

Because there was no opportunity for privacy in the McCormick house, Meredith walked out the front door and headed for the Mickey Shunick Memorial. She’d brought her phone and the scrap of paper from the job flyer.

Staring down at it, Meredith doubted it would amount to anything. She’d have to get back in her car and head across town to Super One Foods to try there.

Might as well get on with it. She dialed the number and waited as it rang through. On the third ring, Meredith prepared herself to leave a voicemail. Leaving voicemails sucked. It made her nervous. She sounded stupid, and knowing that she sounded stupid made her do stupid things like forgetting to say her name or tripping over her phone number.

She was working herself up to a pre-voicemail fit when someone answered.

Hello? The voice was male, young, and it sounded confused.

Meredith checked the number again before speaking. Um… Hi. I’m calling about the job? The personal assistant job? She hated the way she’d turned her sentences into questions. It was a job. She wanted it. Why couldn’t she sound certain?

"You are?"

Meredith blinked. He sounded even less certain than she did. Which made her suspicious.

Um… yeah. There is a job, right? Not a scam?

A scam? Humor entered his voice, and for some reason this eased her suspicions. If someone were scamming her, he’d sound serious. Right?

"Yeah, you know, like those job listings that say Earn $5,000 a week, and when you go online to apply for the job, it’s really a weight-loss supplement, and they ask for your credit-card number, and before you know it, your credit card’s been charged like eight hundred dollars."

Meredith stopped talking. She’d stopped talking because she started hearing how she sounded, and if the man on the other end was in the position to give her a job for real, she needed to sound less weird.

Wow… you really know a lot about that. Did that happen to you? he asked.

What? N-no, she stammered. "I just don’t want that to happen. Not that it would happen. I mean, I don’t even have a credit card, and who’s stupid enough to put down their credit card number when they’re applying for a job anyway…"

It was happening again. Train wreck. Meredith tried to get it under control. I mean… the job… if it’s real… I’d like some information.

She heard laughter on the other end of the line.

Great. I’m never getting a job again.

I’m sorry. The job is real. I was just surprised to hear back so fast. I just put up those flyers this morning, and you’re the first person to call.

Really? She knew she sounded way too excited, but her gut was telling her that whatever this was, it wasn’t a scam.

Really. My name’s Baxter Blakewood. To whom am I speaking?

Proper grammar. No one running a scam would ask "To whom am I speaking?" Baxter Blakewood sounded cultured and sophisticated. Exactly like someone who needed a personal assistant. A little spot of hope pressed against her chest.

Meredith Ryan. I’m a nursing student at UL, and I saw your sign in Wharton Hall.

A nurse? Mr. Blakewood asked, sounding intrigued.

Just a student. First year, she said.

Still… he murmured. Something in his tone made her frown.

What…what exactly would you be needing?

Silence.

"Well… the job… would require someone who could run errands. Trips to the grocery store, to the dry cleaners… That sort of thing. Running errands and taking care of a few chores."

So far, so good.

Okay… what else?

Again, silence.

Well… how do you feel about dogs?

Meredith thought about Zabby, the black Scottish terrier she hadn’t seen in almost two years—which made her think of Becca. She’d seen her sister since her parents kicked her out, but only because Becca would sneak behind their backs and meet her at CC’s or the mall or at the movies once every few months. They had to be careful, though. Becca was only fourteen. Too young to drive. She’d have to get dropped off first and text Meredith to let her know the coast was clear. If her parents ever saw them together, they’d probably lock Becca away for good.

Thinking about Becca and Zabby and her parents only hurt, so she shoved those thoughts aside.

I love dogs, she said, hearing the constricted sound of her voice.

Are you sure about that? Mr. Blakewood asked, apparently mistaking her distress for something it wasn’t.

Meredith cleared her throat. I’m sure, she said with more resolve.

Okay… how about writers?

Was Mr. Blakewood a writer? Meredith smiled. It would be so cool to work for a writer. When Meredith wasn’t studying, or working, or taking care of Oscar—which, admittedly, wasn’t that often since her whole life revolved around studying, working, or taking care of Oscar—she was reading.

Reading was her one refuge. Her one indulgence. She couldn’t read if Jamie was home. One look at Meredith with a book in her lap, and Jamie assumed she was doing nothing, and she should, therefore, pay attention to him.

But if he was offshore, and her studying was done—on nights she didn’t work while Oscar was playing or asleep—Meredith would sink into a book and feed her mind and her dreams for a few minutes. She loved fantasy best. Her favorite author was Laini Taylor. The Daughter of Smoke and Bone trilogy had wrecked her for anything else. No books she’d read before or since could touch its magic. But she read other genres too. She liked reading highly acclaimed contemporary novels. It made her feel smart and in touch with something bigger than the confines of her life if she heard someone at school talk about The Goldfinch or The Paris Wife.

So it was easy to answer his question. I like dogs, but writers are a close second, she said.

Mr. Blakewood