5. Avery
Chapter five
Avery
Maddie finally snores softly, little snortlets escaping her button nose as I pull the covers up over her shoulders.
The nightlight throws whimsical shapes of bunnies and giraffes around the room, creating a dreamlike atmosphere that might actually be sweet—if not for how long it took to get her to sleep.
After reading ‘The Very Hungry Caterpillar’ for what felt like the fiftieth time, she finally nodded off mid-question about whether caterpillars really eat cake. Honestly, I wasn’t prepared for the level of stamina a ten-year-old could have, even after a chaotic paint-filled afternoon.
Clara did a solid job cleaning up earlier because the room looks spotless now, as though no green-paint apocalypse ever happened. If only Gray’s mood could be reset that easily.
I tiptoe across the room, careful not to wake Maddie, and ease the door closed behind me.
My mind’s already spiraling. Dinner earlier? Awkward. Painfully so. Gray didn’t say a single word to me, but the way he kept his jaw tight and his fork stabbing into his food like it personally offended him? Yeah, I’m pretty sure he’s pissed. And I know why.
The paint plus my sarcasm. Obviously.
“Time to face the music,” I mutter under my breath, starting toward the stairs.
On the landing, Clara’s just finishing up for the night, carrying a basket of freshly folded towels. Her steps falter when she notices me.
“Sorry, Clara, but do you know where Gray is?”
She pauses, looking almost like she’s weighing how much she should tell me. “I think he’s in the library,” she answers, then hesitates. “And Avery?”
I arch a brow, waiting.
“Don’t let him scare you. His bark is much worse than his bite.”
A nervous laugh escapes before I can stop it. “Good to know,” I reply, though the pit in my stomach suggests otherwise.
Clara offers a reassuring smile, then heads up the stairs.
Great. Bark worse than his bite. That doesn’t mean the bark’s not terrifying.
I square my shoulders and make my way across the hallway, past the stairs, until I’m standing outside the library doors. The heavy wood feels more imposing than it probably should, but here I am, staring at them like I’m about to enter the lion’s den.
Okay, Avery, deep breath. He'll probably only fire you.
I press my ear against the library door, trying to get a read on the situation before diving headfirst into the abyss.I can’t lose this job. I really can’t. If he calls my boss Charlotte and tells her how bad I was, well, that’s not even worth thinking about.
His voice comes through, muffled but unmistakable, low and sharp like he’s issuing commands. Great. He’s already irritated. Perfect timing.
Before I can chicken out, I knock. The sound feels too loud against the silence of the hallway, like announcing myself to a firing squad.
“Come in.” His voice booms from inside, and my hand is already on the doorknob before I can second-guess myself. I push the door open and step inside.
The library is what you’d expect for a house like this. Dark wood paneling, shelves packed with books that probably haven’t been opened in decades, and a large desk that screams, I’m important. A single lamp glows on the desk, throwing warm light across the room.
And there he is. Pacing back and forth, phone to his ear, completely in his element.
It’s infuriating how annoyingly handsome he looks—tanned, broad shoulders, floppy hair, a teasingly sexy half-unbuttoned slim-fit silk mother-of-pearl shirt, strong jaw, the kind of presence that could make anyone feel like they’re suddenly insignificant.
My mind, against my better judgment, wanders for the briefest of moments to some of the steamy things I wrote in the old box under my bed. Especially the part about where he pushed my head down to his hard throbbing cock.
That image is immediately replaced by that unbelievably hot dream I had about him the other night.
Yeah, not helping, Avery. You seriously need to get a grip!
I’m quickly snapped out of my inappropriate thoughts when he glances at me and gestures toward the Chesterfield sofa in the corner like he’s been expecting me, which, of course, he has.
“Okay, Marissa, we’ll discuss it in the morning, but thank you for letting me know.” His tone is polite enough, but I can tell he’s wrapping up the call just so he can deal with me.
Now trying my hardest not to concentrate on his hot, tight ass, I sink into the sofa, hands on my knees, bracing for whatever storm’s coming my way. My mind runs through every possible version of how this will go, none of them ending with me keeping my job.
Gray slides his phone into his pocket and strides toward me, his gaze locked and completely unreadable. I don’t even let him get a word out.
“Look, I’m so sorry about the paint, it won’t happen again, I swear. I was just unpacking my stuff when I walked into Maddie’s room and saw what she’d—”
He holds up a hand, and I instantly shut up, my heart pounding.
