CHAPTER ONE

GHOSTWRITER

( — a person who writes one or numerous speeches, books, articles, etc., for another person who is named as or presumed to be the author. )

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          "I THINK THIS IS A GREAT OPPORTUNITY FOR YOU."

          Rowan, making sure to get out of the pool as slowly as possible—mostly because the gusts of wind return exactly when he steps out of the water and it makes his hair look good—narrows his eyes, despite knowing his father can't see them behind his sunglasses. They call it a nervous habit. Rowan calls it being in control of his own damn life, thank you very much.

          No, seriously, just look at this damn house: he bought it for his parents with his own money He is perfectly capable of making his own decisions, no matter how poor they might turn out to be at times, and he doesn't need other people to try to live his life for him.

          "Writers don't usually earn that much just by writing," they say.

          "That's because they're not writing the right thing," Rowan points out, winning the debate, and allows himself to dive back into the pool because it's ninety-five degrees outside—in New Hampshire.

          "Rowan," Timothy Underwood insists, for what feels like the millionth time, and Rowan falls to a recliner, not being a particular fan of hearing despair cloud his own father's voice. It's not what he was raised to be, just like Justine Underwood makes sure to constantly remind him, and it's unnerving to see and hear their frequent hypocrisy. "Come on. It's not like we're suggesting you do something you've never done before."

          "Has anyone ever told you you're sort of pretentious, Rowan?" Justine questions, stepping into the back garden and carrying a tray with three tall glasses of pink lemonade. Her sunglasses hang on the crown of her head and her hair, having been bleached more times than Rowan can count on two hands, glows platinum under the sunrays. "Frankly, honey, I don't know who you get that from."

          "Oh?" Rowan blabbers, slumped on the recliner as if it was a divan, a la Oscar Wilde, and props himself up on an elbow, ignoring the sudden jolts of pain shooting up his arm. "I wouldn't call myself pretentious. I'm a man of expensive tastes."

          Timothy rolls his eyes, with a thin layer of sweat covering the dark skin of his chest. "No, you are pretentious. Ever since you started writing for other people"—Rowan's lips involuntarily twist into a smug smile as he takes one of the glasses of lemonade and stirs the beverage with a straw—"you've become . . . I don't know. It feels like you think you're entitled to every good thing that can possibly happen without ever making an effort."

          Rowan places a hand on his chest, right above his heart (or whatever's inside your ribcage, Jasper used to say, back in the day, because I'm beginning to think all there is in there is a black hole). "You say that like it's a bad thing. Correct me if I'm wrong, but I believe it has had mostly good consequences for the three of us so far, has it not? Look at this house. Look at our bank accounts."

          Timothy raises a finger. "You're twenty-five and you only put effort—real effort—into something when it only brings good consequences for you." Another finger. "You don't take risks ever"—he raises a third finger—"and, when you do, we find you giving up on what you had started hours later."

          "Your point is?"

          "Our point is," Justine intervenes, "you have plenty of growing up to do. We expected you to mature a little bit after the break-up"—Rowan's jaw is clenched so tightly he's seconds away from hearing the bones crack—"but all you've done is spend money on things you don't need, like that new Jeep of yours, and the Twin Peaks merchandise. Seriously, honey, why do you care so much about a show that aired before you were born?"

          "Season three aired last year." Rowan stands up, putting his t-shirt back on, and places his hands on his hips. The dry air outside has done wonders in such a short amount of time and he knows he shouldn't be happy about it, as it's almost October and there's not a single rain cloud in sight. Both his parents look up at him. "Besides, who cares where I spend my money? I earned it fair and square."

          "Just send your damn application, Rowan," Timothy dryly orders and Rowan huffs, making his way back inside the house with his chin held high, like a child who was denied some candy. He makes sure to stomp his feet, though it doesn't quite have the dramatic effect he thought it would, as he's wearing flip-flops, and it only manages to piss off his parents even more. "And quit acting like a spoiled brat!"

