The 90-Day Detour (The Expiry Date Diaries #2)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Avery

T he words on my computer were doing that thing again—swimming and blurring until they were just black squiggles mocking my attempts to focus. I'd read the same sentence four times now, and I still couldn't have told you what it said.

Something was off. I could feel it in my bones, that creeping sensation that made my stomach do little nervous flips. Like watching storm clouds gather in the distance and knowing you’re about to get soaked.

A second later, my phone buzzed, snapping me out of my spiraling thoughts. Mark's name lit up the screen, and I felt a flicker of relief. Mark was my touchstone, the steady presence in my life that kept me from drifting off into chaos.

"Hey, babe, you won't believe the day I'm having," I said, the words tumbling out of me like marbles spilling across a floor, picking up speed as they went. "Rebecca's been hinting about dropping a new assignment on my desk, and the way she's acting…" My free hand fidgeted with a pen, clicking it repeatedly. "I don't know. I'm just getting a bad feel?—"

"Avery." Mark's voice sliced through my rambling like a knife, and something in his tone made my chest tighten. "We need to talk."

Those four words hung in the air like a guillotine blade, but before I could even process what they meant—what they really meant—movement in my doorway caught my eye.

Rebecca was standing there, and, shit, I knew that look. That was her 'I hate to do this but I'm going to do it anyway' face.

"Got a minute? There's an assignment we need to discuss."

I held up one finger, silently pleading for a moment to deal with the first crisis before tackling the second. Rebecca nodded, but something was off about her too. She was usually all kinetic energy and rapid-fire words, but now she was just… still.

She leaned against my doorframe, arms crossed, and my anxiety meter ticked up another notch.

"Mark, can you hold on for just a second?" My voice came out thin and reedy, like I was trying to hold back a scream. The pen in my hand was clicking faster now, a nervous staccato that matched my pulse.

"Sure." One word, flat as a pancake. My stomach did another backflip.

I pressed my palm against the phone, probably smearing it with nervous sweat, and turned to Rebecca.

"What is it?" The words scratched against my throat on their way out.

She gave me this smile—the kind that made you want to run. Her bob swayed as she cleared her throat, and I braced myself for whatever meteor was about to crash into my day.

“I need you to cover a bunch of new romantic dream destinations…” My heart skipped a beat. I couldn’t understand what she was so worried about—I loved being whisked off to far-flung and fabulous destinations. “…with Brody Hawkins.”

I nearly dropped the phone.

“What? No, absolutely not. Rebecca, you know I can't stand that guy. He's reckless and completely unprofessional.” My voice rose a notch, fueled by disbelief and indignation.

Rebecca made a face that said I’d love to help you out but…

“I’m afraid this is non-negotiable, Avery. It's happening. I don’t like it either, but there’s nothing I can do.”

I opened my mouth to argue, to unleash a torrent of reasons why this was the worst idea since Netflix's password-sharing crackdown, but Mark's voice crackled through the phone, reminding me of the precarious conversation I’d put on hold.

“Avery? Are you there?”

“I'm sorry, Mark. Give me one more minute,” I said, trying to hide the desperation in my voice. I turned back to Rebecca, lowering my voice to a stern whisper. “We'll discuss this later.”

She nodded, then sauntered away, the damage from the bomb she’d just dropped still exploding through my brain.

I took a deep, fortifying breath and returned to my call with Mark, dreading whatever fresh hell was about to unfold on this side of things.

"I'm here, Mark." I pressed the phone closer to my ear. "What did you want to talk about?"

The silence stretched between us like a rubber band about to snap. I could practically see him on the other end, running his hand through his hair the way he always did when he was nervous. When he finally spoke, each word felt like a physical blow.

"Avery, I… I've met someone."

The world tilted sideways. My office, with its familiar desk and scattered papers and that stupid motivational poster I'd always meant to replace, suddenly felt like a stranger's room. My fingers found the edge of the desk, gripping it so hard my knuckles went white.

"What?" The word came out strangled, barely recognizable as my own voice.

"I'm sorry, Avery." God, he actually sounded sorry, which somehow made it worse. "I didn't mean for it to happen, but… I've fallen for someone else. I can't keep pretending everything's okay between us."

