Personal Foul Jerica Macmillan

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 Contents

Personal Foul
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Epilogue I
Epilogue II
Dear Reader
Acknowledgements
Keep in touch!
About Jerica MacMillan
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 Personal Foul
Jerica MacMillan

Copyright © 2022 by Jerica MacMillan

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

may not be reproduced or used in any manner
whatsoever without the express written permission
of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations
in a book review.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters,

businesses, places, events and incidents are either
the products of the author’s imagination or used in a
fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons,
living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
 CHAPTER ONE

Charity

Oh my god. How much longer is this going to last?

Isabelle still hasn’t managed to secure a date with Andrew
Maloney even after dragging me around chasing after him for weeks.
Game night at his teammates’ apartment, group hangouts in the
campus coffee shop, the sports bar a few blocks away, a party over
the weekend …
And now a group study session in the library.
I’m honestly not sure what she sees in him. Sure, he’s attractive
enough. But he barely gives her the time of day, and because of
that, she always wants me along so she doesn’t feel so isolated
when he’s surrounded by his friends.
I could kind of understand if he were one of the football team’s
star players. That kind of social clout isn’t something I chase, but I
know some people find it worthwhile. Iz has never struck me as that
type either, but my point is that it would make some kind of sense.
Andrew Maloney’s just the second-string tailback. I know this, as
well as the positions of his friends, from Isabelle poring over the
team stats online. His friend Liam Gardner is a second-string running
back. And Dylan Thompson—ugh—is a second-string safety. I have
no idea what a tailback or any of the other positions are or do—
though I imagine a running back runs—but those are apparently all
necessary positions for football. And I know that second-string
means none of them are starters.
But for whatever reason, Isabelle is smitten.
This afternoon she texted me from the library and asked me to
meet up with her. Silly me, I thought we were going to study.
Instead, she positioned us at a table near Andrew and his cronies—
including the loathsome Dylan Thompson—and proceeded to
pretend to be studying something before loudly ‘noticing’ him. Which
is obviously the whole reason for us to be here at all.
“Oh my god! It’s Andrew!” she exclaims to me. Leaning toward
him, she says, “I was just going over my notes for art history. Are
you studying too?”
I try my hardest not to roll my eyes. And I don’t know if he
doesn’t realize how staged all this is or if he likes that kind of thing,
but this ‘study’ session turns into all of us going to the campus
coffee shop together to hang out. “It’s a more comfortable place to
study,” Andrew claims as he stands next to our table to extend the
invite.
The five of us crowd around a four-person table. I’m sandwiched
between Isabelle, who’s claimed the corner next to Andrew, and
Liam. Dylan’s opposite me, and I keep trying to look anywhere but
at him.
Isabelle and Andrew are ostensibly discussing art history, which
they’re apparently both taking for their gen ed arts credit. And must
be where Isabelle developed her crush. It’s not like we go to football
games during the fall semester. And in the two and a half years I’ve
known her, she’s never tried to date an athlete.
She, like me, is an English major. We’re book nerds who spend
most of our time in the library. Or at least, we did. She usually goes
for the guys who’ll compose poems to read at the annual open mic
poetry night. She’s even working on the campus literary magazine
this year. I figured she’d go after the editor. He’s exactly her type—a
senior, slim, cute, has dark hair, a goatee, and striking blue eyes. I
mean, sure, he’s a little pretentious, but that sort of goes with the
territory.
 Where did this sudden obsession with football players come
from? And why have I been dragged into it?
More importantly, how can I escape?
I glance at Liam, who gives me an awkward smile, which I
return. Conversation with him petered out about ten minutes ago.
And you couldn’t pay me enough to willingly talk to Dylan.
Well, maybe. But it would be a lot of money, and the only one
here likely to be able to afford it would be Dylan himself, who’s
unlikely to pay me for my conversation for the same reason I don’t
want to talk to him in the first place.
We don’t get along.
Well, I guess that’s not entirely accurate. He doesn’t seem to be
bothered by my presence as much as I am by his.
In fact, I’m pretty sure he doesn’t even remember me.
We went to the same high school—Skyline Academy in Seattle on
the other side of the state. It’s where the Seattle area’s wealthy elite
send their offspring.
The problem is, I never fit in there.
I didn’t grow up part of the wealthy elite, so I was snubbed from
day one.
It didn’t start off that bad. When I arrived that first morning of
my freshman year, it was clear I was the talk of the first period class,
since they’d all been going to school together their whole lives.
Anyone new was usually a transplant from somewhere else, and
they assumed-slash-hoped it would be somewhere more glamorous
like a boarding school in Europe.
When they found out I grew up in the suburbs and attended
public school, any and all interest in me immediately dried up. And
what interest I got more often took the form of pity, because I didn’t
get to spend Christmases skiing in the Alps as a child or whatever.
According to the kids at Skyline, growing up in a normal, middle-
class suburb and attending public school meant I grew up “poor,”
and as “new money” I just couldn’t possibly ever fit in.
The worst, though, was when I showed up at school to find
garbage bags full of clothes piled around my locker. Mia Ellis, the
queen bee of our year, sauntered up and told me she’d organized a
clothing drive for me. “I know most of it is last season, or even a
few seasons old,” she’d said, her voice dripping with fake sympathy,
“but at least it’s better than your discount store fits.” With a smile as
fake as her sympathy, she’d brushed an imaginary piece of lint from
the shoulder of my school uniform that was identical to hers, turned,
and walked away while the gathering crowd of students giggled
behind their hands.
Dylan was there, front and center, grinning and shaking his head
like it was all a grand joke.
I figured graduating would’ve been my ticket out of ever seeing
anyone from Skyline again. Imagine my horror when, a couple
weeks ago, I bumped into him at a game night Isabelle dragged me
to at another football player’s apartment.
I kept waiting for him to say something about us going to the
same high school—I was the salutatorian after all. Even if he didn’t
remember the “clothing drive” day, I’d think he’d remember the fact
that I gave a speech at graduation—but he didn’t seem to recognize
me at all.
Which is fine. Really. Because if he had recognized me, he might
want to talk to me or reminisce about high school, and at least this
way he’s content to ignore me and let me ignore him.
Even if his presence looms large, and despite my best attempts
to pretend he doesn’t exist, my eyes keep getting drawn back to
him.
Honestly, it’s a relief that he doesn’t recognize me. Because if he
did, I’d have to explain to Isabelle how we know each other. When I
got to Marycliff, I’d glossed over the fact that my dad owns a tech
startup that creates mobile games. He worked like crazy while I was
a little kid—balancing a nine to five job as an accountant and
developing games on the side until he could do it full time. When I
was in middle school, he took the company public, and that’s when it
really took off. The summer between eighth and ninth grade, we
moved into a giant house in a fancy neighborhood in Seattle proper,
and I started going to Skyline Academy.
I missed my life in the suburbs, though, and all the friends who
ditched me when I moved to Seattle. So when I came to Marycliff, I
decided to just be a normal student. I applied for scholarships like
everyone else—though, yes, my parents do pick up the slack for
what those don’t cover. I went potluck for a roommate in the dorms.
I still wear what Mia Ellis refers to as ‘discount store fits,’ and none
of my friends know that my parents are loaded.
I might’ve relented on that except the first week of classes, my
parents decided to throw a party for my dorm to try to help me get
to know more people since I was so lonely all through high school. It
was so over the top, though, and while people enjoyed the catered
food and the DJ, it was obviously weird. Which was driven home
even more when I heard people wondering whose parents threw the
party and if they really thought they could buy their kid friends. How
sad it was for a college student to need that kind of help.
In fact, that’s how I met Isabelle. She was standing with two
other girls—Andrea and Kayla—saying just those things. Unsure
what else to do, I joined in, mocking the poor, sad girl who needed
her parents to buy her friends in college without letting on that the
girl in question was me. As far as they’re concerned, I’m just like
them, shopping sales and living off student loans and whatever our
parents can spare to help out.
The fact that I babysit for my older sister Hope, who also lives in
Spokane, helps with the normal college student routine, too. She’s
seven years older than me, so she missed out on the craziness of
Dad’s company going public and the ensuing move to Seattle. She
was already out of the house and attending Marycliff by then. My
ideal life is really based on hers—fun college experience, good
friends, good job, married to the love of her life with an adorable
three-year-old in the mix, living like a normal person without the
baggage that comes with the kind of money my parents have.
Sighing, I pull out my phone. This is ridiculous. I should just
leave, but I know if I did, Isabelle would freak about me
‘abandoning’ her with three guys. There’s not enough room to get
out the homework I’d planned on doing because everyone’s coffees
are on the table, and I tend to spread out when I’m researching and
organizing my notes. I have a paper due in my literary criticism class
next week, and I need to start writing soon.
 That’s definitely not happening here. So I might as well just read
a book.
But when I glance at my phone, it starts ringing, my mom’s
name lighting up. “Sorry. I have to take this,” I say to no one in
particular, standing and answering as I walk toward the door.
My relief at having an excuse to get away from the group is
short-lived, though. Because my mom answers my greeting with a
sob.
“Mom? What’s wrong?” My mind is racing, assuming the worst.
Did Dad get in a car accident? Have a heart attack? Or maybe it’s
one of my grandparents?
Or worse—could something have happened to my niece, Grace?
My breath freezes in my chest as I step into the cool spring night
waiting for Mom’s answer.
She sniffs loudly, clearly trying to compose herself, but the
suspense is killing me. “Is someone hurt, Mom? Sick? Dead?” My
voice cracks on the last word.
“No, no,” she gasps. “Nothing like that. Um.” There’s a long
pause. “Honey. Your father is being investigated by the SEC for
insider trading.”
I blink quickly, my mind unable to fully process the words.
“What?”
Another sniff. “I’m so sorry to tell you like this, honey, but since
you were just home for spring break, I knew I had to tell you right
away. I couldn’t wait for you to come home in May. I know this is a
shock—no one is more shocked than me—but it’ll be okay, okay?
We’ll figure this out and get through it.”
“Wait, I don’t understand. Dad’s being investigated? Why? What
does insider trading even mean?” Nothing she’s saying makes sense,
and I know she’s trying to be reassuring, but I just don’t understand
at all.
Mom sighs. “It’s … they say he was participating in trading stocks
using insider information. I don’t know all the details yet. I’ll let you
know when I do, okay?”
“Um, okay?”
 “I have to go now, honey. There’s an attorney coming over in a
few minutes to discuss Dad’s options and our best steps moving
forward.”
“Wait, but—”
“I love you, sweetie. Talk soon, okay?”
And with that, she’s gone. I stare at my phone for a long
moment, trying to figure out what just happened.
A throat clears behind me. Whirling around, I find Dylan there,
blond hair falling into his twinkling blue eyes, looking like he’s
fighting to keep a smirk off his full lips. “Insider trading, huh? Your
dad? That sucks. Was he trading his company’s stock or someone
else’s?”
My mouth hangs open as he expectantly waits for my answer, but
no words come out.
“Your dad owns JL Games, right?”
“Yes,” I croak in answer to the question. “Wait? How do you
know that?”
Scoffing, he shrugs his broad shoulders. “We spent four years at
the same high school. Everyone knew. It was a small school,
Chastity. We all knew each other’s business.”
I blink in shock, both at the use of the wrong name that he
always uses, but also at the realization that he knows.
He knows who I am. And now he knows about my dad.
I’m so screwed.
Closing my eyes, I force out the words. “Please. Please don't tell
anyone.” Begging him for help is literally the worst thing I can think
of. Unless he tells everyone who my dad is and that he’s under
investigation. That might be worse. “I’ll do anything.”
His triumphant smirk turns into a leer. “Anything?”
I give him my best disgusted face. “I’m not going to fuck you to
keep you quiet.I have standards.” And while I might be mortified at
the thought of my friends discovering that I’ve lied about my
background—or at least edited out significant aspects of it—and that
my parents not only have plenty of money but also that my dad’s
being investigated by the SEC—could he go to jail?—I’m not going to
whore myself out to keep it quiet. Especially not to Dylan Thompson.
 He laughs. More like cackles. His eyes track over my body, but in
a calculating way that makes me feel like livestock being inspected.
"You think I need to blackmail someone to get sex?" He scoffs. "No,
I have something else in mind."
Oh god.
 CHAPTER TWO

