7. Avery
Chapter seven
Avery
Cassy's voice crackles with disbelief on the other end of the line, “And he just said it like that? It was a mistake?”
I sniffle, wiping away a stray tear with the back of my hand.
My legs are crossed under me on the bed, and the rumpled sheets are a reminder of how hard I had cried after I got back from taking Maddie to school this morning.
“Yeah. It made me feel so stupid, so small. Last night was...” I pause, my voice breaking. “iI was just like I imagined it would be. Times a thousand.”
“Well,” Cassy says, her tone growing sharper. “You know what I would do if I were you?”
I sigh, already bracing for whatever nugget of wisdom she’s about to hit me with. “What?”
“I’d leave. Right now. Let him look after his damn niece himself.”
Her words hang in the air, and I press the heel of my hand against my chest like I can physically keep it from cracking open.
“Yeah, but how do you think my boss at Evergreen will react if I tell her that I slept with a client, and because he told me it was a mistake, I can’t complete the contract?” My voice is sharp, the sarcasm barely veiling the hurt underneath.
Cassy lets out a little huff like she’s trying to figure out how to talk me off the ledge while also lighting a fire under me.
“Hmm, I see your point. But your boss will also see that it takes two to tango. And maybe your client shouldn’t have slept with you in the first place.
Just tell her you didn’t even realize you had a history with Gray until you got there.
And that in light of what happened, you think it’s best you leave. ”
I flop back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Her logic is annoyingly sound. “You know, you have a point there. Let me think about it.”
There’s a muffled voice in the background on Cassy’s end, and she groans. “Sorry, got to go before I get fired. Call me later, okay?”
“Yeah, later.” I let the call end and lower the phone onto my lap. My fingers linger there for a moment before I sigh, tossing it onto the nightstand.
I’ve got to make a decision—but every option feels like some twisted version of losing.
Rubbing at my temples, I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand. The room feels too small, too stifling. The ache in my chest is a physical weight, pressing harder with every breath.
My laptop is on the small table in the corner by the window, so I shuffle over, pull out the chair, and sit down. The view outside is gray and dull, matching the mess inside my head.
I stare at the screen, the cursor blinking back at me. My fingers hover over the keyboard, but they don’t move.
What do I even say? To Charlotte, to Gray, to myself? A part of me wants to storm out of here, just like Cassy suggested, and leave him to sort his own mess. But another part—the part I hate—wants to stay, to see if maybe he’ll come to his senses.
I hate how much power he has over me. And yet, here I am, sitting at this damn laptop stuck between running and staying.
Cassy’s voice lingers in my head like a song I can’t shut off.
“Just leave. Let him look after his damn niece himself.” Yeah, Cassy, easy for you to say when you don’t need the money as badly as I do.
But the worst part? She’s not wrong. Every cell in my body is screaming to pack up, slam the door on this mess, and never look back.
Instead, I stare at the blinking cursor on my laptop screen, debating what kind of resignation email one sends after sleeping with a client and then getting told it was ‘a mistake’. There’s definitely no template for this in Google Docs.
Before I can spiral any further into my self-inflicted pity party, an idea hits me. Out of nowhere. Like lightning.
What if I don’t write the email? What if I just… write?
The thought is ridiculous. But now? Now it feels like the one thing I can control in this chaotic mess of a situation.
My decision can wait until a bit later. At least until I've picked Maddie up from school this afternoon.
I pull up Word and start typing, my fingers moving faster than my brain can process.
***
Westhaven, Oregon, 1880
The steady clip-clop of the horses’ hooves against the rain-slick cobblestones filled the carriage, punctuated only by the groan of its wheels as it rounded a tight corner. Avery Matheson gripped the edge of the leather seat, her knuckles white, her heart pounding.
The letter from her father’s doctor lay crumpled in her hand, the ink smudged where her tears had fallen earlier.