My eyes squeezed shut, and memories ambushed me. Sunday morning coffee runs. Movie nights where we fell asleep on the couch. That weekend trip to the coast where it rained the whole time but we didn't care.

Our relationship was good—no, great. Wasn't it?

But even as I reached for those memories, they felt oddly flat, like photos of someone else's life. How long had we just been going through the motions, reading lines from a script neither of us believed in anymore?

"How long?" The question clawed its way up my throat, barely louder than a breath. I wasn't sure I wanted to know the answer, but I needed to hear it.

"A few months." His voice got smaller, guilty. "I wanted to tell you sooner, but with your travel schedule and deadlines…"

Something hot erupted in my chest, burning away the numbness. My free hand clenched into a fist, nails biting into my palm.

"Don't you dare blame this on my career, Mark. You could have told me anytime. You chose not to."

"I know, I'm sorry." He sighed, and I hated how resigned he sounded, like he'd rehearsed this conversation a hundred times in his head. "I just… I think we both know this isn't working. Your job always came first, Avery. There was never any room for us."

I wanted to scream at him, to unleash every cutting remark that was building up behind my teeth. I wanted to remind him of every time I'd rearranged my schedule for him, every deadline I'd pushed to make his family events.

But beneath the anger, there was something else—a tiny, traitorous voice whispering that maybe he wasn't entirely wrong. How many times had I chosen a story over a date night? How many weekends had I spent hunched over my laptop instead of actually being present?

The truth sat like acid in my stomach. I'd been chasing stories like they could fill the empty spaces in my life, treating success like it was some magic key that would unlock… what?

Happiness? Purpose? Whatever it was, it suddenly felt hollow.

Still, hearing him say it out loud stung like a motherfucker.

“I see,” I said, my voice as frosty as an Arctic blast. “Well, thank you for finally being honest. I hope you and your new girlfriend are very happy together.”

“Avery, I?—”

I hung up before he could finish, my hand trembling as I set my phone on my desk with a defiant clatter. Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes, but I blinked them back furiously. I refused to shed even a single tear over Mark, over a relationship that I now realized had been limping along on life support for months. Maybe longer.

Taking a long pull from my coffee cup, I tried to steady the storm of emotions swirling inside me. I was Avery-freaking-Grant. I'd survived worse. I could handle a breakup, even if it felt like being sucker-punched by the universe.

A knock at my door jolted me back to reality, causing me to nearly spill my latte dangerously close to my keyboard. Fucking fantastic.

Rebecca poked her head in. “Are you okay? I heard you yelling. I know this assignment was not what you were expecting, but you look like you just found out they've discontinued your favorite wine.”

I straightened my spine, pushing my personal turmoil aside like the pile of unread emails in my inbox.

“I'm fine. Peachy keen. Now, about this assignment with Brody 'I-have-more-Instagram-followers-than-brain-cells' Hawkins…”

Rebecca stepped into the office, closing the door behind her with an ominous click. I half expected dramatic music to start playing like we were in some kind of painful period drama.

“I know you have reservations, but this is huge for the magazine. Brody's social media following is off the charts. The guy could post a picture of a rock and get a million likes. Pairing him with your writing could be exactly what we need to boost our readership.”

I shook my head, frustration building like a pressure cooker about to explode.

“Rebecca, please listen to me. Brody and I have completely incompatible styles. He's all about adrenaline rushes and flashy photos. I focus on the details, the culture, the authentic experiences. You know, the stuff that actually matters? How is this unholy union possibly going to work? It's like trying to pair a fine wine with a Twinkie.”

“That's exactly why it will work,” Rebecca insisted, her eyes lighting up like she'd just discovered the secret to eternal youth. Or, you know, a way to save our dying magazine.

“Your differences will create a dynamic that readers will love. Trust me. This is the opportunity of a lifetime. It's like… Schitt’s Creek meets National Geographic.”

I sank back in my chair, the leather creaking in protest as if it, too, was fed up with the day's bullshit.