Dylan

“What?” Her question comes out as more of a bitchy demand, which

is hilarious considering the fact that she’s asking me for a favor.
Begging, actually.
I tsk. “Manners.” Crossing my arms, I look her over, not sure why
I’m leaning into this act of smug superiority, but unable to help
myself for some reason. Maybe it’s the same thing that’s been
driving my desire to get a reaction out of her every time I’ve seen
her for the last few weeks. In high school, she steered clear of me
as much as possible. IF we were in close proximity, she acted like I
didn’t exist. This way, she at least has to acknowledge me. “My last
cleaning lady quit a few weeks ago.”
She doesn’t say anything, just looks at me expectantly like she
needs me to spell it out for her. I know she’s smart, though. She’ll
figure it out.
I see when the penny drops because her kissable lips part, and
her mouth falls open. “You want me to clean your apartment? You
can’t be fucking serious.”
I shrug as though it makes no difference to me. It doesn’t, really.
I’m not a slob. I pick up after myself for the most part. But it’s nice
to have someone do the regular weekly stuff like dusting, sweeping,
laundry, bathrooms, etc. If Chastity takes it on, then it saves me the
trouble of finding a new cleaning lady and gives me a reason to keep
her secret.
Not that I really intend to tell anyone. Sure, I like needling her,
but I don’t actually want to blow up her life. And she’s acting like
that’s what would happen if her friends found out about her dad.
Not sure what the big deal is …
But it’s not like I plan to go spreading rumors about her. That’s
not my style. Though I guess I can’t entirely blame her for thinking
so, since my friends in high school spread some pretty nasty rumors
about her back then. I never participated. Every time I heard
something—whether about her or someone else—I did my best to
shut it down. I guess she can’t be faulted for being unaware of that.
She’s made it clear that she can’t stand me in particular, even
though I never did anything to her. The fact that I deliberately call
her the wrong name all the time probably doesn’t help. It’s hilarious
watching her get all mad about it, though. Her nostrils flare, and her
cheeks turn pink, and with that red hair, I just wanna see if the
redhead reputation for having a hot temper is true. She’s feisty as all
hell, which seems to lend credence to the theory, but she hasn’t
actually blown up at me. Yet.
There’s something about her that makes me want her attention.
Maybe it’s just that she doesn’t want to acknowledge me, and I want
her to. If we didn’t have our high school history—which is what fuels
her overt disgust at the sight of me, I’m certain of it—I’d have asked
her out already.
Actually, our high school history is part of the reason I want to
ask her out. Back then, I thought she was a meek little mouse, and I
felt bad for her. I even tried to make friends with her, hoping that my
friendship would offer her some protection from the harpies at our
school. But the few overtures I made were completely ignored.
Maybe that’s what’s driving my behavior now. She ignored me
then, but she’s not now, and I like that. Even if she doesn’t want to
spend time with me, I like spending time with her.
It feels dangerous. I’m not sure what changed her from that
meek little mouse who never made a peep about the bullying she
experienced to the spitfire in front of me, but I like it.
 And being the one to cause her fire to flare higher?
I guess I might get burned, but it seems worth the risk.
Given the fact that she obviously remembers me and my friend
group from high school, I can see why she’d be worried I’d blab. And
it’s not like I’d planned to keep a lid on it on purpose, either. Who
knows if or when I might let slip that her dad’s been doing bad
things with company stocks?
She stares at me, and I’m not one hundred percent, but I think
she might be trying to murder me with a death glare. That or she’s
just so pissed she can’t keep it under control.
Wait, is this it? Will I get to feel the full force of her temper?
I drop my hands to my sides, ready to defend myself if need be.
Instead, she seems to marshal her inner reserves. Closing her
eyes, she draws in a deep breath and straightens her spine. “Fine.”
She practically spits out the word. “I’ll clean your apartment.”
“Great!” Clapping my hands, I rub them together in a mixture of
glee and satisfaction. This is going to be fun. “I’ll be sure to have
your uniform for you tomorrow.” My mind spins with possibilities.
She shouldn’t be cleaning my apartment. I never expected her to
agree to it. Maybe she hasn’t fully transformed from mousy little
Charity the charity case. That means I need to make it untenable so
she’ll tell me to go fuck myself.
Maybe we can get all the toxicity out that way and start over?
Worth a shot.
She blanches but manages to muster up a sneer. “A uniform? I’m
sure my clothes will be just fine.”
I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing. This chick is the
worst at understanding how blackmail works. “Given the parameters
of our agreement, I’m not sure that’s really up to you, is it?”
I’ve managed to tone down my smile to more of a douchey
smirk, which I know will only infuriate her more. Leaning closer, I
put on my most patronizing tone. “You see, Chastity”—her eyes
narrow—“I believe what’s happening here is called blackmail. I’m
blackmailing you into cleaning my apartment by promising not to
reveal your secrets. Right?”
She looks mutinous. “Right,” she grumbles.
 Come on. Tell me to fuck off.
But she doesn’t.
“Good. I’m glad we’re on the same page. As for the uniform,
don’t worry too much about it. It’s just a thing my family insists on.”
That’s a complete lie, but she doesn’t know that.
She narrows her eyes at me, but doesn’t protest further.
Pulling out my phone, I unlock it and pull up my text messages.
“Why don’t you give me your number so I can text you mine. Then
you can give me your class schedule, and I’ll draw up your cleaning
schedule.”
She doesn’t say anything for a long moment, merely stares at me
with her arms crossed and her lips clamped together.
Yeah. She’s right on the edge of trying to rip my balls off. I love
it. “Or you could tell me to go fuck myself and see what happens.”
I feel bad at the spark of fear in her eyes, but I squelch down the
guilt and give her a wolfish grin. As I’d hoped, the grin provokes that
fire again.
Dropping her arms, she lets her head fall back. “Ugh. Fine. I
can’t believe I’m doing this. But fine.” She straightens and waves a
hand at me. “I’ll do your laundry and mop your floors and dust your
knickknacks. Happy?”
“Thrilled.” And I’m not even lying. I can’t remember the last time
I had this much fun.
Actually I can. It was when I got paired up against Chastity at Eli
and Jackson’s weekly game night. She gave me all her fiery sass, as
though my very existence was an affront to her sensibilities.
Between my status as a football player and my family’s money,
I’m used to people—women especially—falling all over themselves to
stay on my good side. Having someone find me irritating and not
bother to hide it is … unusual. And kinda fun.
Plus, since just being myself seems to aggravate her, getting a
rise out of her is easy.
Sure, sure, I definitely lean into it when she’s around. Or at least
when she and I are directly interacting and not just babysitting our
friends while they flirt.
 Sighing, she pulls out her phone and texts me her number. “How
many days a week are you expecting me to come?”
I glance at her, eyebrows raised. “All of them.”
“You can’t be serious.”
I tilt my head to the side. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t we
just go over the fact that both of our sides are ongoing? If I’m
keeping your secret every day, then …”
“Oh my god! You are the literal worst!”
Fighting back my laughter, I manage to keep it to a grin. “You
have no idea.”

***

I pause the episode of Stranger Things on the TV and smile as I pick

up my phone. “Hey! How’s my soon-to-be-married big sis?”
Cameron, my sister’s boyfriend of two years, proposed a month ago.
And true to form, Victoria and Mom have immediately launched into
wedding planning like they’re planning a military maneuver or a big
casino heist.
“Stressed to the max,” Victoria answers. “Wedding planning while
interning is no joke. But I’ll spare you the boring details. How are
you? How’s school?”
Chuckling, I slouch farther down on my couch, pulling a throw
pillow into my lap. “I’m good. School’s school. Papers. Tests.
Reading. The usual. Bore me with your details. That’s why you
called, isn’t it?”
She laughs. “You think I’m calling you about wedding stuff? You
don’t think I have friends to vent to about Mom being overbearing?”
“Maybe you do, but none of them understand what you mean
about Mom being overbearing quite like I do.”
“True.” And just like I knew she would, she launches into a story
about Mom commandeering another meeting with a potential
wedding planner, barely letting Victoria have a say and grilling the
poor woman like she was deposing a hostile witness.
 “Why don’t you set up a few meetings with wedding planners on
your own, narrow it down to two or three you like, then bring Mom
on board?”
She’s silent for long enough that I pull the phone from my ear to
make sure the call didn’t drop.
“That’s actually brilliant,” she says at last. “Why didn’t I think of
that?”
“Because you’re drowning under the combined stresses of a
demanding internship and our overbearing mother taking over your
wedding?”
She clears her throat. “Valid point. Thank you. I’ll take that
advice and let you know how it goes.”
“Make sure you don’t let Mom know what you’re up to,” I warn.
“Yeah,” she says dryly. “No shit. Anyway. You’re awfully
tightlipped about yourself. Are you just bored because football’s
over? Isn’t it nice to have a little more free time? I’m assuming you
have a party to hit later. I made sure to call early enough that I
wouldn’t disrupt your social calendar.”
Laughing about the social calendar comment, my mind goes to
Chastity and her impending visit tomorrow. “No parties for me
tonight.”
“Oh no? Are you getting sick?”
Another laugh. “No. I’m fine. Just don’t feel like going anywhere
tonight.” I need to make sure everything is set up for Chastity
tomorrow. I stopped by an adult store and got her a maid’s outfit.
Hopefully it’s not too too small. I mean, I want it a little small, after
all. That’s kinda the point. But not so small she can’t get into it.
I smirk at that possibility, though, and the potential outcome of
refusing to let her wear her own clothes—I don’t want her to get
them dirty or spill cleaners on them, after all.
Not that I’d actually make her clean my place naked—though I
definitely wouldn’t mind a hot chick like her cleaning my place in the
nude—but it would be fun to see what kind of reaction I’d get if I
hinted at the possibility. Would she actually do it? Or would she
finally tell me to fuck off and take her chances with her secrets
getting out?
 Some sick, twisted part of me wants to find out how far she’ll go.
She didn’t balk too much when I brought up a uniform, but she
might when she sees it. Somehow I doubt that my explanation that
I’m actually looking out for her and her clothes will sway her to see
things my way. Will that be enough to get her to tell me to take a
flying fuck at the moon?
I guess we’ll find out when she gets here tomorrow.
If she does … what’s my play then?
I haven’t really thought that far ahead. I’ve been winging this so
far. I guess I’ll just wing it some more and hope for the best.
“What is it, Dylan? I know there’s something going on in that
brain of yours. Did you meet someone?”
“I’ve met lots of people,” I answer evasively.
“Dylan,” she huffs. “Just answer the question. Are you dating
someone?”
“No, Victoria. There are no wedding bells in my future other than
yours.”
Another huff of annoyance, and I can imagine her rolling her
eyes. “I wouldn’t assume so this early anyway, since you didn’t
mention dating anyone last week when we talked. But it would be
nice if you could bring someone with you to my engagement party
next month.”
“I’m sure there’ll be plenty of soon-to-be bridesmaids for me to
pair off with if I need to.”
“Oh, goody. Just what I need. My little brother pissing off all my
single friends so they won’t want anything to do with me anymore.
Find a date, Dylan. Or at least promise to keep it in your pants.”
“Don’t worry, Victoria. I’ll be a perfect gentleman.”
“That’s not actually reassuring.”
Grinning, I shake my head. “I won’t try to hook up with any of
your single friends, okay?”
She grumbles. “I guess that’ll have to do. Alright. Gotta go.
Cameron’s taking me out for dinner, and I need to get ready. Don’t
spend too much time holed up in your apartment. How will you find
someone to bring to my party if you don’t go out?” Without letting
me answer, she says goodbye and hangs up.
 Shaking my head and grinning, I set my phone down.
Could Chastity come with me to Victoria’s engagement party?
Considering I’m making her clean my apartment in a French
maid’s outfit, that seems highly unlikely. But maybe if she refuses to
be blackmailed, and we find a way to become friendly …
Ha. Fat chance.
 CHAPTER THREE