“Critical condition,” it read. Two words that had shattered her world. She’d waited too long to return home, and now, as the carriage lurched and rattled down the narrow streets of Westhaven, she prayed she wasn’t too late.
The storm had turned the town into a blur of grey and brown, water streaming off rooftops and pooling in the cobbled gutters. The driver urged the horses faster, his voice a hoarse bark above the din of the rain.
And then it happened.
A sharp crack, followed by a sickening jolt. The carriage tilted violently to one side, throwing Avery against the door. She gasped as the wheels skidded, the horses whinnying in panic.
The driver yanked on the reins, bringing the carriage to a shuddering halt just as one of the wheels gave way completely.
The carriage tilted again, threatening to topple. Avery scrambled to steady herself, her heart pounding like a drum. Through the rain-streaked window, she saw a man step into the street, narrowly avoiding being knocked over.
“Hell’s bells!” the driver cursed, jumping down to inspect the damage.
The man in the street straightened, his broad shoulders squared as he strode toward the carriage. He wore a long, dark coat that clung to him in the rain, his hat pulled low over his brow.
Avery pressed her face to the window, her breath fogging the glass. She couldn’t make out much—just a sharp jawline and eyes that seemed to cut through the storm.
“Your wheel’s shot,” the man said, his voice low and even as he crouched beside the carriage. He ran a hand along the broken spokes, shaking his head.
“No kidding,” the driver muttered, joining him.
Avery’s pulse quickened. She couldn’t sit here while her father lay dying. She threw open the carriage door, clutching her skirts as she stepped out into the rain.
The man stood, his gaze meeting hers. For a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath.
“Ma’am,” he greeted her with a tip of his hat, his voice calm despite the chaos. “Looks like you’re in a bit of trouble.”
“I don’t have time for trouble,” Avery snapped, more out of desperation than rudeness. “I need to get to the Matheson estate. Now.”
The man’s brow lifted, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “The Matheson estate, you say?”
“Yes,” she said, exasperated. “Do you know it?”
“Better than most,” he replied, extending a hand to her. “Name’s Grayson. Let me help you.”
Avery hesitated, her instincts torn between accepting his help and brushing him off. But the rain was relentless, her father was waiting, and she had no other options.
“Fine,” she said, taking his hand. His grip was strong and warm despite the cold rain, and for a fleeting moment, she felt something she couldn’t quite name.
“Driver,” Grayson called over his shoulder. “Get those horses settled. I’ll take her from here.”
The driver frowned but didn’t argue, muttering something about the rain as he led the horses away.
Grayson turned back to Avery, his eyes searching hers. “The Matheson estate isn’t far. I’ll get you there.”
“How?” she asked, skeptical.
“You’ll have to trust me,” he said, a hint of challenge in his voice.
And against her better judgment, she did…
***
I lean back in my chair, staring at the screen as the words blur together. Damn, it’s rubbish—needs more. More tension. More fire. The kind of heat that keeps you glued to the page, biting your lip, wondering what happens next.
Except my brain isn’t cooperating.
Instead of thinking about Avery and Grayson in 1880 Westhaven, my thoughts keep circling back to Gray and Avery last night.
How his touch burned my skin, how he whispered my name like it was some kind of prayer. And then this morning—cold, detached, like none of it mattered. Like I didn’t matter.
And Cassy. “Just leave.” She made it sound so easy.
“Fuck it…” I mutter, pushing my chair back so hard it screeches against the floor. That’s it. I don’t care what Charlotte says. I’m leaving.
I march over to the wardrobe, my mind set. Reaching up to the top shelf, I grab the empty suitcase that's been there a couple of days since I moved in. It nearly slips out of my grip, and I catch it with a frustrated grunt.
I fling it open on the bed, yank the wardrobe doors wide, and start stuffing clothes into the suitcase with zero finesse.
Every shirt and every pair of jeans crammed in feels like a small victory over this entire mess of a situation.
Shirt. Stuff. Sweater. Stuff. Pants. Stuff.