“Well, Avery Bennett,” his voice is calm but laced with something I really can’t place. “One day in, and I’m surprisingly impressed.”
Wait, what?
He moves to sit down next to me on the sofa, his movements slow and deliberate. I’m frozen, staring at him like he’s just started speaking in tongues.
“Uh?” That’s all I manage to get out.
“Would you like a drink?” He picks up a glass of something from the coffee table, takes a sip, and leans back slightly, his tone completely casual.
I blink at him, trying to process this turn of events. Have I somehow stumbled into the twilight zone? Because this is not what I was expecting. Not even close.
“Err… yeah, sure.”
“What would you like?”
I glance at the glass in his hand, the golden honey-colored liquid catching the light. “I’ll have whatever you’re drinking, please.”
A slow smile forms on his lips—one of those infuriatingly perfect smiles that looks like it’s been polished for maximum effect.
He gets up, walks over to the bookshelf behind his desk, and my eyes follow him despite my better judgment.
He reaches for one of the books, pulling it down, and to my utter shock, the entire shelf shifts. One of the shelves lowers automatically, revealing a small glass cabinet, perfectly lit, like it belongs in a movie scene.
I blink, barely suppressing the urge to mutter 'Are you serious?
' as he opens the glass door. He takes out a crystal decanter and an extra glass, then places them carefully on his desk.
With a slight push, the cabinet reverses the process—rising back into place, transforming back into a bookshelf as if it had never moved.
Wow. That’s all I can think of as I watch him, transfixed. Who even has something like this?
He opens the decanter and pours a generous serving of the deep bronze liquid into the glass, his movements smooth and deliberate.
There’s something highly sensual about watching him handle something as simple as pouring a drink that makes my throat tighten. I shake the thought away as he shuts the decanter, sets it down, and walks back toward me.
“Here you go,” he says, handing me the glass, his fingertips brushing mine for the briefest moment. A small jolt runs up my arm, and I hope to God he didn’t notice.
He sits down next to me, picking up his own glass from the coffee table. Lifting it slightly, he raises an eyebrow. “To old times and new beginnings.”
I mirror the gesture, unsure if I’m toasting to my doom or some strange new chapter of my life. Our glasses clink softly, the sound oddly intimate in the quiet room.
I have no idea what’s going on in his mind—or what’s going to happen next.
But I know exactly what I’d like to happen.
For all those ridiculous dreams I used to have about him to come true.
For him to pull me into his arms and kiss the fuck out of me like we’re in one of my novels.
But unfortunately, this isn’t fiction, and once again, as always… I’m just torturing myself.
I take a sip of the drink, and the liquid burns its way down my throat with a fiery intensity that catches me completely off guard. I choke slightly, coughing as I try to regain some semblance of composure.
“Good, isn’t it?” he asks, amusement flickering in his tone as he leans back, watching me like this is all part of some private joke.
I manage another sip, this one smoother now that I’m prepared for it. “Absolutely.” My voice is a little hoarse. “What is it?”
“My favorite.” His eyes glint. “Glenlivet 25 Years of Age Single Malt Scotch Whisky.”
Of course, it is. Why wouldn’t he have a bottle of ridiculously expensive scotch hidden behind a Bond villain bookcase?
The tension in the air crackles like static electricity. He’s so close and his body language is casual, but there’s something in the way he looks at me—something that makes me feel completely exposed.
I try to keep my body language neutral, but my brain is betraying me. I know how much I wanted him back then, and how much I still seem to be yearning for him now. And sitting here, inches away, I wonder if he has any idea just how badly I’ve wanted to feel his hands on me, his lips against mine.
But alas, this is reality, not a story I’ve written. So I take another sip of the scotch, hoping it will dull the edge of my thoughts, even though I know it won’t.
The warmth spreads through me, loosening some of the tension I’ve been carrying since the paint debacle. Gray is close enough that his presence feels like a second drink—heady and slightly intoxicating.
He breaks the silence, his voice rough and smoky, pulling me out of my swirling thoughts. “Look, I know Maddie can be... well, a real handful. Hell, that’s why I've employed you.”
I hesitate, scrambling for a response that won’t make me sound unprofessional. “Oh, she’s alright. Cute, you know.” I desperately try to keep my tone light but neutral.
His eyebrow arches and he gives me a disbelieving look as though I’ve just told him I plan to train Maddie to run for office. “It’s okay, you don’t need to bullshit me.”
Caught. Again.