Charity

My hands shake as I ride the elevator up to the twelfth floor of

Dylan’s building. I know he said he had a uniform—whatever the hell
that means—but I made sure to wear an old pair of jeans and a T-
shirt I don’t care about just to be on the safe side. Hopefully the
“uniform” is just like a polo or something with his family crest
embroidered on it.
Do people still have family crests?
Who knows? But if anyone does, it would be Dylan Thompson’s
family. They’re practically Pacific Northwest royalty. His dad is some
bigwig attorney who’s a state senator and, if the rumor mill at
Skyline Academy was correct, has aspirations of becoming president
someday. Or at least running for US congress.
Is Dylan planning on getting involved in politics?
Why do I even care?
Oh, right, because I’m distracting myself with useless trivia about
the asshole who’s blackmailing me so I don’t hurl on his doorstep.
If he does run for office someday, maybe I can use this against
him.
That thought brings a savage smile to my face, and with it
bolstering me, I take a deep breath, raise my hand, and knock.
Dylan answers almost immediately, checking the time on his
fancy watch before offering me a smug smirk. “Right on time,
Chastity.”
“Charity,” I correct automatically.
He screws up his face in thought, “Mmm, pretty sure Chastity is
correct.”
I sigh, but don’t bother arguing. What’s the point? He clearly
knows my name and is choosing to call me the wrong one as some
kind of power move. Or inside joke with himself. Besides, he’d
probably say something about how blackmailing me gives him
license to call me whatever he wants.
Stepping through the door he’s holding open, I wait until he
closes it with my hands on my hips. “Do you have a list for me? Or a
particular order you want me to do things in?”
“So eager. I like that in a cleaning lady. First, though, you need to
change into your uniform.”
I roll my lips between my teeth to bite back a sigh. Or a whine.
I’m not sure which would actually come out. “Is that really
necessary?” I ask instead.
“Yes, Chastity. I’m afraid it is.” He makes a show of surveying me.
“I wouldn’t want you to ruin your clothes, after all. They’re so …
you.”
Ugh. What an asshole. Does he remember the “clothing drive”
Mia organized for my dubious benefit? He must. Otherwise, why
would he make that comment?
At least those clothes went somewhere positive. I made sure the
school donated them to the domestic violence shelter. That way,
they could either go to women who needed them, or they could sell
them and use the money to benefit those women instead.
Tilting my chin up, I don’t let his dig get to me. I wore these
clothes for cleaning. I know this isn’t reflective of my usual style,
even if I don’t wear ridiculously expensive designer labels like he
probably does.
Hell, this “uniform” is probably made by Chanel or something.
He gestures for me to follow him toward the guest bathroom. I’m
not sure why one guy needs a three-bedroom, two-bathroom
apartment all to himself, but this one apparently does. Must be nice.
 Not that I’m having trouble making rent with my roommate or
that my parents are forcing me to have one—though Mom did say
something about making sure to be more budget conscious for now
considering the investigation—but I know they wouldn’t spring for a
three-two just for me. I’d get a studio or a one-bedroom at most if I
wanted to live alone.
I wanted a more typical college student experience, though, and
that means a roommate. Plus, I grew up hearing my sister Hope’s
stories about college and how much fun she had with her
roommates—who were both bridesmaids in her wedding—and I’ve
always wanted that too.
Dylan reaches in the open doorway and flicks on the bathroom
light, then stands back and gestures me inside without a word.
Inside, I find my “uniform” hanging from the shower curtain bar.
“You have got to be kidding me,” I exclaim before I can think better
of it. I yank down the skimpy French maid’s outfit and brandish it at
Dylan. “You seriously expect me to wear this?”
He spreads his hands like he’s helpless. “Family policy. Nothing I
can do.”
“‘Family policy,’ huh? Nothing you can do? Is it ‘family policy’ to
blackmail people into doing your chores for you? Or is it just the
humiliation that’s policy?”
He cackles. Oh, he tries to hide it behind his hand, but his aqua
eyes dance with mirth, his shoulders shaking. He thinks this is
fucking hilarious.
Drawing myself up to my full height, I shoot daggers at him with
my eyes. Or wish I could, anyway. Doesn’t one of those superheroes
in the movies have laser beam eyes that kill everyone in the way?
What I wouldn’t give to have that power now. I’d even wear this
stupid uniform if it meant I could do that.
“Fine.” With the uniform still balled up in my fist, I use both
hands to push him out the door. He’s big enough that I couldn’t
possibly move him against his will, but he gets the idea and backs
out, still laughing as I slam the door in his face.
“He wants to make me wear a uniform? Fine. I’ll wear a fucking
uniform,” I mutter to myself. He thinks he can embarrass me and
make me regret agreeing to this, but I’ve put up with him and his
kind for too many years to show any weakness in the face of
humiliation now.
If this is what it takes, this is what it takes.

***

Given Dylan’s obvious desire to humiliate me and make me as

miserable as possible, I’m pleasantly surprised to discover that he’s
not actually a slob. He left a list on a sticky note on the bathroom
mirror, and it doesn’t look too terrible, all things considered. I get
the laundry started first, since I have to get everything put away
before I can leave. Then I get to work on the rest of the house. Most
of it’s pretty basic—clean the bathrooms, sweep and mop the hard
floors, vacuum the carpets. The floors are picked up, so I’m able to
get right to work there. When I get to the kitchen, I discover the
dishwasher is full of clean dishes, so I empty it and load it up with
the few that he’s dirtied so far today.
Despite making me dress up in this ridiculous outfit, he stays out
of my way and doesn’t follow me around leering at me like I
expected when I put it on. Because it looks and feels like a cheap
Halloween costume that’s a size or two too small. Or maybe it fits
just right.
It’s a good thing I don’t have bigger boobs, or else I’d be spilling
out the top. As it is, my modest B cup is on display far more than
I’m used to, and I keep having to tug the skirt back down so I don’t
show off my plain cotton hipster panties. It seems funny to wear
them with this outfit, since I’m sure most people who wear it
voluntarily are trying to be sexy if not full on slutty.
I’m sure he’d have some comment if he caught sight of them.
Maybe try to convince me to wear a thong next time. Or worse, buy
me a thong and demand I wear it as part of the “uniform.” It’s
“family policy,” after all.
What a crock of shit.
 At least he doesn’t seem bothered by the royal blue Converse I’m
wearing with my “uniform.” I realize sky high black or scarlet heels
would look better, but they wouldn’t be functional at all. Not that I’m
sure he cares that much about functionality considering what I’m
wearing …
Every so often, he wanders by, I’m guessing to check up on me.
But he doesn’t linger unless I need to ask a question—which I do a
few times, since I haven’t cleaned here before. Fortunately he only
has the one load of laundry today, so I’m done in just under two
hours.
Honestly, I think the worst part is probably folding his laundry. I
barely fold my own, for one thing. For another, it feels ultra gross to
be handling this guy’s underwear—boxer briefs with a few boxers in
the mix as well—even if they are clean. But I block out my
discomfort just like I did with my ridiculous uniform and soldier
through it.
Once I’ve finished putting his clothes away, I find him reading on
the couch in the living room and clear my throat to get his attention.
He raises his head, then smirks at the sight of me. I wish I could
punch that smirk off his stupid handsome face.“Do you need
something?”
“I’m all finished.” I try to say it as politely as possible, but I think
it might be a little on the sharp side regardless.
If so, Dylan seems unbothered. He places a piece of paper in his
book to mark his spot and closes it, setting it on the coffee table
before rising and stretching. His T-shirt lifts, giving me a glimpse of
his abs covered by tanned skin.
How is this guy tan in March in Washington? Does he go tanning?
Or maybe he takes private jets for weekend getaways to Cabo or
something, though I guess he could’ve gone over spring break last
week.
When he lowers his arms, I tear my eyes away, bringing them
back to his face. His smirk looks far more amused, like he noticed
me looking at his stomach and thinks I was checking him out or
something.
Please.
 Like I’d want to check out someone who’s reduced me to my
current state.
“Let’s see how you did, and then you can change back into your
regular clothes.” He heads toward the kitchen. “I’ll keep your
uniform here so you don’t have to worry about keeping track of it,”
he calls over his shoulder.
“How very generous of you,” I mutter as I follow him.
“What was that?”
I hesitate. Is he asking because he genuinely didn’t hear me? Or
because he did and wants to force me to repeat it to his face? Either
way, the only safe bet is to say, “Nothing. Just talking to myself.” I
force a bright smile.
He raises an eyebrow, and I’m not sure if it’s to indicate disbelief
or concern over my painful expression. Whichever it is, he turns to
inspect my work in the kitchen, then walks slowly through the
apartment to check my work in the other rooms before leading the
way back to the living room, where he faces me with his arms
crossed. “I’m satisfied with your work today. Same time tomorrow?”
I give him a sarcastic curtsy. “Yes, milord. See you then.”
His laughter follows me to the bathroom, where I change into my
own clothes.
I can’t believe I’ve agreed to this nonsense. But the thought of
telling my friends that I’ve been lying to them the whole time they’ve
known me and that my dad might go to jail makes my stomach turn
into a lump of frozen lead.
But the thought of doing this indefinitely also makes me feel sick
…
How long will I be able to keep this up?
 CHAPTER FOUR

