Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Avery
M y feet wouldn't stop moving, tracing and retracing the same path across my living room floor while my family formed their well-meaning circle of morning coffees and suffocation around me.
The travel guide in my hands was getting crumpled from my death grip, but it gave me something to focus on besides their concerned faces.
"Avery, honey, you're going to wear a hole in the carpet," Aunt Vivi's voice cut through my internal spiral. I could feel her eyes tracking my movement like I was some kind of fascinating nature documentary.
I froze mid-stride. "I'm fine." The lie tasted bitter on my tongue, scraping against my teeth on its way out.
In reality, my chest felt like someone had taken a hammer to it, then decided that wasn't enough and threw the pieces into a meat grinder for good measure. The empty space where my relationship with Mark used to be throbbed like a phantom limb.
And my family's constant stream of "helpful" comments was about as soothing as pouring salt in the wound.
"Statistically speaking, the emotional impact of a breakup lessens considerably after some time—" Emerson's clinical voice piped up from the couch, because clearly what I needed right now was a PowerPoint presentation on the science of heartbreak.
"Em, not now." Kennedy's voice could have stripped paint. "Unless those statistics involve the probability of me shoving my foot up your ass. In which case, I'd say we're looking at a solid 100%."
I almost smiled at that. Almost. I appreciated the attempt, but what I really wanted was to lose myself in work, to forget all about Mark and his stupid perfect teeth and his even stupider reasons for dumping me.
Was “too passionate about your job” even a legitimate breakup excuse? Like being dedicated to my career was some kind of character flaw?
Mackenzie's sudden gasp made me jump. "Wait! Now you can do the 90-Day Challenge!"
Her face lit up like she'd just discovered electricity. "I mean, it's a well-known fact that all you need to get over a breakup is to get laid for 90 days straight, right? Christ, all any of us needs is to get laid for 90 days straight. I bet it's the solution to world peace, too."
My eyes rolled up to the ceiling, searching for divine intervention or maybe just a convenient meteor strike.
"And where am I supposed to find this magical Casanova?" The sarcasm dripped from my words like honey laced with arsenic. “I'm heading out on assignment with this ridiculous influencer, not auditioning for ‘Bachelorette: Horny Edition.’”
Quinn leaned forward in her chair, and I recognized that look in her eye—the one that usually preceded terrible ideas and questionable life choices.
"I mean… traveling with Brody Hawkins? Sounds like the perfect distraction. And by distraction, I mean 'potential horizontal tango partner.'"
My fingers tightened around the travel guide until the pages crackled in protest. "It's work, Quinn. Not some romantic getaway. I'll be lucky if I don't strangle him with his own selfie stick."
The mental image was actually kind of satisfying.
“Who's Brody Hawkins?” Mackenzie asked, quickly Googling, her thumbs moving at superhuman speed. Her eyes widened comically.
“Holy shit, he's fucking hot. I'd do him for 90 days, 90 nights, and throw in some overtime. Hell, I'd consider it community service.”
I shook my head, trying to ignore my heating cheeks and the sudden, traitorous flutter in my stomach. “He's wild, unpredictable, and probably has the attention span of a squirrel.”
“Ex-fucking-zactly,” Mackenzie finished, wiggling her eyebrows like a silent movie villain. “Wild, unpredictable, and I bet he could make you forget your own name. Possibly the entire English language.”
As Mackenzie scrolled through Brody's Instagram with the intensity of an FBI agent hunting for clues, I pulled up his feed on my laptop, telling myself it was purely for research purposes.
“He's a walking billboard for trouble,” I protested weakly, even as my eyes lingered on a shirtless photo that made my insides flip-flop. “With abs like that, he's probably in love with his own reflection.”
But even as I said it, a tiny voice in my head whispered, maybe a little trouble is exactly what you need. I quickly shushed that unhelpful menace, but the seed had been planted.
“Which is why he's perfect,” Mackenzie said, grinning. “Come on, Av. When was the last time you did something spontaneous? And no, buying the fancy toilet paper doesn't count.”
I bristled, my spine straightening like I'd just been zapped by a cattle prod.
“I'm spontaneous,” I argued, sounding about as convincing as a kid with chocolate all over their face denying they ate the last cookie.
“Look,” I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose, “this assignment is important. I can't afford to get distracted by some Instagram bro with abs.”
