Page 11 of You First
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’sThe Independentin 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.”