Dylan

Chastity surprises me by not only going through with the uniform,

but coming over every day for an entire week. She shows up on
time, and after a few days, she doesn’t even roll her eyes at me
anymore when she goes to put on her maid outfit. She just heads
straight for the bathroom, changes into her outfit, comes out with
the list I leave for her, and gets to work.
I’m a little disappointed that she’s letting me blackmail her like
this, but I can’t let that on to her. The fact that she’s a total smoke
show in that stupid uniform goes some way to making up for my
disappointment.
Despite acting like her work is barely sufficient by the time she
leaves, she does a thorough job of cleaning. If I weren’t stuck in this
position of being a giant asshole, I’d actually offer to pay her. If her
dad’s under investigation, there’s a decent chance she needs the
money. Or if she doesn’t now, she might soon.
Attorneys for those kinds of investigations aren’t cheap. I come
from a family of attorneys, and I’ll be joining the family law firm
once I’m done with law school. I know the kinds of hourly rates the
sharks he needs command. And given the fact that most of her
family’s wealth is likely tied up in his company, and the company will
want to distance themselves from his behavior as much as possible
… odds are, he’s on the hook for paying for his team of attorneys
himself rather than being able to use his corporate attorneys.
So if Chastity isn’t hard up for cash yet?
It’s only a matter of time.
But if I offered to pay her to be my cleaning lady, I’d have to
make her do something else for me to keep her secret. I mean, not
really, because I don’t actually want to hurt her that way, but there’s
no way she’d believe that now. She’d just be on tenterhooks waiting
for me to blab, and I almost think that amount of stress would be
worse for her than this. At least this way she feels like she’s doing
something to protect herself.
I’ve always been a little impulsive—much to my parents’ dismay—
and blackmailing her like this was a total spur of the moment thing. I
had no real desire to do it until she begged me not to tell anyone
what I’d overheard and promised to do anything. I couldn’t resist.
And now I’ve stuck myself in this awkward situation where the more
time I spend around her, the more I like her. I liked her sassy
attitude before. But seeing her work ethic, watching her put up with
all this crap just to hold the fraying threads of her life together for as
long as possible … I want to help her.
I wish I could pay her. Though if I did, I couldn’t in good
conscience continue making her wear that outfit, and that’s kinda
the highlight of my day now. I act like I’m ignoring her, but I’m
keeping close tabs on her progress while she’s here, enjoying every
glimpse of her I get. I guessed right on the size—snug in all the
right places without being entirely indecent, staying juuuuust this
side of that line. She’s petite, her tits a scant handful, a nipped in
waist, and hips that would be perfect for grabbing onto. All of that is
showcased to perfection in the black uniform with its plunging
neckline and frilly skirt that ends just below her ass.
Thursday starts the same as Wednesday with her brushing past
me with barely a greeting, changing, and then emerging in her
uniform, list in hand. She immediately heads to the bedroom and
strips the bed, starting today’s load of laundry first, like she does
each time.
 I have to admire her efficient use of time. She makes sure that
she gets everything done in the time it takes for the laundry to make
it through the washer and dryer and get put away. And I get fresh
sheets and towels several times a week.
Settling into my spot on the couch, I pick up my book to pretend
to read. Sometimes a few paragraphs penetrate my consciousness,
but mostly I’m just using it as a prop so she doesn’t catch me
watching her.
I’m not sure what she finds to do for the ninety minutes it takes
for my sheets to get through the washer and dryer, because the only
other things on the list were doing the dishes and wiping down the
counters, and while I have a decent sized kitchen, it doesn’t take
that long to do those things.
But I don’t see her the whole time except for when I walk past
the kitchen so I can take a peek. Maybe she sweeps again? I use the
kitchen a lot, so crumbs and spills are bound to happen.
I’m back in the living room when the dryer buzzes, and I hear
her get the sheets out and go into my room.
Then I hear something unexpected. The door handle jiggles,
then someone knocks loudly.
Grabbing my phone, I check my messages, but no one said they
were coming over. If they had, I would’ve told them I was
unavailable and to come over in an hour or two. Dammit, this is my
time with Chastity. I don’t need interruptions. And I definitely don’t
need one of my buddies seeing her parading around dressed like she
is.
Though I’ve been wondering how far she’ll go before telling me
to fuck off … maybe this will provide the answer?
More banging on the front door, then my friend Andrew’s voice
reaches me. “Dude. Come on. Let me in. I need to take a leak.”
Grinning, I answer but don’t let him in right away. “Dude. Surely
there are other places you could do that.”
He shoves past me. “Not funny, bro. I was downtown, and yours
is the closest place I could think of.”
I close the door behind him. “There are a billion gas stations, fast
food restaurants, or hotels around here.”
 “Those places are gross, dude!” he shouts as he closes the door.
Then, “Sorry, man! I didn’t know you had a guest!” He’s found
Chastity’s clothes. “I won’t stay long.”
“Take your time, man.” I’m actually torn about whether I want
him to run into Chastity while she’s here.
Nothing I’ve done so far has made her quit, and this might be
the thing that does it. But I also like seeing her every day, and if she
storms out furious, I might never see her again, and I don’t like that
idea.
I wait outside the bathroom, tapping my foot impatiently, hoping
Andrew hurries up and gets his ass out of here before he sees
Chastity.
Andrew comes out of the bathroom at the same time Chastity
comes out of the bedroom. She freezes, her eyes going wide and
her mouth hanging open. She looks down at her uniform, then at
me.
Her mouth closes and her eyes narrow, raw fury stamped on her
features.
For his part, Andrew looks back and forth between us, holding up
his hands in a show of surrender. “Sorry again, man. Like I said, I
didn’t know you’d have someone over. Just needed to use the
bathroom.” He moves toward the front door, stopping next to me to
give me a nudge. “Nice, man. I didn’t know you were into roleplay,
but I definitely see the appeal.”
Before I can respond, he brushes past me.
Chastity and I stay locked in our staring contest until we hear the
front door close. When she speaks, her voice starts as a barely
audible whisper. “You. Fucking. Bastard.” The last word is given full
voice.
“Look, Chastity—”
“Charity!” she shouts, cutting me off. “My name is Charity! I can
see how virtues could be confusing for you, but it’s not that fucking
hard!”
Rolling my lips between my teeth to hide my smile, I raise my
hands, assuming the same posture as Andrew. “I didn’t know he was
coming.”
 She lets out a harsh, angry laugh. “Oh, sure you didn’t. I’m sure
you didn’t specifically invite him over today. But perhaps you let your
friends know to drop in any time. Plausible deniability and all that.
Because as this ‘uniform’ makes clear, your entire goal is to humiliate
me as much as possible.” She stomps into the bathroom and slams
the door. “And now,” she continues her rant, pitching her voice to be
heard through the closed door, “your pal thinks we’re fucking. That
this is some kind of kinky foreplay.”
Quicker than I would’ve expected, she’s back out of the
bathroom in jeans and a T-shirt, her sweatshirt and shoes still in the
bathroom. She shoves the maid’s uniform into my chest. “Is that
what this is? Do you get off on making me dress like a slutty maid to
clean your apartment? And then what? You sit at home jerking off
after I go? Is that the real reason you make me come every day?”
“Look, Chas—” Her death glare when I start calling her the
wrong name makes me change course, though I don’t really know
why. I’ve wanted to see her lose her temper for ages. She finally
has. Couldn’t calling her the wrong name get her to utter those
words I’ve been waiting for since this started? I quit. In any case, I
clear my throat and start over. “This is a simple exchange of
services. You clean my apartment. I keep your secret. You can
decide how long you want this to continue.”
I make it sound so reasonable when I put it like that.
“What are you going to tell your friend?” She sounds almost
defeated, which isn’t what I want. I want her fire. Her temper. Her
anger.
She’s spent too much of her life just accepting what’s happening
to her. Keeping her head down and meekly taking the ration of shit
she’s been handed. Since our paths crossed a few weeks ago, she
was finally showing some spunk. I want that back.
Tell me you quit. But no matter how many times I send that
telepathic message, she doesn’t receive it. Guess I don’t have that
power after all.
“What do you want me to tell him?”
She releases her hold on the uniform, leaving me to catch it,
steps back, and looks away, her hands going into her back pockets.
She chews on her lower lip while she contemplates my question.
If I were inclined to be kind to her, I’d be more patient while
waiting for her answer. But she won’t fight back against that. I need
her to find her fight again. So I push.
“As far as I can tell, you really only have two options. Tell the
truth so he knows why you’re really here, or let him think we’re
seeing each other.”
Tell me to fuck off.
The look she gives me is cold. “You could also just tell him it was
a one-time thing.”
“Mmm. I don’t think that’ll work.” Moving past her, I hang her
outfit on the hanger in the bathroom. “What if he comes back while
you’re here?”
She sighs loudly. “And you’d make sure of that, wouldn’t you?”
she mutters, and I smile to myself. She has a tendency to mutter
unflattering observations about me to herself. Sometimes I ask her
what she’s saying to see if she’ll repeat it to my face, but so far she
hasn’t. Usually she gives me one of her terrifying forced smiles and
tells me everything’s great.
“So what’s it gonna be?” I ask, leaning against the door jamb.
Quit.
“God, I hate you.”
Quit.
That has my eyebrows rising in surprise. She said that right to
my face, clear as day, and I can’t help grinning. This is it. She’s
going to quit.
“You are absolutely the worst,” she continues.
“So you quit and accept your fate?”
She looks away, her throat working as she swallows, and the
shake of her head is almost imperceptible. Dammit.
“What if Andrew tells people that we’re dating?” I push.
She shrugs.
“That’s not good enough, Chastity.” Her eyes narrow at the
name, but she doesn’t correct me. “I need you to tell me what you
want.” I need you to tell me you quit.
 Her eyes fall closed, and she takes a deep breath before facing
me again and opening her eyes. “If letting people think we’re dating
is what it takes for you to keep your mouth shut about me, then so
be it.”
I rock back on my heels, honestly surprised she’s willing to go
this far. “So that means when we’re in public …”
“I won’t act like I hate you, and I won’t deny that we’re dating.”
I press my lips together and shake my head. “That’s not quite
good enough. If we’re dating, we have to act like it.”
She throws up her hands in frustration. “But we’re not dating!”
“You know that.” I point a finger at her. “And I know that.” I
press the same finger into my chest. “But no one else does. Or they
won’t once Andrew starts gossiping. Because I promise you, he
definitely will. He’ll get great pleasure out of telling every one of our
friends that I’m into sexy roleplaying.”
She covers her face with both hands. “Whyyy?” she moans.
I shrug, even though she’s not looking at me. “That’s just
Andrew. He’s a solid tailback and fun to hang out with, but he likes
to run his mouth to anyone who’ll listen, especially if it’s something
juicy. So this? Yeah, he’s definitely going to tell everyone we’re
dating. Especially since you’ve made such a big deal about how
much you can’t stand me.”
That has her hands coming down and concern taking over her
face. “You don’t think he’ll figure out that you’re blackmailing me, do
you?”
Laughing, I shake my head. “Andrew won’t suspect a thing. I
promise.”
She gives me a suspicious look. “What does acting like a couple
in public entail specifically?”
I grin. This is gonna be more fun than I thought.
 CHAPTER FIVE

Charity

Fuming, I leave Dylan’s apartment and stomp out to my car.