          "I have pretty darn good reasons to be spoiled," Rowan yells, taking the first step on the staircase and disappearing upstairs. He even slams the door leading to his room because he clearly hadn't messed things up enough by storming out of the back garden.

          His laptop lies open over his bed to taunt him, as he had stupidly been checking adverts of people requesting a ghostwriter's services. He feels pathetic when he does it, remembering how people insist he should try to write his own stuff instead of doing it for other people and only publishing seemingly mediocre articles for seemingly mediocre local newspapers every now and then, but it's not that simple. It never is.

          They forget about how hard it is to get a contract nowadays. If you're a celebrity, writing a book is so much easier because they're expecting you to do it at some point, but it's considerably more difficult to do when you're a regular person from New Hampshire who's not critically acclaimed. There's plenty of competition and Rowan knows he has what it takes to make it into the publishing world if anyone ever gives him a proper chance—and if he decided to show off his best writing samples to publishers looking for young blood instead of putting all his energy into ghostwriting, but that's a story for another time—but, realistically, the odds of that ever happening are low.

          Rowan wouldn't even consider himself to be particularly realistic, let's be honest, but there comes a time in your life when someone knocks you off your pedestal and reminds you you might not be as good as you thought you were. Jasper was the one who did it to him, thinking it would be helpful—in her own twisted way of being helpful, that is, but Jasper has never been much of a team player; then again, neither has Rowan—but he knows it was simply her way of eliminating the competition.

          That might explain why she got the damn contract two years ago and published a best-seller under her own name, while he's stuck begging people to let him write for them while keeping all the credit for themselves.

          "You can't tell me it doesn't look fancy to have Jasper St. Claire plastered on the cover," she told him, stroking a hardcover copy of her debut novel as if it was a lap dog. "I'm looking forward to seeing you do the same someday."

          It's ridiculous.

          "I think this is a great opportunity for you," Rowan mocks, in a mutter, even though he's alone in the bedroom. He then double-clicks on the space bar to make the screen light up.

          He knows exactly what his father was talking about and why he so desperately wants him to send an application. There's a particular advert, one that looks awfully formal—and borderline pretentious, hence why Rowan's parents thought it would be an eye-catcher—with its serif fonts and black and burgundy text, belonging to some rich dude from Canada who's looking for a ghostwriter to write about the mysteries of their port town.

          Rowan doesn't particularly care. The man can't write it because he's the Dean of some university and is super-duper busy, but so is Rowan, as his brand new Jeep won't drive and show itself off on the streets by itself. It's not like he's in need of any money and he certainly doesn't want to go through the absolute hassle that is traveling all the way to Canada just for an interview—submitting the application is the easy part of it all—knowing exactly how it will end.

          When it comes to rich, busy men, they have a type. They want young writers, which Rowan is, but, for some absurdly racist reason, they mostly want white young writers, which Rowan is not—only half of him is, with his father being Afro-Jamaican. They want writers who care about what they do, which Rowan does, but who also won't give up when faced with a minor inconvenience, which Rowan doesn't do.

          The first order of business is to Google the man. A quick search lets Rowan know Gabriel Guerreiro is Brazilian, which does nothing to help him decide whether he's in this or not, but it also tells him he's the chancellor of Crowcrest University, which nearly makes him close the tab. It's been all over the news, thanks to the prestige of their research and some Social Psychology experiment they announced a few days ago; it's called Project Oxygen, though Rowan doesn't know and doesn't care why they called it that. It's also the type of place Rowan doesn't wish to associate himself with.

          His damn luck, let him tell you.

          Nevertheless, the man isn't the type of person Rowan is used to writing for, always showing up with bright grins on every photo there seems to be of him, including the ones with his wife and daughter, and there are recommendations from other ghostwriters, ones Rowan knows in person—including Eric Young, Rowan's friend from college, who was the only other biracial kid in his dorm floor—which weighs heavily on the scale.

