Scot and Bothered

1. Now

1

NOW

Brooke Sinclair had always dreamed of seeing her words in print. Only, she thought, as she picked up the book at the sign-in table, she hadn’t pictured her client’s name on the cover, her own name buried inside a legally binding gag order.

She ran her thumb over the raised text of the author’s name and the letters singed her finger like they were cursed. Maybe that’s why they called it ghostwriting.

“Better hurry in, Suzi’s about to start the discussion.”

Brooke gave the check-in woman a tight smile and skirted the D-shaped atrium of McEwan Hall at the University of Edinburgh—her almost–alma mater.

The front of the auditorium might’ve been a cathedral with a two-story gilded organ filling the space, capped off by a bridge of windows under a carved arch. The soaring dome rivaled St. Peter’s Basilica, and three stories of balconies ringed the room. It felt like the type of place that would host a Shakespeare play instead of a signing for a book Brooke had written but could never mention.

The words that used to ricochet through her as she’d walked these prestigious halls were bestselling author and creative writing fellow . But as she made her way to the back of the gathering, try hard clanged around in Brooke’s mind.

She’d once thought she’d graduate in this room, even looked forward to sitting on an uncomfortable wooden chair so long as she was clad in a cap and gown. Surely seven years was enough time for the resentment to fade, but as she stared up at the blue-tinged rose window at the center of the ceiling, surrounded by ornately carved wooden embellishments and murals mimicking the Italian classics, that bitterness in her chest prickled as strongly as ever.

Usually, she swelled with pride when she attended her authors’ events. She loved celebrating their stories and achievements from the audience. But there was something about being back on campus that prevented her from blocking out that voice that said these jobs were a far cry from what she’d set out to do. Like she’d left all her old dreams behind in these hallowed halls and they’d sucker punched her when she’d walked in the door.

It wasn’t as if she hadn’t attempted to write her own stories in the intervening years. But Brooke froze up. Choked. Wrote such absolute garbage, she was surprised her computer didn’t self-destruct in an indignant display of disgust.

She’d been a shooting star who’d flamed out spectacularly. All that potential people had talked about her whole life…maybe it had never existed in the first place. It was easier to slip into someone else’s story, someone else’s voice, than to admit she’d lost her own.

Brooke made her way down the aisle, discreetly glancing around for her editor, Charlotte. Brooke only had enough bravado to make it through the signing, not to have one single conversation with anyone she’d known back then.

She’d overdone it with the makeup this morning, as if a heavy hand with a shimmery eye shadow stick could disguise her crumbled confidence. It didn’t, and Brooke was reminded of that sad fact every time she had to raise her eyebrows to unstick the crease of her eyelids.

By the time Brooke spotted Charlotte in the second row, her flight reflex was in full-on hummingbird mode under her sternum. Or maybe a mockingbird. Mourning dove? Regardless, it was taking up her entire chest cavity and not leaving any space for her lungs. She clenched her hands to get some blood back into them.

Charlotte stood and waved to Brooke, the bangles on her wrist glinting in the low light. She was chic as always, her black hair styled in a wavy pixie with an undercut, wearing gold hoop earrings and an indigo floral midi dress.

Brooke moved down the row and slipped into the empty seat next to Charlotte, who ran a hand lovingly over the book Brooke held. “It turned out so nicely, didn’t it?” she asked in her soothing Scottish accent.

“It’s stunning.” And it was. The colors were vibrant; the title was perfect. It was a cover anyone would be proud of. Brooke set the book on the ground, tilted against the wooden leg of the chair in front of her.

“How’s Mhairi’s draft coming?” Charlotte asked.

The thought of Mhairi—her old writing professor turned friend—brought a smile to Brooke’s face.

“Great.”

A research university demands publications and Mhairi loved teaching, running workshops, and inspiring students, so she’d hired Brooke for various academic projects over the years—including her first ghostwriting job after everything imploded. When Brooke had felt shell-shocked and aimless, not wanting to return to the States, but not sure where she fit in in Edinburgh, Mhairi had sat her down at her kitchen table and given Brooke a project, a direction, and a new dream.

But this project was different. Mhairi’s memoir; the pinnacle of her publishing career.

And she’d given Brooke the single greatest thing anyone had ever offered her: a cowriting credit.

A second chance.

When Mhairi had first approached her, Brooke had blurted out, “You don’t need my help!” Mhairi was a phenomenal author. But when she’d explained more about the story—founding the eighty-mile Skye Trail with a group of hikers through the Trotternish Ridge and the Cuillin Mountains on the Isle of Skye—Brooke had stopped objecting.

She wanted to live in Mhairi’s memories, to get lost in her passion, in the way Mhairi reached for what she wanted and held on tight. Brooke remembered being that kind of wide-eyed dreamer, too, but while the world had slapped her down, Mhairi had thrived. She’d changed the world.