Just my fucking luck, there’s a ticket on my windshield. The extra
time spent arguing about his friend’s oh-so-convenient drop-in and
the fallout from that one ill-timed visit put me over the limit on the
meter, and parking enforcement came by in the twenty minutes it
took me to get here.
I throw my bag in the front seat along with the ticket, resisting
the urge to crumple it up. I’ll still have to pay the stupid thing.
Letting out a wordless scream of frustration, I hit my steering
wheel a few times, needing to vent my rage somehow. Even though
I let my polite mask slip more than normal today, I didn’t scream at
Dylan like I really wanted to. He’d probably spill everything to
everyone if I did that.
Hell, he’d probably tell everyone about all the horrible things his
friends did to me in high school too.
Forcing myself to take several deep breaths, I fish my phone out
of my bag. I can’t go home if I’m this upset. Isabelle will pick up that
something’s wrong immediately, and I don’t think I could come up
with a convincing lie.
Instead, I text my sister. I haven’t been over there all week since
Dylan’s taken up so much of my time. I need someone sane who
knows my secrets and who doesn’t want to use them to extort
things from me.
And I need the simple joy of a tea party with my niece. Plus, I’ll
probably get a free dinner out of it.
My brother-in-law Eric answers the door with a smile when I get
there. “Hey, Charity. Haven’t seen you in a while. Grace has been
asking for you.”
I return his smile and give him a quick hug. He and Hope met
when she was a sophomore in college and he was a senior. He’s
become the big brother I never had since then, especially since I
came to school at Marycliff and get to see them a lot more often
than when I lived on the other side of the state.
Hope comes out of the kitchen, Grace running in front of her.
“Charity!” Grace squeals, making a beeline for my legs. Except it
sounds like “Chawity,” because she hasn’t quite mastered her Rs and
Ls yet. I know one day she will, but for now I think it’s adorable.
“She’s been beside herself since I told her you were coming,”
Hope says. “I’m glad it only took you ten minutes to get here. She’s
been asking when you’d get here since you texted.”
Laughing, I scoop up my three-year-old niece. She wraps her
arms and legs around me, squeezing as hard as she can. “Ready,
you little monkey?” I ask, and at her nod, I let go and spin around,
letting her cling to me for a second before supporting her weight
again.
She giggles into my neck. “Again!”
“Okay. One more time, then we’ll sit.” I let go and spin around
again, then head to the couch.
“Again! Again!” Grace shouts.
“I’m sure she’ll do it again before you leave,” Eric says, moving to
his favorite chair. “But not if you throw a tantrum.”
Grace pokes out her lower lip, but quits demanding more spins,
settling into my lap as I sit on the couch.
Hope sits on the opposite end, smiling at me. “I’m glad you came
over. I’ve got soup on the stove, and we’re going to make grilled
cheese sandwiches to go with it for dinner. It’s not fancy, but you’re
welcome to join us.”
 “That sounds perfect.”
Grace squishes my cheeks in her hands so I’ll look at her. “Tea
party after dinner.” It’s a command, not a request.
“Yes, ma’am.” I make sure to keep my face as solemn as
possible.
She nods, then scrambles out of my lap to go to her mom.
“Mama, I’m hungry.”
“Alright, Gracie-bear. Let’s go fix dinner.” Grace cheers, clinging to
her mom as she stands. Hope glances at me. “Wanna help?”
“Sure.”
This is what I needed. To be welcomed and included. I don’t
mind cooking or cleaning when I’m part of the family. I don’t like it
when I’m an unpaid servant.
But I don’t have much of a choice at this point.
Hope washes her hands and helps Grace wash hers, then sets
Grace at the table with a few slices of bread, the room temperature
butter, and a small butter spreader. “Can you help butter the bread,
Gracie?”
“Yes, Mama!” She enthusiastically digs into the top of the butter,
unevenly spreading it around the slice of bread.
“Good job!” Hope picks up another piece of bread and butters it.
In the time it takes us to butter eight slices, Grace has slathered an
enormous amount of butter on one slice and a little bit on the next.
“You’re getting so good at that, Gracie-bear! Now let’s get out the
cheese.”
I move to the side-by-side fridge and pull the sliced cheddar out
of the cheese drawer, handing it to Hope. She lets Grace put a slice
of cheese on each sandwich.
“Wow, Gracie,” I say, my voice full of admiration. “You’re a great
little helper. Are you going to be a chef when you grow up?”
“I’m gonna be Gracie!” she says. Hope and I laugh, which only
makes her repeat it again and again.
Eric leans against the doorway. “The soup smells good, and you
guys obviously have the sandwiches covered. Gracie, do you want to
help set the table too?”
 She nods emphatically. I pull out a chair to sit while Eric passes
plates and bowls to Grace, who sets them carefully at each place,
pausing to kiss my arm after she sets my plate down.
I open my arms, and she rushes in for a hug. Closing my eyes, I
let her sweet, little kid softness and easy affection soothe my anger
and frustration. It’s hard to be mad when I’m here surrounded by
love and warmth and good food.
Hope gets out the griddle and starts the sandwiches cooking,
including the one thoroughly buttered by Grace.
After dinner and a dessert tea party with Grace, complete with
small cookies and some additional stuffed animal guests, I’m feeling
refreshed and better able to face all my crap.
Eric bustles Grace off for a bath after we clean up the remains of
the tea party, leaving Hope and me time to talk alone. She refills my
glass of water and sets it in front of me at the table before taking
the spot across from me, her brown eyes warm as she looks me
over. “How are you holding up?”
Sighing, I slump back in my chair. “Okay, I guess. Mom barely
tells me anything, though, saying she doesn’t want me to worry.” I
spread my hands in front of me, palms up. “But how can I not? Is
Dad going to go to jail?”
Hope’s forehead creases, and she shakes her head and sighs. “I
don’t know. He hasn’t actually been charged yet, though.”
“Will he be, do you think?”
“Maybe?” She shrugs and sighs again. “I hope not.”
“And what’s Mom going to do if he gets charged and is found
guilty? How long would he have to go away for?” Now that I’m
starting to ask the questions that have been building inside me since
I found out about Dad, they all come spilling out. “The sentences
I’ve found have a really wide range, and it seems like some people
don’t actually go to jail for that long? Like Martha Stewart. She was
only in actual jail for a few months, and then a few more months on
house arrest. Do you think Dad could get that kind of deal? Or was it
just because she’s famous that she got off pretty easy?”
Hope opens her mouth to answer, but can’t get a word in before
I’m off again.
 “Of course, she didn’t actually get convicted of insider trading.
Did you know that? I mean, it was adjacent to that, but that wasn’t
the actual charge, so her case probably doesn’t have any real
relationship to Dad’s anyway. Although I guess it’s possible Dad
could get charged with something else too, even though that’s what
they’re investigating. I don’t know why I’m even talking about
Martha Stewart, except that her name’s familiar given how much
Mom always loved her.”
Hope flashes a smile, but this time doesn’t even try to say
anything.
“I’m sorry.” I cover my face with my hands and shake my head,
squeezing my eyes shut against the tears wanting to come to the
surface. “I haven’t really had anyone to talk to about this.”
“It’s okay. I haven’t really either.”
I drop my hands. “You have Eric, though.”
She shrugs. “True. And you have friends. Can’t you talk to
them?”
I make a noncommittal noise that’s neither agreement nor
disagreement.
“I see,” she says quietly.
“What?” I sound defensive even to me.
She lets out a soft chuckle. “You haven’t talked to any of your
friends about it, have you?”
Dropping my eyes to my glass, I spin it around. “No,” I mumble.
Hope doesn’t know I haven’t told them anything about Dad’s
business. As far as they know, he’s still an accountant.
“Yeah, me either.” At her admission, I meet her eyes again. She
spreads her hands in a gesture of helplessness. “How do you even
explain that? It’s not exactly a good conversation starter with the
other moms at preschool pickup or at work. The absolute last thing I
need is to be the subject of office gossip. And that type of gossip, no
less. It’s hard enough to be taken seriously as one of the few female
architects at my firm. I don’t need Dad’s problems making life even
more difficult.”
Leaning forward, I reach a hand across the table. She takes it
and gives it a squeeze, holding on, both of us seeking comfort from
the way our father’s problems are threatening to spill into our lives.
I’d been so focused on my own stuff that I hadn’t realized Hope
would be facing problems too.
I give her hand a squeeze before releasing it and sitting back.
“Well, at least we have each other, right?”
She leans forward and clinks her glass against mine. “Right. I’m
glad you came to Marycliff, Charity. It’s been good to spend more
time with you again the last few years.” She pauses and takes a sip
of water. “Do you think you’ll stick around here after you graduate?”
Shrugging, I shake my head. “I’m not sure, really. Maybe? I
might go for my Masters in Library Science. But if I can get a job
working as a copy editor or something here, I’d stick around for a
while.” Spokane’s a nice enough city, but sometimes I miss Seattle. I
like being close to the coast and since it’s a bigger city, there’s more
to do and more opportunities. I mostly came to Spokane to be near
Hope and her family, and while I’d like to stay near them, I haven’t
actually planned that far ahead yet.
Eric brings a snuggly Grace in, her hair still damp from her bath
and forming loose curls near her shoulders. “Gracie wanted to say
goodnight.”
Standing, I move to give her a hug and kiss. “Goodnight, Gracie.
I need to go so I can get some homework done, but I’ll see you
again soon, okay?”
“Kay.” She kisses my cheek and squeezes my neck before
reaching for her dad.
Hope gives me a hug. “Come for dinner this weekend. When
would be good?”
“Can I text you? I need to check what’s due soon and see what
all I have going on.”
“Sure, sure, I see where I stand,” she teases.
Eric chuckles. “You remember what it’s like to be a college
student. Even if she doesn’t have a bunch of homework to get
through, she might have a date or parties to go to. Right, Charity?”
“Uh, yeah. Something like that.” If you can count cleaning Dylan’s
apartment as a date or a party, suuure. But they don’t need to know
about that.
 A twinge of unease slithers down my spine. If Dylan and I are
supposed to be dating, does that mean we’ll need to go on actual
dates?
I mean, it shouldn’t. Why would it? That would be ridiculous.
 CHAPTER SIX