          Sighing through gritted teeth, Rowan decides to email the man, sincerely hoping he won't regret it.

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          "I HAVE SOMETHING TO TELL YOU," Rowan announces, three days later, at the dinner table, unable to not miss the peace and quiet of his apartment. Spending the summer with his parents has been fun, generally speaking, but there are always too many people in this house—his parents' friends, the maids, the butler, the security guards—and he misses having his personal space, since not even his bedroom here is off limits from his cousins.

          There's mashed potatoes running down his t-shirt, courtesy of his cousin Brett, who's sitting in front of him and snickering at it, and Rowan tries to not think about the gravy staining his jeans.

          Looking around the table, Rowan's smile drops, realizing no one looks the slightest bit interested in what has to say, and it makes his blood boil in his veins, especially after his parents were the ones who pushed him to do this in the first place. It's how it has always been with the Underwoods, though, so it should be no surprise; they either care too much or not at all, even when they end up contradicting themselves.

          Rowan clears his throat. "I said—"

          "Just spill it out already," Timothy retorts, refilling his glass with red wine. "If it really was a big deal, I doubt you'd be able to hold it in for so long."

          "The rich guy looking for a ghostwriter emailed me back," Rowan clarifies, trying to keep his voice steady enough to make them think they're not getting to his head. All he needs is some damn validation coming from his parents, and they can't give him that, not even after all he has done, both for himself and for them. Nevertheless, this makes them lift their heads and finally look at him. "He wants to meet up with me for an interview because he might be interested in working with me; I mean, I'll be working for him, but he can't exactly say it directly to my face without running the risk of having me sue him. You know, the usual rich men drama."

          "You're going to Nova Scotia?" Justine questions, and Rowan nods, still not particularly ecstatic over it. "How are you traveling? Plane?"

          "Ferry, through Maine," he corrects. "I have vertigo."

          "So you're spending extra money on a bus and a ferry when you could simply catch a plane?"

          Rowan exhales. "I have vertigo. I'd rather spend my money on extra travels than have a panic attack during a damn flight." Justine rolls her eyes and he curls his fingers tightly around his silver cutlery, not expecting a different reaction from her. "I thought this was what the two of you wanted, right? You wanted me to send my application to that guy, which I did. You wanted me to go through to the next round, which I did—and, let me tell you, there were dozens of applicants and now there's just me and two other people. Wasn't that what you wanted?"

          "We wanted you to finally be responsible," Timothy says, "and, if this is what it takes for you to grow up and get your work out there, then you have our full support. From both of us"—he shoots Justine a warning look and she forces herself to nod, but Rowan knows she'll never be a fan of his ghostwriting business—"so go pack your bags and prepare yourself for that interview because I refuse to hear you say you didn't get the job. And do something to your hair, for Christ's sake."

          Rowan knits his brows together. Despite knowing they have never been particularly enthusiastic to see him let his hair grow freely, it's not like it's that long. It's thin and only reaches his chin, making it so he can't even pull it back—and he has an unnerving tendency to lose bobby pins—but he supposes he can slick it back for that interview.

          Writers tend to be messy people as it is, but ghostwriters take it up a notch. They're the shadows of the writing world, doing the dirty job for other people and getting their hands bloody sometimes, so Rowan tries to blame it all on the career he chose. It's not like he went to college thinking this is what he'd be doing with his life—God knows how badly he wants to sign a damn contract that asks him to write for himself and not for someone else—but it has paid off, so he'll take it.

          "Thanks for having my back," Rowan eventually mutters, and, deep down, he knows he means it. Despite this being a dysfunctional family at times, it's still his family and it's home, even with the mashed potatoes and gravy sliding down his clothes to the wooden floor of the dining room.

          Timothy raises his glass. "Cheers, kid. You're gonna go far. I know you will."