“Not now.”
She tore her eyes away and climbed off the bed. “Not even more bread? It’ll just take a second.”
The pause was so long, she looked up again. The sharpness in his gaze had given way to something else. The muscles in his jaw stood out as though he braced against a great force. “No, I think I want to go upstairs, light a fire, and write.” He breathed in through his nose and his nostrils flared. “Would you like to come?”
And sit in the library? By the fire? With Gray? She’d burst into flames. But she wasn’t about to say no.
“Yes, just let me take care of a few things first.”
Gray frowned, moving out of the bed and standing beside her. “I can help with that.”
Her stubbornness saved her. She moved the trays out of his reach as he went for them. “We agreed you’d save your strength for writing.”
She planted her feet, and her control returned. Gray narrowed his eyes at her, and she felt safe enough to trust her smile.
“Knight of Pentacles. I have to earn my keep,” she added. He probably didn’t need the reminder of why she was there, but in that moment, she certainly did.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
IT WAS NEARLYfinished. One more chapter, and Gray would give the manuscript a final read-through before sending it to his editor.
He sat back in his desk chair and drank in the scene before him. The blaze in the fireplace had mellowed to an orange glow. Juno and Vulcan curled on the carpet, napping in the warmth of the crackling embers. Always glad for their company, he’d often look up from the words on the screen to grin at their slumber. But, this evening, the sight that had repeatedly drawn his attention — and had nearly driven him to distraction — was that of Meredith Ryan stretched out on his leather loveseat.
She’d studied with a book in her lap for what seemed like hours, but now, Gray saw that she slept, her head tilted back against the armrest. A few tendrils of hair had come loose from her bewitching ponytail, so dark wisps curled around her peaceful face.
Somewhere in the multiverse, under slightly different — but far luckier — circumstances, there was a Gray Blakewood who looked at a sweetly sleeping Meredith Ryan with nothing in his head but gratitude and desire. In that world, Gray was exactly the same — minus one brain tumor — and he’d met this lovely young woman somewhere in town — say at the farmer’s market or at Art Walk — and he hadn’t bothered to let her youth sway his heart’s urgent insistence to ask her number. In a matter of days, this alternate Gray had learned that his Meredith was kind above all else, stubborn to a fault, liable to blurt out whatever she was thinking and blush about it afterward, and able to drive him mad by gazing at him as if she ached to be kissed. Of course, that Gray would never allow such an ache to stand unanswered.
He’s a lucky bastard, wherever he is.
Gray pulled himself from the fantasy that would do him more harm than good. But, God, she was beautiful. And when she’d sat next to him on the bed and worked her fingers through his hair, he’d imagined yanking her down, rolling on top of her, and kissing her for an age. And it wasn’t just because she was beautiful. And sweet. And funny. It was because of the look he thought he’d seen in her eyes. A look that lit him on fire.
And it was there again — he felt sure — after he’d shared the tarot story. The moment he’d told her to be stubborn. And why shouldn’t she? Someone as hard-working and good-hearted and selfless as Meredith should have everything she wanted. Gray realized he’d love to watch her claim it.
He’d love to watch her do a thousand other things too. Some he wanted no one else to see.
He was certain he’d channeled some of that unquenched desire into the resolution of his novel. Indeed, Alex Booth was leaving the hospital, on his way to find Lyra Kingston, the epicenter of his first adventure and the woman the detective couldn’t forget. It was satisfying to know that the two would come together again — especially if this book turned out to be his last.
A shiver ran down his spine. As much as he wanted to deny it, his symptoms were growing worse. The headaches crushing at times, his vision more sensitive, and instead of being able to go for three days without his meds and be safe, he’d only gone two before a seizure struck.
Bax would come tomorrow and drag him to the doctor. Gray couldn’t really blame him. If the situation were reversed, he’d do the same. Hell, he’d probably do far worse. Go full-tilt older brother on Baxter and strap him to the nearest operating table.
No matter how he looked at it, time was running out, his hopes for a fifth novel leaking away.
The idea felt like a cold hand on the small of his back. If the worst were true, and new scans showed that his window of opportunity was closing, he’d undergo the surgery all too soon. He might not be able to hold out for even another month. And then what?
A chunk of his brain would be knifed out (and chucked into the garbage? Burned in an incinerator? What would they do with it, anyway?), and if that left him without the ability to write, what then? Who would he be?
Gray couldn’t imagine not writing. He was always writing. Even when he wasn’t. Sentences distilled in his mind when he showered or walked the dogs or lay in bed drifting off to sleep. When he didn’t have that — when the Topiramate kidnapped that ability — Gray felt shackled. Run aground. Lost.
If the surgery took that part away, would he feel lost for the rest of his life?
It would be like erasing his soul.
Meredith’s book slid from her lap and landed with slap on the wood floor, and his chilling thoughts took flight. She and his two Vlcaks startled awake, all three looking a little unnerved and confused.
Slipping the grip of fear, Gray managed a smile. “Nice nap?”
She blushed, sitting up and brushing the hair from her face. “What time is it?” Her voice was a little husky with sleep, and this, too, pushed in between him and his worst nightmare. How was that possible?