Dylan

I scan the student center, trying to figure out the best place to grab
a quick bite. Andrew, Liam, and I just finished a workout, so we
need some protein. I usually pack a snack, but I forgot today, so I’m
stuck with the on-campus dining options.
There’s the main cafeteria, of course, but once I moved off
campus, I was all too happy to give up eating there. There’s also the
little food court bearing a trio of fast food places. Not the healthiest,
but their chicken sandwiches are better than the caf’s.
Liam’s hassling Andrew about the chick he’s been stringing along,
but I’m largely ignoring them. I just want food so I can get to my
next class on time.
“Hold up, hold up,” Andrew says, grabbing my shoulder and
putting out an arm to stop Liam. “Isn’t that the chick who was at
your place last night?”
I bite back a groan. All day, I’ve been waiting for Andrew to start
blabbing about Charity being at my place yesterday, but so far he
hasn’t said anything.
I guess that’s all about to change.
He leans past me as though the extra six inches closer it brings
him makes her easier to see. “Oh, man! It is! Dude, get a load of
this.” He turns to Liam and fills him in on catching Charity in her
costume.
 Liam predictably starts snickering. “Seriously? I had no idea you
got off on that kind of thing.”
“Well, why would you?” Andrew asks before I can respond. “It’s
not like we’ve seen our boy in a long-term relationship. He’s usually
more of the wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am type. There’s not exactly
time to play dress-up with those.” Andrew drapes an arm around
Liam’s shoulders. “But I guess all that time hanging with Isabelle
and me gave Dylan time to make a move.” He turns his dopey gaze
on me. “Though from what I could tell, she kinda hated you. How’d
you manage to change that?”
I just shrug. Because what else can I do? She still hates me,
after all.
They both let out raucous laughs as though my shrug
communicated something—and not just anything, but something
filthy. I can’t help grinning at their antics, even as I shake my head
at them.
Andrew smacks my arm. “Come on, man. Let’s go say hi to your
girl.”
I open my mouth, but I’m not sure what I intend to say. If I stop
them, they’ll think something’s wrong. And then they’ll want to know
why I don’t want them to talk to “my girl,” and I’ll have to come up
with a plausible reason. Which I can’t seem to do right now.
And anyway, they’re halfway to her before I can even get a word
out. Resigned, I follow them over.
They stop a few feet away from her table, jostling each other and
shooting me looks. “Dude! Go talk to her,” Liam hisses.
I suck in a breath and tighten my abs like I’m preparing for a lift.
This is what we agreed to, after all. She said she’d rather pretend to
be my girlfriend than risk me spilling her secrets. I still think it’s
weird that none of her friends realize she’s the daughter of Jason
Lavoy. I get not wanting to air your business to everyone, but why
wouldn’t she talk about her parents?
Not like it’s any of my business.
Hitching my backpack higher on my shoulder, I approach Charity.
She has her head resting on her hand as she reads, her hair piled on
her head in a messy bun, with her oversized pale green sweater
baring one shoulder. She looks delicious, like she’d be all snuggly
and warm and ready to cuddle on the couch.
Too bad she won’t do that with me. She probably wouldn’t
believe that’s something I’d want to do with anyone, much less her.
But I’ve gotten tired of hookups, and something about her—that
fiery personality under the good girl exterior—makes me want to
spend time with her. Find out what makes her tick. Like why she’s
going to such lengths to hide her background.
Coming up behind her, I place my hand on the table next to her
book, lean over her, and grin. “Hey, babe. Fancy meeting you here.”
She jerks at my voice so close to her ear, looking up at me with
wide eyes. Her surprise quickly gives way to irritation, then she
follows my pointed look to where my friends stand watching us. Her
irritation morphs into resignation. She gives me a forced smile.
“Hey… babe? I don’t usually see you in the campus center.”
I pull the chair next to her even closer and drop into it, draping
one arm over the back of her chair. “I forgot to pack a post-workout
snack today. So we’re here to get some food.”
She looks around at the available choices before facing me and
raising one eyebrow. “This doesn’t seem like your usual type of post
workout snack.”
“You’re right, it’s not. But unless you wanna invite me over to
your place for something, this is what’s available.”
She wrinkles her nose in an adorable expression of disgust.
“Mmm, I think I’ll pass.”
At my laugh, she gives me the first genuine smile I think I’ve
ever gotten from her. Sure, I’ve seen her smile before. But it’s never
been directed at me.
I have to admit, getting her to smile might be more gratifying
than watching her temper explode. It feels like I’m making progress.
I put my elbow on the table and rest my chin on my fist. “You’re
really pretty when you smile.”
Her smile fades immediately. “Next you’re going to tell me I
should do it more often,” she says sarcastically.
Or maybe I’m just deluding myself into thinking I’m making
progress. Laughing again, I shake my head. “I wouldn’t dream of it.
Another random document with
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 XIII

God made the Highlander—then rested.

His finest work was never bested.

I S there any waking up in this world to be compared with the

waking up in Scotland after a night spent in the train?
Is there any air so thin and clear as the air one breathes on
stepping out to the station platform? Would a man be anywhere else
on God’s earth? No, not if he be a sportsman and something of a
Scotsman. It is not necessary to be more than that to make one
eager to claim kinship with every one as one stands for the first time
after many months on Scottish ground. Marcus bethought himself of
the portrait of an ancestress of his wearing a tartan sash and
blessed her for having worn it and for having passed on to him
something of her love for the Highlands that had lain in her heart
beneath the tartan band.
As Marcus stood on the platform he pointed out to Diana its many
beauties. God had willed that there should be no mist that morning—
and no veil hung between them and the moor—purpling with promise
of deeper things to come. Diana said that, and Marcus enthused in
his turn over the convolvulus that scrambled over the white wooden
paling as it scrambles nowhere else: nowhere else, perhaps, is it so
worth while scrambling to get over the paling.
“It’s good to be alive!” he exclaimed.
“Delicious!” said Diana, sniffing; “isn’t it good? How much longer
shall we be before we get there?”
Marcus said some hours, but Diana didn’t mind how many. The
people at the stations interested her; the barefooted, sandy-haired,
freckled boys, the barefooted, shy, proud little girls; fisherwomen, old
and young, pretty and pretty once upon a time—long ago. She loved
the shivering pointers and setters—shivering with excitement only—
she knew that—waiting while their masters and men disinterred
deeply buried luggage. Stalwart keepers meeting parties interested
her and she knew she witnessed the meeting of old friends. She
loved the keepers and wondered if Marcus and she would have a
nice one of their own? What a thing it is to own for even two months
a Scotch keeper! Marcus assured her all keepers in Scotland were
nice. They were a race apart—a race of fine gentlemen.
“Darlings,” said Diana; “it’s a heavenly place.” Then she wondered
what Glenbossie would be like? And Marcus knew exactly. It would
be a smallish house—stucco, whitewashed; it might have a
tropæolum growing over the porch. The woodwork of the house
would be painted a clarety brown; there might be strings of
convolvulus up the walls, and there would be pegs on which to lay
the fishing-rods under the sloping roof.
“It will be a lodge,” said Diana with some anxiety; “not a proper
house?”
“A lodge, of course; certainly not a proper house.”
“It would be horrible if it were a proper house.”
“Uncanny, positively,” agreed Marcus.
“You will love being uncomfortable, won’t you?” asked Diana.
Marcus looked anxious, but smiled as he said, “Yes, of course”; for
he knew his Oven and his Pillar.
Pillar came along the train at most stations to tell Mr. Maitland it
looked like fine weather and that the luggage was in at the front.
Mrs. Oven never moved. Her heart was sick for her London
kitchen and all it contained—its electrical contrivances. She didn’t
look forward except with dismay to a lodge that was not a proper
house. But going to Scotland was an act of madness committed by
the best families and it was very expensive. She knew, of course,
that people who live in Scotland, whose homes are there, live in the
greatest comfort, that the best cooks come from Scotland; it is only
of those people who go from England for two months and live in
places they would never think of living in in England, and paying
enormous sums to do so, she was thinking.
The scullery-maid refused to look out of the window. She preferred
to read. She knew what the country looked like. She had been to
Epping Forest twice. Books for her, please! The kitchen-maid was
from Skye. She hung out of the window drinking it all in. The
housemaid tried to sleep. She was a bad traveller. She had nothing
to say against Skye, but as they weren’t going there there was no
need to think about it. It was beds she was thinking of. The
mattresses wouldn’t be “box,” she was despondingly certain of that.
“Not even spring, I should say,” Mrs. Oven said. At one of the
stations—a small private station—the train stopped to take up a
party of fishermen—a man, a girl, and a boy. The gillies got into the
next compartment with the rods and landing-nets. Marcus glanced
quickly at Diana. She looked perfectly fresh, tidy, and delightful. Her
eyes sparkled. She was hoping Uncle Marcus would speak. She
remembered a horrible story he was wont to tell of two men who had
lived for twenty years in the same house in Jermyn Street, who had
never spoken to each other, although they met constantly on the
stairs. He had seemed proud of the story as illustrating something
rather fine in the English character, but now, throwing all Jermyn
Street restraint to the winds, he spoke. He asked them what luck
they had had. The boy started off to tell him. He took ten minutes to
tell how he had lost a fish. The girl, in one, told how she had seen
one. The man had got two. Moreover, he prophesied that by tea-time
Diana would have got one—if not more—to her own rod. “You are for
Glenbossie?” he said to Marcus. And Marcus said he was and that
Diana was his niece.
“Nice people,” said Diana when they had gone, and Marcus
beamed. Where was Aunt Elsie now? Scotland was the place to
bring a girl to, of course. What was the good of picnics and dances?
English picnics! English dances!
At last they arrived at the station that for two months was to be
their own. Marcus had never seemed to care for a station before—
had never before patted one on the back, as it were. Diana was
amused to see him greet the station-master as his best friend in the
world. He looked as though he were longing to tell him how glad he
was he had elected to be a station-master. It was delightful to Diana.
She had never seen Marcus purring to this extent. She had known
him very polite, but this was something far pleasanter, and much
funnier. The station-master was his long-lost brother, that was all. So
was the keeper: Macpherson by name: and more of a brother than
any—an elder brother—was John. John with a wrinkled face and a
twinkle in his eyes. Nature is a wonderful needle-woman when she
takes the time and trouble to “gather” an old face. She had made
thousands of “gathers” on John’s face without in any way spoiling the
material, and Diana loved every wrinkle. Most of them stood for
smiles and many of them for sunshine. “I shall love John,” she
confided to Marcus.
“Dear old man,” said Marcus, and Diana was further amused. If
Scotland could do this for one man—then Scotland forever, for all
men. There was a lorry for the luggage—a car for Marcus and Diana,
and for the household a kind of a char-à-banc, Pillar presiding over
all and preventing Marcus from interfering. He showed no
excitement. He knew his Scotland; if not one part, then another.
They were all the same. In one, less grouse than in another—seldom
more: in another, more fishing: scenery more or less the same in all
parts. Mountains higher in one part than another—nothing much to
choose between them—and midges everywhere. He himself had a
weakness for sea-fishing, but would quite understand if Mr. Maitland
had forgotten to remember it. In the back of his head he had a
shrewd suspicion that they had come to Scotland for a set purpose—
that Scotland was to be the means of marrying Miss Diana—and of
defeating Miss Carston. It was always easy to get the right kind of
gentlemen to come to Scotland, not that there had been any great
difficulty in London, but gentlemen would recklessly face a
recognized danger for the chance of a “royal”—whereas for a dinner
—well, in London they were cautious. Pillar had an idea,
unexpressed, that Miss Diana would prove highly dangerous in
Scotland. He had faith—the utmost faith—in her tweeds and boots.
She would make no sartorial mistakes—moreover, the more like a
boy she looked the better she looked. They arrived at Glenbossie. It
was exactly as Marcus had described it: a low, white house set on a
hillside; surrounded by moor. On one side was a birch wood; a short
distance below the lodge ran the river, getting, of course, lower and
lower every minute as rivers will. Where were the rods? Marcus
asked, all eagerness to begin fishing. The rods had arrived! Pillar
said it with such emphasis that Marcus asked what had not arrived?
“The stores, sir.” A happy gloom here expressed itself on every
feature of Pillar’s face.
“The stores? Oh, that doesn’t matter.”
“Very good, sir,” said Pillar.
“What sort of stores?” asked Marcus, this resignation, beautiful in
its selflessness, on the part of Pillar looked bad.
“Oh, just ordinary stores, sir, tea and coffee and sugar, jam,
marmalade, bacon, vermicelli, rice, oil, vinegar, sultanas, raisins,
every kind of cereal, tapioca—macaroni—pickles.”
Now many of these things Marcus hated, but he wanted them all
the same. He didn’t see why the railway company should have them.
There was Mrs. Oven to keep happy, but it would take more than
stores, it appeared, to make Mrs. Oven happy. The fire wouldn’t
burn.
“Dog, dog won’t bite,” quoted Diana, and Marcus told her not to be
irrelevant.
The oven wouldn’t heat itself, let alone water.
“Piggy won’t get over the stile—don’t worry,” said Diana; “it’s all too
delicious. The station-master is still your brother, and Macpherson
your keeper—”
Macpherson! Good idea! What about Mrs. Macpherson? Pillar
would enquire. He enquired and came back to say she was a most
respectable woman and had flour and tea and washing soda—
“If she would be so kind—” Marcus was beginning when Pillar
respectfully broke in to say she would be kinder than that—
moreover, she understood the stove. It could heat water and it could
bake—the oven could. “It was just the puir gals from London who
didna understand the ways of it.”
Pillar prided himself on his Scotch. He spoke it as well as many
actors on the London stage speak it and with less effort.
When dinner-time came, into her own came Mrs. Oven. Whatever
disappointment she had expressed, annoyance she had shown, she
now proved that her cunning had not left her. There was a dinner
and an excellent dinner. Women are wonderful creatures, and with
the help of cows and hens there is no limit to what they can do if they
set their minds to it.
Before Marcus and Diana went to bed that first night, when their
fates as regarded beds and mattresses were still hid from them,
Marcus called to Diana to come out. They stood in front of the lodge,
Diana like a wraith in the moonlight—an exquisite visitant from
another world.
“Listen!” said Marcus, and they heard the call of the cock grouse
on the hillside, the weird cry of the plover, the soft rushing of the
river, and it was all very, very good. And it would have been better
still if that haunting question had not come back to torment the poor
uncle. “Is she in love?” Did Elsie know of whom Diana was thinking
as she stood there looking so horribly, so bound to be, in love?
“What are you thinking of?” he asked.
The moment was fraught with possibilities. At such a moment as
this she might say what was in her heart, and if she did, and he
found she was thinking of a suitable young man, he might say
something of what he meant to do for her when she married. It was
dangerous, he knew, to commit one’s self, but still—
“Would you mind frightfully if I wore a kilt, because I think I must—
darling, you don’t mind—”
“Is that what you were thinking of?”
“No—darling—shall I tell you? I am a little shy about it. I—”
“Don’t be shy.”
 “Well—you look most awfully—what shall I say?—handsome is not
the word, is it?—alluring—no, not that—distractingly elusive—yes,
that’s it—at the same time you look as if you might be—are you—in
love? Tell me—don’t be shy—is it—Elsie?”