Mom chuckled, a sound that was equal parts amused and devious. “Oh, honey. Sometimes the best stories come from unexpected detours. And sometimes, those detours have very talented hands, if you know what I mean.” She grinned in a way that should be outlawed for anyone over fifty.
I shot her a look that could curdle milk, but she just shrugged, a knowing smile on her face that made me wonder if she and Aunt Vivi had some sort of secret cougar club I didn't know about.
Mental note: never, ever ask about that.
As my family finally started clearing out, each offering a hug and words of encouragement that ranged from “You've got this!” to “Don't forget to pack condoms!”, I stood in front of my closet, debating what to wear to meet Brody.
It was like trying to pick an outfit for a job interview, a first date, and a cage match all at once.
I settled on a practical outfit, then changed into something more professional, then back again, kicking myself for caring what he thought. I was there to work.
And definitely not to ogle him a little. Or a lot. Nope, no ogling at all.
Instead of meeting in my office, Brody had changed the location to some dive bar, which was as grungy as expected, clearly decorated by someone whose design aesthetic was “tetanus chic.”
The smell of stale beer hit me as I walked in, and I fought the urge to douse myself in hand sanitizer.
I spotted Brody at the bar, looking like he owned the place.
Hell, he looked like he owned the whole damn block.
Taking a deep breath that I immediately regretted (note to self: breathing deeply in dive bars is never a good idea), I approached him, clutching my notebook like it was a shield against his ridiculous good looks.
“Brody?” I said, touching his shoulder and immediately regretting it. Even his damn shoulder was ripped.
He turned, and his dark eyes, like a perfect espresso, nearly knocked me on my ass as he grinned, oozing charm like it was his job. Which, I guess it kind of was.
“Avery Grant,” he said, drawing out the words. “You look way too put together for this place. Did you take a wrong turn on your way to a board meeting? Or are you moonlighting as a health inspector? Because I really don’t think this place will pass.”
I stiffened. “Some of us like to look professional, regardless of the venue. We can’t all roll out of bed looking like we just stepped off a magazine cover.”
Oh God. Did I just compliment him? Kill me now.
Brody chuckled, raising his beer in a mock salute.
“Loosen up, Spark. We're going to be stuck together for a long time. Might as well get comfy. Unless you plan on keeping that stick up your ass the whole time? Because that's gonna make some of the activities I've got planned pretty uncomfortable.”
"Spark?" The word felt strange in my mouth, like something from a different language.
He nodded, squinting and giving me the once-over like he was appraising a particularly thorny cactus.
“Yup, definitely fiery and full of prickles,” he said with a little waggle of his fingers toward me. “You know… sparky.”
And then he fucking winked.
I sighed, but perched on the stool next to him, putting my notebook on the sticky bar and immediately regretting it. It looked like it hadn't seen a cleaning cloth since the Reagan administration. Millions of bacteria were probably throwing a block party on my poor notebook's cover.
"Can we discuss the trip?" I tried to keep my voice professional, even as irritation crawled up my spine. "Or would that be too 'stick up the ass' for you?"
He gestured for me to continue with an exaggerated bow, like a knight granting an audience to a peasant. I wanted to hate him for it, but as we settled into the actual planning, something weird happened.
Every word out of his mouth simultaneously made me want to throw something and… lean in closer? It was infuriating how his carefree attitude both grated on my nerves and somehow drew me in.
The soda water in front of me tasted suspicious, like the tap it came from might have been rusted. Meanwhile, Brody knocked back another brew like it was water.
We couldn't have been more different if we tried—him looking like he'd just stepped out of a beer commercial with that easy smile and perfectly tousled hair, while I sat there, probably resembling the "before" picture in an antacid ad.
"So, let me get this straight." He leaned back, all lazy grace and curious energy, like a lion who'd just spotted a gazelle. "You want to plan every day of this trip? Down to the hour?" His lips twitched. "Christ, do you schedule your pee breaks too?"
Something hot and dangerous flared in my chest. Those 'sparks' he'd mentioned earlier? Yeah, they were threatening to turn this whole dive bar into a bonfire.
"Not every hour," I spat back, filling each word with enough venom to make a cobra jealous. "But yes, I believe in having a plan. To make sure we don't miss anything important. You know, like actually doing our jobs? Or is that concept too foreign for someone whose primary skill is flexing for a camera?"