My personal life was in shambles, my heart still not knowing what the fuck to do with Mark's betrayal, and now my professional life was being turned upside down, too.

What was next? Locusts?

“You can't be serious, Rebecca,” I said. “I'm a real writer, not a babysitter for some Instagram pretty boy. There has to be another way.”

Rebecca's expression hardened. “Avery, I understand your frustration, but?—”

“No, I don't think you do,” I cut her off. “I've spent years building my reputation as a travel writer. This… this influencer collab bullshit will undo all of that. Can't you assign this to someone else? Anyone else?”

“There is no one else,” Rebecca said, her voice tight. “You're our best writer, and we need the best for this.”

I laughed, a sharp, bitter sound. “So I'm being punished for being good at my job?”

Rebecca's expression softened slightly, like she was about to tell a child their goldfish had gone to the big fishbowl in the sky.

“I'm sorry, but you don't have a choice. I don’t have a choice. This project is the only way we can keep the magazine afloat. We need this, Avery. Think of it as taking one for the team.”

I ran my hands through my hair. “And if I refuse? What then?”

Rebecca let out a long sigh. “Then we’re all going to have to start updating our resumes,” she said quietly.

The fight drained out of me, replaced by a bone-deep weariness. I slumped back into my chair.

“Fuck. When do we start this epic journey into the heart of incompatibility?”

“Brody will be here tomorrow morning to discuss the itinerary. You should probably start researching him. And maybe practice your fake smile.”

She gave me a look that was a little too close to ‘sorry, not sorry,’ and left, the click of her shoes fading down the hallway.

I took a moment to close my eyes and breathe, then turned to my computer, pulling up Brody Hawkins' social media profiles. As I scrolled through his feed, a flood of irritation and envy washed over me like a tidal wave of conflicting emotions.

His photos were undeniably stunning—breathtaking landscapes, daring adventures, and that infuriatingly charming smile in every shot. The kind of smile that probably made all the panties within a ten-mile radius spontaneously combust.

But where was the substance? The stories behind the places he visited? The cultural significance? The local perspectives? This was all surface-level eye candy, designed to rack up likes faster than I could rack up neuroses.

The more I delved into Brody's online presence, the more frustrated I became. His carefree, adventurous persona seemed to mock my meticulous, detail-oriented approach like a personal affront to everything I stood for.

How was I supposed to work with someone who treated travel journalism like a never-ending frat party?

A soft ping interrupted my brooding, and I looked up to see a notification for an incoming video call from my cousin Quinn. I clicked to accept, and her face filled my screen, complete with a 'Who pissed in your Cheerios?' facial expression.

“Hey, Av. You okay? You look like you're about to set your computer on fire with your eyes.”

I leaned back in my chair, wondering if it was too early to spike my coffee. “I'm fine. Just… processing a lot. You know, the usual Tuesday chaos.”

Quinn's image shifted as she adjusted her camera. “Want to talk about it? I've got time, two functioning ears, and a secret stash of chocolate in my desk drawer that I could try to share through the screen.”

For a moment, I considered brushing her off. But the events of the morning came crashing down on me, and I found myself spilling everything—Mark's betrayal, the forced partnership with Brody, my fears about my career.

By the time I finished, I felt like I'd just verbal-vomited the entire plot of a Lifetime movie.

Quinn listened patiently, her expression full of sympathy and determination, like she was ready to either hug me or kick someone's ass. Possibly both.

“I'm so sorry about Mark, Av. He's an idiot for letting you go. Seriously, the man's got the emotional intelligence of a potato.”

I shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant, but probably looking more like I was having some kind of fit.

“Maybe it's for the best. I was probably more in love with the stability of him than with the actual him.”

Quinn nodded, taking a sip of some kind of purple smoothie concoction.

“As for this Brody situation,” she said, a mischievous glint in her eye that usually meant trouble, “I say you use it to your advantage. Show everyone why you're the best damn travel writer in the business. Make them remember why they hired you in the first place, instead of just picking the nearest Instagram model with a passport.”

She leaned in conspiratorially, lowering her voice. “And if you happen to make Brody look like an amateur in the process, well… that's just a bonus. Maybe he'll cry pretty tears for his next selfie.”