“Asshole,” I mutter under my breath as I force the lid down, trying to zip the suitcase shut even though it’s clearly overpacked.
That’s when I hear it—a low voice outside my bedroom door.
Gray.
My head snaps up, my pulse spiking.
I storm out of the room, my anger flaring back to life. He has some nerve to be lingering outside my door after the way he treated me this morning.
He’s standing at the top of the stairs, phone pressed to his ear, his back to me.
“Okay, Beth.” His voice is strange, flat. “Make the arrangements, and I’ll pick you up on the way to the airport.”
He pockets his phone, and when he turns, I notice his eyes—red, puffy.
My fury stumbles.
“Gray, I’m sorry, but I can’t…” The words come out brittle, but they falter when I see him swipe at a tear.
“Can’t what?” His shoulders are slumped. He looks…broken.
I pause, the air between us heavy. “What’s the matter?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he moves to one of the small ornamental seats by the stairs and sits down heavily, his elbows resting on his knees.
That’s when I notice Clara, frozen halfway up the stairs, her eyes wide and worried.
“Clara, sweetie, it’s okay, I’ve got this,” I say softly.
She hesitates, her gaze darting between us, before nodding and retreating.
I sit down on the other seat next to Gray. It’s hard, uncomfortable wood, but I barely notice.
He lets out a long, heavy sigh. “I got a call from the police in Florida this morning. It’s… it’s…” He stops, his voice catching as he wipes at another tear.
I stay quiet, giving him space.
“It’s Nicole. My sister.” He pulls himself together, visibly fighting to keep his composure. “The officer told me she had some kind of boating accident… and she’s gone. She’s dead.”
He slumps forward, his head falling into his hands.
For once, I don’t have a single snarky thought or clever retort. What the hell do you even say to something like that?
I reach out, resting a hand on his shoulder. “Oh my God, Gray. I’m so sorry.”
My mind races, flicking to Maddie. Poor, sweet Maddie. How do you tell a little girl her mom isn’t coming back?
I glance at Gray, still slumped forward, his hands tangled in his hair like he’s holding himself together by sheer force.
My throat feels tight, and I force myself to speak, softly. “Do you… do you want me to pick Maddie up from school early? So, you can talk to her?”
He sits up straight, leaning back in the chair and blowing out a long, shaky puff of air. His head tilts back, his gaze fixed on the ceiling as though the answers might be written up there.
“Talk to her?” His voice is rough, strained.
“No. No, not yet.” He drags a hand down his face, his fingers trembling slightly before he drops them into his lap.
“I can’t tell her until I get back from Florida.
I have to… I have to formally identify Nicole’s body first.” His words crack on that last part, like saying it out loud makes it real.
He takes a deep breath, trying to steady himself, but the pain in his voice cuts through me. “Beth just finished booking the flights. She’s coming with me. She’ll help with… everything. Arrangements for getting Nicole back here, and all that.”
He pauses; his lips pressed into a tight line before he continues. “Who knows? Maybe it’s a mistake.” His voice is hollow like he’s trying to convince himself. “But… I called Nicole’s cell after I talked to the police. An officer answered it.”
The landing feels suffocatingly quiet after that.
“Okay,” I manage, my voice barely above a whisper. “I’ll look after Maddie until you get back.”
His head turns toward me, his eyes locking on mine, and I swear I can see the exact moment his walls start to crumble. Tears pool in his eyes, and he raises a hand as if to shield himself from the weight of the gratitude he’s feeling. His voice breaks when he says, “Thank you.”
It’s not much. Two simple words. But the way he says them, raw and heavy, they knock the wind out of me.
I don’t know what else to do, so I just nod.
Gray stands, his movements stiff like every step costs him something. He doesn’t say another word as he walks to his bedroom door. The sound of it slamming shut echoes sharp and final, like the punctuation on a sentence I don’t want to read.
I sit for a bit, staring at the closed door, my mind tangled in a hundred different directions. Maddie. Nicole. Gray.
And me.