Brody just shook his head, his smile spreading slow and easy across his face. It made me want to either slap him or… wait.
No or . There is no fucking or .
“Where's the fun in that?” he asked. “The best stuff happens when you least expect it. Like finding yourself in a dive bar with a hot control freak.”
My cheeks heated at the compliment, but I pushed on, ignoring the little voice in my head screaming 'but it could be fun!' A voice that sounded exactly like Mackenzie.
“This isn't about fun,” I reminded him, gripping my pen so hard I was surprised it didn't snap. “It's about work. About creating compelling content that resonates with both our audiences. You know, the people who pay our bills? Or do your abs have another income stream I'm not aware of?”
“Come on, Spark,” he said, leaning in close enough that I could smell his annoyingly good cologne.
“People want authenticity. They want to feel like they're right there with us, experiencing the ups and downs, the unexpected twists and turns.” He raised an eyebrow, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. “The sexual tension.”
Barring his last comment, I hated to admit it, but he had a point. A point as sharp and dangerous as the cheekbones currently invading my personal space. Still, the thought of winging this trip made my stomach churn.
Or maybe that was just his close proximity. Stupid, attractive, infuriating man.
“How the hell are we going to get through this?” Brody asked, echoing my thoughts. “Without killing each other or… you know.” He wiggled his eyebrows in a way that should have been ridiculous but somehow managed to be both amusing and distressingly sexy.
“You know?” I asked, even though I absolutely knew.
He hit me with a smile that could melt polar icecaps. “Come on, Spark. You're a smart girl. I'm sure you can figure it out. Or do you need me to draw you a diagram? Maybe a video presentation?”
Something inside me snapped like a rubber band that had been stretched too far.
I was so sick of everyone thinking I was some uptight, fun-sucking robot. Mark. The magazine. My family. And now this annoyingly hot influencer who thought he had me all figured out.
The absolutely crazy, no-good, terrible idea started forming like a tornado—a slow spin at first, then all at once, gathering speed and debris and all my common sense in its wake.
It was stupid. Beyond stupid. The kind of stupid that would make future me want to build a time machine just to come back and slap present me.
But there was something deliciously satisfying about the thought of proving everyone wrong. About showing them all—especially this smirking Adonis in front of me—that I could be spontaneous. That I could be fun. That I could be…
Oh God. I was actually considering this.
The words started bubbling up like champagne that had been shaken too hard, and once I opened my mouth, there was no stopping them.
"You know what? I am fucking done with everyone thinking I'm some stick-in-the-mud who can't handle a little excitement. News flash, asshole: I can handle more than you could ever dish out."
Brody's eyes widened, clearly not expecting my outburst.
“You want to know how we're going to get through this?” I continued, anger and frustration driving my words. “We're going to do the damn 90-Day Relationship Challenge.”
Brody's eyebrows shot up like rockets. “The what now? Is this some kinky bucket list thing I don't know about? Because if so, I'm both terrified and intrigued.”
I quickly explained about the challenge, my cousin Mackenzie’s book deal… how all of my family was doing it.
Words spilled out like I'd had ten shots of tequila instead of just soda water.
“Think about it. It'll hook our fans. We document the trip, but also this… experiment. See if there's any truth to the idea that 90 days of forcing a relationship can lead to actual feelings. Or in our case, more likely murder.”
Brody stared at me for a long moment, his expression some kind of combination of shock, amusement, and something else I couldn't quite decipher.
Then, slowly, a grin spread across his face that screamed trouble.
“Avery Grant, you're full of surprises. I thought you were all color-coded schedules and risk assessments, and now you're suggesting we fake-date for three months? Who are you and what have you done with the uptight chick I met ten minutes ago?”
I felt my face go nuclear. “It's not about that,” I said, not sure if I was trying to convince him or myself. “It's about exploring a concept. Creating some content.”
“For the content,” Brody mused, a slow nod accompanying the troublemaking glint in his eyes. His gaze locked with mine, full of silent promises that made my insides perform a full gymnastics routine.
I swallowed hard, suddenly realizing the magnitude of what I was proposing. But it would be way too humiliating to back down now. “So, are we doing this, or what?”