Page 13

CHAPTER 13

Grayson

I swear the Kardashians had nothing on the Sanderson’s. Because as I sat in my sister’s dining room at her table, next to my mother and across from my sister and father, I was about ready to lose my shit.

It seemed the sole rum and coke I’d had to loosen up my tense nerves had not been enough. Because I’d barely been at her humble abode for an hour before our mother launched into her alcohol-infused interrogation.

As if living under the same roof wasn’t enough turmoil.

You can leave at any time, Gray.

But I was truly a glutton for punishment, it seemed.

And running away to the kitchen hadn’t been enough of a clue that I didn’t wish to have the conversation.

“All I’m saying, is you’re pushing forty, Grayson. You should be settling down, laying roots, not—”

I set about to fixing a drink, a martini. Perhaps I could drown myself in olives and gin and none of their words would hit me.

“I’m perfectly content with my life the way it is,” I lied.

My father—a man with the utmost impeccable timing—must have had nothing better to do, because as soon as I’d poured the liquid, a waft of cigar smoke poured into the room.

“Your mother has a point, Gray. How can you sell happily ever after if you don’t subscribe to the newsletter yourself?”

I shook my head as I gripped the glass tightly. My gaze settled on my sister, who was leaning against the entrance to the kitchen, her eyebrows furrowed.

She mouthed, “Sorry.”

Yeah, I bet she was sorry. Sorry that our family drama ruined her prize pot roast dinner.

Not sorry that she’d suckered me into the seventh circle of hell dressed up like Martha Stewart.

“I don’t need to be a delusional romantic to have a sense of purpose, but I don’t suppose you would know anything about purpose considering your own commitments,” I drawled.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he said as he narrowed his eyes at me.

“Nothing,” I said as I all but shot back my drink.

“Perhaps you should go easy on that, Gray,” my mother said, hiccupping from her own round of liquid courage.

The same liquid courage that spurred her to bring up my skeletons in the first place.

I pulled the shaker from her, turning my back.

“I only learned from the best, mother. Isn’t this how one is supposed to deal with meddling, pain in the ass family?” I shot my father a look, raising my eyebrow at him. His jaw tensed, but he didn’t say anything. Instead, he only puffed on his cigar like an angry old man.

“Gray...” my sister called out, but I’d had enough.

I stormed through the kitchen door, out to the covered deck, traipsing over to the fire pit Aaron was lighting.

The door slammed shut, and within seconds, I heard my sister’s voice.

“Aaron, baby, can you give us a minute,” she said softly.

Aaron looked between us, then at the shaker in my hand. He shrugged, kissing his fiancé on the cheek as he headed indoors. “Whatever you say, sweetheart.”

When the door slammed once more, I knew we were truly alone.

“Have they sent in reinforcements?” I said as I popped the top off the shaker. I hadn’t even bothered to pour it in a glass.

What was the point?

Giselle took a seat next to me, setting her hand on my thigh. “They just want to see you happy, Gray.”

“I am happy!” I yelled, but Giselle did not flinch.

“I think we both know you’re not. You’re afraid.”

I scoffed at her.

How dare she!

“I am not afraid of mom and dad...”

“Afraid of change, I mean,” she said.

I didn’t like the way her words made me feel, so instead, I ignored her, focusing on my drink left in the shaker instead. “Change is inevitable,” I murmured.

“It is. And it’s a good thing, you know.”

I looked at her with softness, her round face, her pristine eyes. She’d always been such a positive ray of sunshine, a believer in the most whimsical of things.

The exact opposite of me.

My parent’s words reverberated in my head, acting as if my age was some expiration date, and if I didn’t lock a man down in the next two years, I would be an old maid.

Or an old butler, technically.

“It’s okay to not be okay, Gray. It doesn’t make you a failure.”

“Is that what your therapist tells you, sweetheart?” I asked, and the minute I said it I regretted it. Apparently, I just couldn’t stop saying the wrong thing as of late.

“Grayson...” she moaned as I slammed down the cocktail shaker, getting up and putting some distance between us.

“I think I’ve overstayed my welcome,” I said, sliding my hand in my pocket.

“Grayson, don’t—”

“I’ll be fine, Giselle. Don’t worry about me,” I said, needing to get as far away from her and my pain in the ass family as I could.

It wasn’t like I lived that far away. I was practically right up the road.

In the solitude of my Porsche, I was finally able to breathe, to let out a frustrated breath before turning on the engine.