5. Avery #2
“But all I ask,” he continues, his eyes steady on mine. “Is that you try and keep her on the rails. Don’t let her hurt herself, give her a bit of discipline—not that she’ll listen, and with luck, and without any major disasters, this will all be over soon.”
No pressure, I think, taking another sip of my scotch and letting the sharp, warm burn distract me from the weight of his words. “Without any major disasters.”
Feels like the tagline of my life right now. At least he hasn’t fired me yet, so that’s something.
When I glance back at him, his eyes are locked on mine, and the air between us seems to hum with a strange, intense atmosphere.
He leans slightly toward me, his voice softening but somehow gaining weight. “So.” He’s still holding my gaze like he’s trying to read my thoughts. “What has my old pal’s little sister been up to over the last ten years?”
The question hits me like a curveball I didn’t see coming. His words linger in the space between us, loaded with curiosity—and maybe something more.
His gaze is steady, waiting, and I suddenly feel the weight of all the years between us. What has his “old pal’s little sister” been up to? Oh, just ruining relationships, chasing pipe dreams, and becoming a nanny. Super glamorous stuff.
I clear my throat and lean back a little, trying to look relaxed even though my heart’s doing the cha-cha. “Well,” I start, swirling the remaining scotch in my glass. “When I was 18, the last time I saw you, I went to Thailand for six months. Thought I'd see the world, you know?”
He nods, intrigued. At least he hasn’t interrupted yet, so I keep going.
“Then, when I got home, I went to Oregon State University in Corvallis and majored in Creative Writing. I was there for four years. The plan was to work in Dad’s bookstore and write my own novels. But unfortunately, things didn’t quite pan out the way I expected.”
I take another sip, the burn of the scotch bolstering me. “The bookstore folded not long ago, and Dad, after much cajoling, convinced me to complete an intensive training program at Evergreen Nannies. So, I learned childcare basics, CPR, First Aid... you know, all the fun stuff.”
Gray’s expression shifts slightly, his eyebrows lifting in what looks like genuine surprise. “Seriously? You write novels?” his voice laced with curiosity. “What sort?”
Oh, boy. Here we go. My face heats up like someone just cranked up a space heater.
I can’t exactly say hot and heavy escapism because my real love life is a dumpster fire, so I tread carefully.
“I... uh... I haven’t finished one yet,” I admit, finishing off my drink like it might shield me from the impending mortification.
“But I am writing one at the moment. It’s a... steamy romance.”
Cue the world’s most inconvenient blush. My cheeks feel like they’re glowing, and I’m almost afraid to look at him.
A slow smile spreads across his face, making my stomach flip. “Oh, I’d like to read it,” he murmurs casually, leaning back against the sofa. “Who knows, if it’s any good, maybe we could do something with it.”
My first thought? And if it’s not? No, I couldn’t take that chance. But all that comes out of my mouth is a weak, “Well... um... maybe at some point. Once I’ve finished it.”
“Good,” he replies, the confidence in his tone making me squirm. “I’m looking forward to it.”
And then his eyes darken, the intensity in them knocking the breath out of me. “Tell me...” his tone dips lower. “Any men on the scene?”
Oh, fantastic. Let’s just drag out all my failures tonight, why don’t we? I think back to the mess that is my love life. Yes, many, many men—but the ones who weren’t complete jerks were heartbreakers. The rest? Well, let’s just say they’re not worth revisiting.
I sigh and reluctantly admit, “There’s been a few, but...
nothing to write home about. My last asshole—uh, I mean boyfriend—Chad, well...
I kind of caught him cheating on me.” The words taste bitter, but I push on.
“One night, he was in the middle of declaring his undying love, and his phone started ringing. He tried to push it under the cushion, but I noticed.”
Gray’s lips quirk like he knows exactly where this is going. “Go on,” he says, clearly invested now.
Shaking my head, I briefly close my eyes at the memory.
“So, naturally, I pulled it out and asked him if he was going to answer it. Not only did he come out with the lamest excuse ever, but the caller was someone named Zoe. When he tried to snatch the phone from me—unsuccessfully, I might add—I kind of... jumped up and called the number back. Zoe answered and, thinking it was him, shouted something about hating him and never wanting to see him again.”