Marcus was far from being in love with Elsie, but she was always
at his elbow as it were. Whenever Diana seemed particularly happy,
he thought of Elsie and wondered what she would do to get Diana
back? What attractions she would dare to offer? There was nothing
he wouldn’t do to show Diana how infinitely to be preferred was
Scotland above any other country, how much nicer than aunts were
uncles. And Diana responded by walking like a gazelle and climbing
like a goat; that was as far as Marcus could go in describing her
particular grace and amazing activity. The first salmon he hooked he
handed to Diana to play. She played and lost it, and he swore he
would have done likewise—and the gillie agreed with him. But he
had seen “wurrrse fishermen cert’nly,” he would no be denying it.
“Mister Maitland was a fair fisherman, but not so good a fisherman
as he thought himself to be.” When Marcus realized how Sandy
ached for the feel of the rod, he let him feel it now and then, and he
went up by leaps and bounds, as a fisherman and a God-fearing
man in the eyes of Sandy.
Marcus was at his best when Diana was with him: he shot better
and fished better under the spur of her generous admiration and
encouragement; and of Elsie and her picnics and her croquet
parties, and even her dances, he could think with a pity that was
almost tender. He had plenty of opportunities in which to win Diana’s
confidence, and he imagined she gave it to him with a fine honesty
that he found particularly gratifying. Mr. Watkins he dismissed with a
gesture—it was impossible Diana could think seriously for one
moment of a minor poet. Mr. Pease? Another gesture and he was as
nothing—he no longer existed. He was not for Diana. The young
man in London troubled him. St. Jermyn was his name. He had
nothing against him except that he had shown symptoms of
possessing that power of attracting the whole attention and
sympathy of a woman that Eustace Carston had shown. Had Diana
the same power of devotion her mother had? The thought was
disquieting. Diana would not say anything about the man except that
he had danced better than any other—that was all. She vowed that
Uncle Marcus alone held her heart: could hold her heart among the
heather and the burns and the lochs: that he fitted in with the
surroundings as no other man could. No man could be so
interesting, no man so Scotch! If only he would wear a kilt! She
would so love it!
Although Diana wanted no one but Uncle Marcus, a great many
men found their way to Glenbossie. Men from up the river and down
the river came with offerings of beats and butts. Men from the
neighbouring moors brought offerings in the way of days—a day’s
driving later on; a day’s stalking. Marcus had these things of his own,
but he found he would have to share them and sharing them would
mean sharing Diana.
“I wish,” said Marcus one evening, “that I could see some of these
men you talk about, so that I might judge of them for myself. I should
like to guide you in your choice.”
“Do, darling,” said Diana.
“But I can’t without seeing them.”
“Well, ask them here.”
But that was more than he could do. There was nothing Diana
couldn’t do when she tried. In the village (village?—Mrs. Oven
couldn’t see where the village came in, but for all that it existed)
there was an inn, a kirk, a general merchant, and that, with a few old
people, and a few young men and women, and a few barelegged
children, constituted Loch Bossie. The inn stood at the side of the
road, and with the inn went fishing—bad fishing, perhaps, but fishing:
and the people who had taken it this season could not come
because their children had developed scarlet fever, which
dispensation of Providence Mrs. MacFie—innkeeper—accepted as
one to be borne with unwavering faith, and thankfulness that it was
not worse. It meant for her the rent in her pocket and something
more in the shape of compensation, and no one to feed or to fash
about. So she was well content, though sorry for the poor things, of
course. But it was a sorrow she could very well bear and she was
bearing it very well, when into the inn walked an apparition. Mrs.
MacFie didn’t call Diana by that name, although Mr. Watkins might
have done so; and so might Mrs. MacFie if she had thought of it.
The apparition wore a tweed that went with her eyes, and the
whole of Scotland went with her hair: and there was that in her voice
that softened the heart of Mrs. MacFie, and in ten minutes Mrs.
MacFie had promised the rooms, and the fishing at a moderate cost;
and as many scones, dropped and griddled, as they could eat, to two
young men who had been since the days they were born the solaces
of their respective mothers.
According to Diana they neither drank nor did they eat to any
appreciable extent. They liked whatever was set before them; and
they were prepared to love Mrs. MacFie. That Diana implied rather
than said: and she walked away, swinging as she walked as lightly
as a silver birch dances blown by the breeze. Mrs. MacFie watched
her, and that was how it struck her, and she went back into the
house glad that the tenant at Glenbossie liked Scotland so well. It
showed good sense and a good heart and the young leddy was no
doubt in love with one of the young gentlemen, perhaps with both,
and would be having them up so that she might choose between
them; which was not exactly as matters stood, but near enough.
Diana wrote to Mr. Pease and to Mr. Watkins and they wrote back
to say they would come. Mr. Watkins had never fished, but was
willing to try, and Mr. Pease had fished all his life, but had caught
little. The prospect of good fishing filled him with delight. There was
no sport in the world like it. Had Miss Diana ever considered how full
the New Testament was of fishing? It was very encouraging—
particularly to all bishops and curates.
Diana walked softly the day she got the letters. It was not only that
Uncle Marcus should know him that she had asked Mr. Pease to
come; not only that he should know Mr. Watkins that she had asked
Mr. Watkins to come, but that they should enjoy themselves and that
Mr. Pease should catch much fish.
She was of so delightful a nature that what she enjoyed she
wanted others to enjoy. The thought of Mr. Pease riding up and down
Bestways hills on his bicycle, ministering to the souls and bodies of
old men and women, seemed, viewed from the moors of Scotland,
where souls had such a chance, rather a sad lot. Uncle Marcus
could well afford to give both Mr. Pease and Mr. Watkins a holiday.
They would never question the smallness of the rent asked for the
fishing, so Marcus could hide his light under a bushel and could
easily escape the thanks he dreaded.
 XIV

A man may know his own boots when he

sees them, and yet not recognise his own joke.