Despite everything, I felt a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth, threatening to break through my carefully refined misery.

“You're right. I can't let this derail me. I've worked too hard to let a breakup and an annoying influencer ruin everything. I've survived deadlines, food poisoning in questionable countries, and that time I accidentally insulted that monk—although, in my defense, there’s no way monks are supposed to be that hot. In any case, I think I can handle one pretty boy with a GoPro.”

Quinn grinned. “That's right. Who runs the world? Girls who can turn an Instagram nightmare into a Pulitzer-worthy piece.”

I couldn't help but laugh, feeling some of the tension leave my body.

“Thanks, Quinn. I needed that kick in the ass. Although, fair warning, if Brody turns out to be as insufferable as I think he will, I might need you to bail me out of jail.”

“Consider it done,” Quinn said. “Now, how about we grab a drink after work? I think you could use one… or three. Or, you know, the whole damn bottle. I won't judge.”

I sighed, tempted by the siren call of sisterhood. “Thanks, but I should stay and prepare for tomorrow. I promise I'll make it up to you with a wild girls' night once this assignment is over.”

“I'm holding you to that,” she said, pointing at the camera. “And don't work too late. If I find out you've become one with your chair, I'm staging an intervention.”

“Oh God, with our family I can only imagine how that would go.”

“Please let us never find out,” Quinn agreed. “Now go. Be productive. Make me proud. And remember, you can always 'accidentally' push Brody off a cliff and claim it was for the dramatic camera angle.”

“Goodbye, Quinn,” I said, rolling my eyes but still smiling.

“Bye, cuz. Don't do anything I wouldn't do!”

“That leaves me with a disturbingly wide range of options,” I muttered as I ended the call.

The silence that followed Quinn's departure was almost deafening.

Shaking off the lingering echoes of our laughter, I turned back to my computer, determination replacing my earlier frustration.

Time to see what I was up against.

I pulled up Brody's latest video, studying his technique, his audience engagement, the way he framed his shots. As much as I hated to admit it, there was a certain raw talent there, hidden under the flashy exterior and the abs that looked like they were carved by Michelangelo.

Hours passed as I immersed myself in research, making notes and formulating strategies. The sky outside my window darkened, but I barely noticed, too focused on my task. My eyes burned, my back ached, and my stomach grumbled in protest, but I pushed on, fueled by caffeine, spite, and professional pride.

Finally, as the clock neared midnight and I was pretty sure I could recite Brody's entire social media history from memory, I leaned back in my chair, stretching my cramped muscles with a groan.

My eyes fell on a framed photo on my desk—me standing in front of the Taj Mahal, grinning with pure joy, my hair a mess and my clothes rumpled from the long journey, but my eyes shining brighter than the marble dome behind me.

I remembered the moment clearly, the sense of awe and wonder I felt, the stories I couldn't wait to share with the world. The way my heart had raced as I stood there, overwhelmed by the beauty and history surrounding me.

That feeling, I realized with a pang of nostalgia, was why I became a travel writer in the first place. Not for accolades or professional validation, but for the sheer love of exploration and storytelling.

But somewhere along the way, between deadlines and office politics and trying to please everyone, I'd lost sight of that.

I picked up the photo, remembering the feel of the warm stone under my hand, the scent of spices in the air, the cacophony of sounds that had surrounded me.

Maybe this assignment with Brody, as challenging as it would be, was an opportunity to rediscover that spark. To remember why I fell in love with travel in the first place.

Setting the picture down with a newfound sense of purpose, I pulled up Brody's Instagram profile one last time.

His latest post showed him grinning at the camera, arms spread wide against a backdrop of a stunning mountain range that made my wanderlust ache. His perfectly tousled hair caught the golden light of sunset, and his eyes crinkled at the sides in a way that was annoyingly attractive.

The caption read: “Ready for another big adventure! Where should I go next? Wrong answers only.”

I stared at the photo with apprehension and, if I were being honest, maybe a bit of intrigue.

“Game on, Hawkins,” I muttered, a competitive fire igniting in me. “Hope you're ready for a real adventure, pretty boy.”