Missing a Gray - 49 Shades of Gray

Chapter One — Aisle Seven

If my life had a color, it would probably be “Regret Beige.”

That’s the shade you get when you’ve been single for eight consecutive Valentine’s Days, own more cardigans than friends, and spend Friday nights re-organizing scented candle labels by “emotional aroma.”

I, Penny Lavender, resident of Blush Harbor, population 3,216 (3,215 if you don’t count Pastor Mauve’s ventriloquist dummy), had just decided that love was a pigment that didn’t exist. At least not in my palette.

And then I met Christian Grayman.

It all began on a Tuesday that thought it was a Monday — gray skies, drizzle like God’s own low-budget mood lighting. My 2003 Subaru Forester (named “Suby Dooby Doo”) wheezed into the parking lot of Paints ’R’ Us, Blush Harbor’s proudest franchise and main tourist attraction, right after the world’s second-largest decorative mailbox.

Inside, the air smelled of latex paint, desperation, and the faint whiff of hope — or maybe that was the “Summer Dew #47” sample I’d accidentally inhaled. I was there to buy a gallon of “Optimistic Eggshell,” which the label promised would “open emotional pathways.” I didn’t know what that meant, but I was open to any pathway that led away from my mother asking if I’d “met any nice men at Bible study.”

The Meeting

He was standing in Aisle Seven, under a flickering fluorescent bulb that haloed his head like divine interior lighting. Tall. Brooding. Wearing a gray suit so variously shaded it could have been designed by a thundercloud. His hands — large, capable, unnecessarily cinematic — held a single paint swatch.

I froze, clutching my basket of clearance rollers.

> “You look… conflicted,” I said, before my brain had time to send that line to quality control.

He turned. His eyes were steel, or pewter, or possibly just tired.

> “I’m missing a shade,” he said. His voice was the color of midnight radio.

“Missing… a shade?”

> “Yes. Number 49. The final gray. The one that would complete my life’s work.”

Naturally. Blush Harbor was filled with fishermen, bakers, and one alpaca-wool influencer, but of course the first man to make my pulse flutter was a paint mogul.

Enter Becky Teal

Before I could formulate a response that didn’t involve fainting, my best friend Becky Teal burst around the corner, holding a gallon of “Sunset Optimism” and wearing yoga pants with the motivational slogan Bend So You Don’t Break.

> “Penny! You’re talking to someone with biceps! Progress!”

I shot her a glare that could strip wallpaper. Christian Grayman, unfazed, studied the paint chips like an art critic evaluating the sky.

> “I’m Christian,” he said finally. “Christian Grayman. CEO of Gray Matters Paints.”

Becky gasped. “You’re the billionaire paint guy! The one who sponsors the ‘Color Your World Gala!’ Oh my gosh, Penny, he’s literally made of money and undertones!”

Christian gave a polite nod — the kind that suggested he’d been dealing with Becky-types his whole life.

> “And you are?”

“Emotionally unavailable, but recovering,” Becky said, extending her hand. “Life coach, kombucha brewer, amateur prophet.”

I mouthed stop talking while she grinned like she was auditioning for The Bachelor: Paint Edition.

The Misunderstanding

Christian returned his gaze to me. “Are you in the market for gray?”

My throat went dry. “I was leaning toward something warmer, maybe ‘Hopeful Taupe.’”

He frowned, as if I’d confessed to drinking decaf. “Warmth is overrated. True depth lies in neutral tones.”

“I’ll keep that in mind if I ever repaint my soul.”

A smile flickered across his lips — the tiniest brushstroke of amusement. “You’re witty.”

“Only under fluorescent lighting.”

That’s when Becky whispered, “He’s totally flirting with you. Ask him if he wants to shade together.”

I kicked her ankle. She yelped, knocking over an entire display of “Gracious Gray.”

The cans rolled across the floor like metallic tumbleweeds. Christian bent to help, his movements deliberate, graceful — the sort of grace usually reserved for ballet or tax evasion. Our fingers brushed over a paint can. Static. Electricity. Possibly just polyester friction.

> “Careful,” he murmured. “You might get… covered in gray.”

I blinked. “Is that a euphemism?”

He didn’t answer, but somewhere deep in my brain, a narrator purred, His voice was a satin ribbon dipped in fresh primer.

The Invitation

After paying for my paint (and Becky’s emotional damages), I found Christian outside loading several mysterious boxes into a matte-silver Prius. Because of course the billionaire drove a Prius — probably one that ran on sustainable smugness.

> “Ms. Lavender,” he said, turning toward me. “Do you write?”

“How did you— Wait, have you been Googling me?”

> “No. You have ink on your fingers and despair on your cardigan. It’s a giveaway.”

Fair. “Romance novels,” I admitted. “Self-published. Niche market. Mostly me.”

He studied me like I was an unfinished canvas.

> “I’m hosting a creative retreat at my estate this weekend. The theme is The Color of Passion. I could use a writer’s perspective.”

Becky squealed. “She accepts!”

“I — wait, what?”

> “It’s decided,” Christian said. “My driver will pick you up Friday at six.”