D IANA did everything that was asked of her as tenant of

Glenbossie and more. She loved the Minister’s wife, her soft
voice and gentle manner, and when she asked Diana to come to the
Sale, to be held in the schools, Diana said, of course she would
come, and on the appointed day she went down to the schools with
her pockets full of Uncle Marcus’s money, and on her way she
passed old women whom she loved for the mutches they wore, and
for the smiles within them. Every one had a soft word for her and a
smile. When she got to the schools she did not stop to wonder why
so many people were gathered together outside the door. They
made way for her, and she went in and she bought all the shirts and
all the socks: praised the making of them—and wondered at their
strength and their softness—the softness of the socks and strength
of the shirts. She bought other things, less useful, and perhaps not
strictly beautiful, but she paid for them all right royally.
As she was the only person there she bought everything she could
lay hands on, remembering the soft voice and the gentle manner of
the Minister’s wife. One or two stall-holders, she remembered
afterwards, did protest faintly: but she thought they were only afraid
she was being too generous.
Having bought most things she rested from her labours, and
walking to the window looked out, and saw sailing down upon the
schoolhouse a party consisting of a very small, but very important-
looking mother, and a charming-looking daughter and several other
people, and she knew them to be the Scott party. Very important
people were the Scotts—very important was their party. It was
trimmed with white heather. The men wore kilts and the women the
next best things. They all wore tartan stockings and some—some
men, bonnets.
Diana’s heart began to fail. The Minister was at the door to meet
the Scott party and he welcomed Mrs. Scott and them all with great
ceremony, and Mrs. Scott smiled upon him and said how delighted
she was to open the bazaar.
The Minister consulted his watch in answer to her question, “Was
she late?” and it was found she was not late.
“Not late, perhaps,” thought Diana, “but everything was sold!”
After the opening of the Sale with prayer, Mrs. Scott proclaimed it
ready for buyers and she hoped that people would buy as many
things as they could, and spend as much money as they—had—no,
not that; but as much as they could spare! The crowd that had
gathered outside now filled the hall.
The first shirt Mrs. Scott lost her heart to was sold, and the next.
And the socks? Yes, sold!
Then Diana went round to all the stall-holders and assured them
she had bought nothing—they might keep the money, but the things
must be sold again. “Let me have afterwards what Mrs. Scott doesn’t
want,” she said. Mrs. Scott thanked Diana for coming, said she
remembered her so well, at the—whose ball, was it? She told her
Ralph St. Jermyn was coming to stay with them. “But I must do my
duty. Have you found anything to buy? It is so kind of you. There will
be lots for us all.” And she went on her way buying all the things
Diana had already bought. It was a very good way of selling from the
stall-holders’ point of view, and they had never made so much before
at any sale in Loch Bossie, and in Scotland they make more by
bazaars than in any other country in the world.
Diana made her escape so soon as she could, greatly to the
disappointment of some of the Scott party, and she vowed to Uncle
Marcus she would never go to another sale so long as she lived. He
asked her at what time she had gone, and she said at three o’clock
—why?
 He said he had only wondered because the Sale was to be
opened at half-past three by Mrs. Scott.
“She must never know,” said Diana.
“Never!” agreed Uncle Marcus, and he put out his hand for the
change (there are very few men who don’t ask for change) and he
did not express that pleasure he ought to have experienced when he
realized how greatly the Sale had benefitted by the officiousness of
his niece.
When the parcel came from the bazaar for Diana there were within
it neither the socks she had promised Pillar, nor the shirts longed for
by John and Sandy, but only those things Mrs. Scott and others had
not been requiring.
Two egg-cosies in tartan cloth.
One piano-key-cover in dark brown serge, worked in yellow silks.
One tea-cosy crocheted in string, lined with red sateen.
One shoe-bag in brown holland and bound with green braid.
One crazy patchwork cushion cover.
One bib.
One turkey twill bedspread—
“I should like to see the things you bought,” said Uncle Marcus.
“You shall see them all this evening,” said Diana softly.
“I hope you didn’t buy any rubbish. I hate money wasted.
Stockings and shirts are always useful.”
Then Diana persuaded Pillar to lay out all Mr. Maitland’s clothes
on the bed, chairs, and tables in one of the spare bedrooms after
dinner, and Pillar, because Miss Diana asked him to do it—did it.
“Particularly his boots, miss, you want, his shooting-clothes, and
his shirts? Yes, miss.”
“How many pairs of boots are there?” she asked.
 Pillar pondered, and when he gave the number of pairs
—“approximately, miss”—Diana said six of them would do.
And at half-past nine that night Diana told Uncle Marcus the things
were all ready, laid out, in the spare room. She put out her hand
inviting him to come, and he followed her upstairs and came into the
room and saw spread upon the tables, bed, and chairs, things he
must least have expected to see.
“Boots?” he asked, “these boots?” He took one up; looked at it,
and put it down again. From that to another pair—from the boots he
went to tweed coats, knickerbockers, trousers. “Was this as one
would meet old friends?” thought Diana—“without one smile?”
From the blue shirt to the pink striped one, went Marcus; from the
mauve silk one to the black-and-white striped one. From shirts to
pyjamas; he had never thought he had so many, or such good ones.
Back to the boots. He was perfectly serious and Diana wondered of
what he was thinking? “You look very serious,” she said.
“It is very serious,” he answered. “You got a lot for your money,
that’s all I can say—the rest of the matter I must put into the hands of
the police.”
“Police?” asked Diana.
“My dear child, it’s clearly a case of stealing. Some one has sold
my clothes, and although the money may be given to the poor it
won’t do.” And he went—bound, Diana was sure, for the Police
Station.
She was so distressed that it was more than the respectfully
tender heart of Pillar could stand, and he told her, begging her
pardon, that Mr. Maitland had been “in the know,” as it were. “You
told him?” she asked, surprised and indignant.
“Well, miss, I couldn’t have done it without his leave.”
But the joke was spoilt! Not entirely, said Pillar, there was no
reason he should know she knew. There was generally the other
side to a joke.
 “You mean,” said Diana, “that I must let Mr. Maitland think that I
am very much distressed—that I believe about the policeman?”
“Let things go their own way, miss. It’s safest with jokes—certainly
where single gentlemen—of a certain age—are concerned.”
And she let things go their own way, and this is the way they
naturally went. Uncle Marcus went downstairs looking very serious,
and Diana followed him a few minutes later, looking very distressed.
He sat down at his table to write to the police.
“Don’t!” she said, and laid a restraining hand on his shoulder.
“My dear child, I must. It cannot be left as it is.”
“What do you suspect—who do you suspect?” she asked.
“I suspect that my things have been sold by some one to some
one—else, and by some means or other they found their way to the
bazaar, and by some strange chance you bought them.”
Diana said, being the niece of her uncle, it was only natural that
she should know good boots when she saw them.
This appeared to soften Uncle Marcus towards Diana, but in no
other way was he to be moved.
“You don’t suspect—Pillar?” she said softly. She was anxious to
find out the way the joke was going—she thought it had got lost.
Marcus paused—it was a serious thing to say, even in fun—“I
have reason to doubt him,” he admitted.
Then up spake Diana: her eyes shining, her cheeks ablaze. She
recounted—Marcus couldn’t have done it better himself—in fact she
had got it all from him—the many and varied perfections of Pillar. His
most excellent qualities—she had them all at her finger’s ends. As
she talked Marcus’s heart warmed afresh towards the man he would
as soon have suspected as himself of stealing—but Diana? Was she
going to allow him to send for the policeman? Would she carry her
joke to that extremity? He knew the note would go no further than
Pillar: but she did not know that.
 “Unless you can throw some light on the matter, this letter must
go.” And he wrote the letter, pausing between the words, blackening
the down strokes, rounding the e’s; still Diana said nothing, and
Uncle Marcus gave his letter to Pillar to send at once. Whereupon
Diana burst into tears and left the room.
Outside the door there were no tears to be wiped away, but there
was much to be done. She had to find a policeman; not so difficult
that as it sounded. It only meant going so far as the next lodge and
borrowing the first young man she could find; and off she went,
having told a housemaid to lock her bedroom door on the outside,
and take the key away.
“Then if Uncle Marcus comes to comfort me,” she thought, “he will
find the door locked.”
Uncle Marcus sat and waited. He made up his mind to wait five
minutes. He could not let any woman cry for longer. They were
fearfully long minutes. But they passed and he went upstairs. He
knocked at the door. There was no answer, for by that time Diana
was halfway to the next lodge.
“Diana?” Still no answer.
He waited. He heard her sob—was sure of it—confound the joke
—“Diana!” No answer.
By this time Diana was at the next lodge; and was in the very act
of coaching a young man—only too ready to be coached in anything
by Diana, whom he had worshipped from afar the whole of one
morning; from the other side of the river, to be exact—and he was
perfectly willing to be a policeman if it made her happy.
“Can you talk Scotch?” she asked.
“Do you mean Gaelic?”
“Yes; if you can do that, it’s better still, because Uncle Marcus ‘has
not’ Gaelic.” He could talk Gaelic, and he understood English. He
laughed: in his present mood this seemed a good joke, and Diana
laughed, too, which showed she was kind: then she asked, “How did
Scotch policemen dress?” The young man was sure—in blue. Diana
decided he must wear a mackintosh. Uncle Marcus would be much
too agitated to see anything: the mere sight of a policeman would be
paralyzing to one of his temperament. The young man asked if Mr.
Maitland would be likely to see the joke.
“Jokes are difficult things to deal with,” admitted Diana. “There are
better jokes than those we don’t see: and there are none so good as
those we see. It gives Uncle Marcus a way out.”
Down the road walked Diana with the policeman to be, while Uncle
Marcus pleaded, through a locked door, with a Diana not there. Then
he grew stuffy and offended as he always did in time, being of so
affectionate and sensitive a nature, and he went downstairs to the
smoking-room, muttering to himself that if she didn’t want to, he
didn’t, and so on. He took up his “Scotsman.” How often had he
found a refuge behind its generous pages, and he had only just
taken up his position of offended dignity when the door opened and
Pillar announced the arrival of the policeman.
“Idiot!” said Mr. Maitland, meaning Pillar, of course, and in walked
the policeman.
“Just one moment,” said Marcus, jumping up; “I must ask some
one something before we go any further.” And he went upstairs, two
steps at a time, to Diana’s room, and found her door still locked. He
tried it again and again, which took time: and while he was upstairs
the real policeman happened to call for a subscription to a most
deserving charity (the news of the generosity of the Glenbossie
tenant had spread abroad like wild fire) and the pseudo-policeman
retired in favour of the real thing, in the cause of charity.
When Mr. Maitland came down he did not notice the change—a
policeman is a policeman to the law-abiding citizen, whether in a
mackintosh or not.
“I am afraid there has been some mistake,” he began, careful to
seat himself back to the light: that much he had learned from much
reading—in his youth—of detective stories. The policeman politely
remarked that we were all liable—as human creatures—to make
mistakes. Which axiom, pronounced in broad Scotch—of all accents
the most comforting—sounded the kindest and most cheerful, as
well as the most Christian, thing Marcus had heard for many a long
day. Of course the policeman spoke generally, knowing nothing of
any particular mistake. Mr. Maitland hastened to say he was sorry he
had troubled him, and the policeman very naturally said the trouble
was to be Mr. Maitland’s. Marcus felt that acutely: there was no need
to remind him of it.
“Now about the note—” began Marcus. And the genial policeman
said: One would do, although he would not be refusing more, if Mr.
Maitland should be feeling so disposed—and he put out his
capacious hand.
Then Mr. Maitland grasped the fact that the honest policeman was
open to a bribe, and he pressed into his hand a larger number of
notes than the honest policeman had ever hoped to hold—in the
cause of charity. It was a good charity and deserving—whatever!
And the policeman left the presence of Mr. Maitland a happy man;
and the other policeman left the presence of Diana a most unhappy
man—deeply and, he believed, hopelessly in love.
When Marcus, making a final attempt, knocked at Diana’s door, he
found it unlocked and a smothered voice told him to come in.
He went in. Diana was hidden under the bedclothes; she emerged
at his urgent request. “Diana, my child, I am so sorry.”
He looked at her: she was one of those happy women, he thought,
who can cry without its leaving any disfiguring trace.
“It was only my joke writing to the policeman,” he said, smiling as
though asking pity for his simplicity.
“And it was only mine in sending for him.”
“You sent for him?”
Diana nodded.
“But think of what Pillar must have thought!”
“Pillar knew—” said Diana; then, seeing Uncle Marcus’s look of
astonishment, explained. “Pillar would no more think of sending for a
policeman without asking me than he would think of spreading out
your clothes without asking you—he is wonderful!—Pillar!”
Uncle Marcus looked at Diana—if her hair had been done in one
pigtail instead of two, and her eyes had not been so innocent and
truthful in their appeal, he would have been very, very angry. As it
was he looked so kind that she ventured: “Mine wasn’t a real—
policeman.”
“Not a real policeman? Then who was he?”
“Just a man staying at the Lodge up the river.”
“And I gave him ten pounds!”
“No, darling; that was to the real policeman who happened to
come for a subscription. We changed policemen while you were
upstairs asking my advice. You were upstairs with me while I was
downstairs with two policemen: it all sounds rather muddling, but it’s
really quite simple.”
“What an ass he must have thought me!” said Marcus, thinking of
the real policeman.
“Oh, no; he just thought you were the English tenant of
Glenbossie, that’s all.”
Marcus got up and, walking about the room, came to a standstill
before a pile of things on the top of a chest of drawers. “What are
these abominations?” he asked.
“The things I bought at the bazaar,” said Diana, disappearing
under the bedclothes.
When Mrs. Scott met Marcus she said: “It was so good of him to
subscribe so largely to their cottage hospital.” And Marcus said: “Not
at all!”
 XV

Before ever men were Christians they were fishermen.

Let men now be first Christians, then fishermen, so
shall they not forget the gillie who stands and waits.

O NE evening in August there went out from Euston, bound for

Scotland, two men, each with his heart full of Diana. There went
also yet another and his heart, too, was full of Diana. Her address he
had learnt was Glenbossie, and to Glenbossie he was going,
although he had no invitation. Nevertheless he did not despair. God
is ever on the side of youth, and—if youth had not been asked to the
Lodge he was going to the station, and where a Loch Bossie station
is there is bound to be a Glenbossie Lodge. Wandering along the
platform at Euston, seeing again all the things—familiar things—of
which abroad he had dreamed every August and onwards—men and
dogs, gun cases and fishing-rod cases—he came upon a
prodigiously long fishing-rod case. It must belong, he thought, to a
renowned fisherman, or to one who had fished little. Guarding the
rod case, almost jealously, he saw what he guessed to be a parson,
with a light in his eyes, not of this world.
No one knew better than Miles Hastings what starting for Scotland
meant, but he had learnt to keep his face in order, whatever liberties
his heart might take. Approaching the owner of the long rod case he
read the label attached—“Watkins, Loch Bossie.”
Now Miles Hastings was a lucky young man, but this was more
than even he could have expected. Here was one who could tell him
all he wanted to know, so he set about to make friends with Watkins,
of Loch Bossie; but he found it was with one Pease he made friends,
who but guarded the treasure of Watkins.