Getting to hear her story was a privilege, but writing it? That was an honor.

“I think we’ll have a draft to you by the end of the week.”

“I can’t wait to read it.” Charlotte clasped her hands together. “And as soon as you’re done, I heard a juicy rumor this morning about a celebrity memoir opportunity. I can’t share details yet, but I think you’d be the perfect ghostwriter for it.”

Brooke tried to muster the same thrill that always coursed up her spine at Charlotte’s faith in her, but like everything else today, it felt like a ghost of what it’d once been. “I would love to be considered. Thank you for thinking of me.”

“You’re the first person I’d call.”

Charlotte turned to speak with the woman on her left and Brooke willed the chatter in the room to settle on her shoulders like a weighted blanket instead of burrowing under her skin as she stared up into the balconies.

The first time she’d been up there had been Fresher’s Week ten years ago. Meant as an orientation for the University of Edinburgh, a time to get settled and buy books, Fresher’s Week was, in reality, a five-day pub crawl. Brooke had been delighted that she could legally drink at eighteen while her high school friends were getting MIPs at frat parties back in the States.

That night, she’d come to the ceilidh and met Kieran and Chels. They’d twirled around to the sound of fiddles and stomping and when they’d been too sweaty to carry on, they’d retreated to the balcony to drink from Kieran’s flask. He’d reclined in the maroon seats while Chels had heckled dancers from above and Brooke had had the sense she was falling in love, that she’d met her soulmates.

Another memory in that balcony floated to her, hidden in the dark, warm lips pressed close to her ear with whispered promises and stolen touches.

The pads of her fingertips caught in the seam of the wooden chair, as if her body was trying to physically hold her back from that particular memory lane. She wasn’t thinking about Jack today.

The people in her aisle shifted while an older white man made his way to the empty seat next to Brooke. Charlotte leaned forward with a broad smile on her face. “So glad you could join us.” She gestured for him to take the seat next to Brooke while Brooke’s heart attempted to climb the balustrade and throw itself from the balcony.

The dean of the English Department.

She made a quick calculation of how easily she could hurdle over Charlotte’s lap and how many steps it would take to reach the women’s bathroom. She figured it was about thirty. Completely within dashing range.

But Brooke wasn’t a coward. She rolled her shoulders back, ignoring the way her pulse had spread all the way down to her fingertips. She would show him she couldn’t even remember the tiny dash of pity on his face, completely overshadowed by judgment, when Brooke had walked into his office seven years ago.

“Brooke Sinclair, this is my dear friend, Thomas Campbell.”

Brooke dragged her eyes up to the dean’s. He looked exactly the same: white button-up and tie under his maroon sweater vest, full white beard, bushy eyebrows, wire glasses. He gave her a warm smile and reached out a hand. “Pleasure to meet you,” he said in his low burr.

Brooke deflated like a popped bag of chips. He didn’t even recognize her. As if that day didn’t haunt his literal dreams like it did hers. As if his decision that’d caused an inflection point of catastrophic proportions in Brooke’s life didn’t weigh on him at all.

God, would she even recognize herself? She felt so far from the girl she’d been—so optimistic, so sure things would simply work out because she willed them to.

Brooke could only nod in response and shake his clammy hand. Where was Kieran’s flask when she needed it?

“How do you two know each other?” Dean Campbell asked, ever the networker.

“She’s one of my writers,” Charlotte said before Brooke could fumble for an answer. “She’s fabulous. ” Charlotte placed a comforting hand on Brooke’s shoulder. She already loved Charlotte, but would now gladly give her a kidney for heaping praise on her in front of the dean.

“Oh, wonderful,” Dean Campbell said with a broad grin. “Anything I’ve read?”

Brooke bristled at the question, clenching her teeth. Ghostwriting was a job of secrets—but not the fun kind like working for the CIA. She usually skirted this question, but she wanted to yell, Yes, I wrote this book! and wave it around under his nose. She wanted to revel in knowing that he knew how far she’d gone despite him. But she couldn’t. Not with Charlotte sitting right next to her.

But there was one book she could talk about. “I’m cowriting Professor McCallister’s memoir right now, actually.” Brooke savored the way his eyebrows went up, in tandem with his stock in her.

Suzi walked onto the grand stage, her heels clicking until she made it to the plush rug and taupe armchair situated in the center. She set the copy of her travel memoir—a Costa Rican Eat, Pray, Love— on the little side table and tapped the microphone, the resulting feedback screeching through the room.

Brooke winced, partly from the noise and partly to brace herself against the words she was sure Suzi would throw around about a labor of love and finding the right words to tell her story, and Brooke would sit in the audience and no one would ever know about the painstaking effort and details she’d poured into those pages.

Oh, how the mighty had fallen.