Gray shakes his head, a low, “Oh, shit,” slipping from his lips. He gets up from the sofa and walks over to the desk, bringing back the decanter. He pours us both another drink, and when he sits back down next to me, the space between us feels even smaller than before.
I take the glass he offers, giving him a brief, grateful nod before continuing. “Chad, realizing he was caught, admitted it was his ex and that he’d been seeing her behind my back.”
Gray gulps his scotch, his expression unreadable. “So, what did you do?”
“I kicked the asshole out of my apartment,” I say with a shrug, trying to sound nonchalant even though the memory still stings. “That was a month and a half ago.”
His eyes meet mine, and something in his gaze softens. “Sorry to hear that,” he says quietly, and for a moment, I forget how to breathe.
I force a small smile and wipe away the tear that’s threatening to escape.
“That’s enough about my disasters,” I blurt, waving a hand like I can physically push the conversation away.
“What about you? What have you been up to since we saw each other last? And I don’t mean since our accidental meeting at the restaurant the other day. ”
Gray straightens up slightly, and a small frown tugs at his forehead. “What have I been up to?” he repeats, almost like he’s stalling. “Well...” He pauses, swirls the scotch in his glass, and exhales like he’s gearing up for a long confession. I brace myself not knowing what he’s gonna tell me.
“About nine years ago, after I lost contact with your brother Jake,” he begins.
“My father passed away. Heart attack. It was sudden—no warning, no time to prepare. Just... gone.” His jaw tightens, and I can see the shadow of that grief etched into his face.
“I had to step in and take over the estate. It wasn’t just the money or the property; it was everything.
The responsibility, the decisions... It all landed on me. ”
I nod, unsure what to say. “That must’ve been... a lot,” I offer lamely, and internally cringe at how inadequate it sounds.
He gives a short nod, acknowledging my attempt before continuing. “You might not remember.” His gaze flicks to mine. “But back then, I was working as a Product Marketing Manager for NexGen Strategies.”
Oh. No, I don’t remember. I barely knew what a Product Marketing Manager was back then. I just nod like I do, though, because admitting that feels weirdly rude.
“Couldn’t stand the job,” he admits, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth like he’s remembering some inside joke at his own expense.
“I was already looking for something else, and with my father’s estate giving me a cushion—a very healthy one—I started considering other options.
That’s when I heard about a failing publishing company, Pacific Crest Publishing. ”
“Pacific Crest?” I echo, intrigued now.
“Yeah. It was on its last legs when I found it,” he explains, his voice picking up a touch of energy.
“But I saw potential. So, I bought it. Poured my energy into it, and brought it back to life. Then I floated it on the stock market a couple of years later. And...well, it worked. The business took off, and it’s been growing ever since. ”
“Wow,” I'm genuinely impressed. “So, you’re not just a CEO—you’re a publishing mogul.”
He lets out a low laugh. “Something like that.” But then, his expression shifts, dimming as if a shadow just passed over him.
“I’ve also had my fair share of romantic disasters too, though,” he admits, his voice dipping lower. He takes a long sip of his whisky, the pause stretching out just long enough for me to feel the tension building.
When he finally speaks again, it’s like he’s forcing himself to push the words out.
“A couple of years ago, I started seeing someone. Our Senior Editor, Kathline. Or Kat, as she liked to be called. It all happened so fast, and before I knew it...” He swallows hard, the glass in his hand trembling slightly. “We were married.”
Married? The word hits me like a jolt, even though I have no right to feel... whatever this is. “Oh,” I say, my voice sounding weirdly high-pitched. “I never knew you were married.”
And what a stupid thing to say. Of course, I didn’t know. Why would I? I try to recover with a casual, “Okay,” but it doesn’t feel like it lands.
Gray’s gaze drops to his glass, and he stares into it like it holds answers to questions he doesn’t want to ask.
“Kat was... incredible,” he says softly, his voice thick with emotion.
“But about a year ago, she...” He stops, gulps back some more whisky, and sets the glass down with a hard clink.
“She passed away. Brain tumor. Glioblastoma. Aggressive and fast. By the time we caught it, it was already too late.”
My throat tightens, and I don’t trust myself to speak. The rawness in his voice is cutting through me like a blade.
“I stopped going to work,” he continues, his eyes fixed on some invisible point in the distance. “I stayed home to take care of her. And when she went into the hospital, I was there. Day and night. Until the end.”