He slid into the Prius and drove off, leaving behind only the faint scent of money and mineral spirits.

Becky clutched my arm. “Penny! You’re going to spend a weekend with a billionaire paint lord! This is fate! Or at least cable-movie destiny!”

I wasn’t so sure. But somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbled — the exact shade of ominous foreshadowing.

Blush Harbor Evenings

That night, over herbal tea that promised “romantic alignment,” I tried to convince myself that billionaires don’t actually fall for cardigan-wearing writers with anxiety and seasonal allergies.

Becky disagreed.

> “Look,” she said, spreading tarot cards shaped like paint swatches, “the Universe clearly wants you to mix colors. His Gray and your Lavender make… Mauve. And mauve is the color of destiny.”

“Or mildew.”

> “Same thing in small towns.”

Pastor Mauve, coincidentally passing by our window, waved cheerfully. I ducked.

Inner Monologue (Authorial Crisis)

That night, as rain pattered on my window in cinematic rhythm, I opened my laptop and began to type:

> Chapter One: The Man in Gray.

Then I stopped. That title sounded familiar. I deleted it and tried again:

> Chapter One: The Missing Shade.

Better.

But my mind wandered back to the man himself — the seriousness, the gray suit, the faint suggestion that he hadn’t smiled since color television was invented. What kind of person devoted his life to finding one missing hue?

Maybe the kind who’d lost something he couldn’t name.

Or maybe the kind who needed a therapist.

Either way, my curiosity was tinted, if not fully painted.

Friday Comes in Monochrome

By the time Friday arrived, I’d changed outfits six times, landing on “accidental librarian chic.” Becky insisted on doing my makeup, which meant I left the house looking like a motivational poster titled Confidence is Contouring.

A sleek black car pulled up. The driver, an older man named Alfred (because of course), opened the door with solemn ceremony.

> “Ms. Lavender, Mr. Grayman awaits.”

The mansion was exactly what you’d expect from a billionaire with emotional issues — vast, symmetrical, and painted entirely in tones of existential dread. Even the roses in the garden were gray, which I later learned was just a dust problem.

Christian met me at the door, wearing another perfect suit and the same unreadable expression.

> “Welcome to Gray Manor,” he said. “Where every shade tells a story.”

“That sounds like a tagline for a serial-killer documentary.”

He ignored that. “Come, I’ll show you the studio.”

The Studio

It was magnificent — high ceilings, skylights, canvases everywhere. Rows of jars filled with powdered pigments, each labeled in pretentious fonts: Yearning Mist, Corporate Sorrow, Rain on Cement.

I touched one jar. “This one’s cracked.”

> “So am I,” he said softly.

Okay, that line was straight from my paperback section, and it worked.

We spent the afternoon mixing paints in silence punctuated by accidental flirtation. When I asked where Shade 49 had gone, he looked away.

> “It’s… complicated.”

“I write romance novels,” I said. “Everything is complicated.”

> “Then you’ll understand,” he murmured, “what it means to chase something that doesn’t exist.”My heart did a small interpretive dance. Becky would have fainted. I just nodded like an empathetic therapist on a budget.

The Reveal (Sort Of)

As the sun set, casting everything in literal Fifty Shades of Orange, I noticed a canvas in the corner covered by a drop cloth.

> “What’s that?” I asked.

> “Don’t.” His tone was sharp enough to cut through drywall.

Which, naturally, meant I pulled the cloth anyway. Underneath was a painting — abstract, haunting, and unmistakably tinted with a shade I’d never seen.

> “Is this it?”

He stared. “Shade 49.”

> “It’s beautiful.”

    > “It’s forbidden.”

> “Why?”

He hesitated. “Because it’s not paint. It’s… emotion.”

Okay, maybe he’d sniffed too many fumes. Still, my breath caught. The color shimmered, not quite gray, not quite anything. It looked like heartbreak lit by moonlight.

> “I call it Missing Gray,” he said.

“Why missing?”

> “Because I lost it the day she left.”

“The day who left?”

He turned away. “My interior designer.”

I blinked. “You mean — you had an emotional connection with your —”

> “She preferred matte finish,” he said darkly.

There it was. Trauma by texture.

---Closing Scene

As we stood there in the half-light, surrounded by jars of melancholy, I realized I might actually be in danger — not of physical harm, but of developing feelings.

> “Christian,” I said quietly, “maybe what you’re missing isn’t a shade of gray. Maybe it’s a splash of color.”

He met my gaze, and for the first time, his eyes weren’t steel — they were storm clouds breaking open.

> “Then maybe,” he whispered, “you’re the brush.”

My heart tripped over its own palette. Somewhere in the house, dramatic orchestral music seemed to start on its own — or maybe Becky had found the Bluetooth speaker again.

Either way, as lightning flashed over Gray Manor and rain began to fall in perfectly timed slow motion, I knew two things for certain:

1. This weekend would either change my life… or at least provide enough material for three mediocre romance novels.

2. Love, like paint, is best applied in thin, even coats — with proper ventilation.

To be continued… in Chapter Two: “A Brush with Destiny.”