Chapter 1: Stranger in the Town Car

AVA

Just one last stroke of my brush… ~there~. All done. I pushed my chair back and got up to admire my work. ~Damn, it looked good~. For once, I actually felt proud of what I had created.

I flicked off the main light, and darkness immediately filled the office. I glanced into the hallway and saw light pouring out from under Mr. Porthouse’s door. ~Good, he was still here.~

Clutching my illustration, careful not to smudge the still-wet watercolors, I padded down the hall to his office. I swallowed thickly before raising my hand to knock.

“Yes?” Mr. Porthouse called from inside. I shivered. ~Even his voice was unpleasant.~

I opened the door, and stuck my head through the opening. “Mr. Porthouse, I was wondering if I could show you something.”

Mr. Porthouse glanced at his watch, sighing in clear annoyance. “I suppose.”

“Great, thanks!” I marched into his office and placed my illustration on his desk. “It’s for the pitch tomorrow,” I explained, “I worked with your original idea but added this illustration to make it more captivating. You know, since it’s a ~children’s book~ and all.”

Mr. Porthouse scoffed. “So you think you know better than I do?”

I sucked in a sharp breath. “No, of course not, but you know how well Jesse Harrison’s book is doing, and I just thought—”

“I know what you thought.” His voice cut through me like a blade. “But winning one little competition doesn’t mean you’re suddenly an expert. You’re a graphic designer. Stick to what you know, Ms. Mayweather.” He gave my illustration a quick glance. “Besides, this isn’t any good.” He grabbed the paper and crumpled it into a ball before tossing it to me.

My heart cracked inside my chest. I caught the ball of paper mid-air, and swallowed down a string of curse words. “Okay, thanks.” As I turned to leave his office, his voice caught me just before I stepped out. “Oh, Ms. Mayweather?”

“Yes?”

“If you want a side project so badly, you can decorate the office for the Christmas party. Go ahead and pick up the ornaments from the storage warehouse on your way in tomorrow. You have the key, yes?” I stared blankly for a second, and then nodded.

“Good. Shut the door on your way out.”

I shut the door behind me and grabbed my coat. I stuffed the crumpled drawing into my pocket and fished out the warehouse key. I contemplated going straight home, but decided to pick up the ornaments right away. Picking them up on the way in tomorrow meant having to get up earlier, and I was ~not~ a morning person. Besides, I could use a brisk walk in the crisp November air—maybe it would help clear my mind a little.

The warehouse was only a ten-minute walk from the office, and it was actually quite lovely out. Streetlights illuminated the snowy streets, casting a whimsical glow—it almost made me want to paint the scenery. ~Almost.~ I was done with painting for a while, after tonight.

I trudged through the snow as quickly as I could without slipping. The Porthouse office was located on one side of a popular shopping street, and the warehouse on the other. It had been a particularly busy day today, judging by the noises that had come drifting into the office. Just noise though—no view, as our office didn’t have any windows. That was another thing I hated about Porthouse: it made me feel trapped.

I finally reached the warehouse, and let myself in.

Of course, the box of ornaments I’d come in for was all the way in the back, buried under boxes of office supplies. I dug it out, wiped off the cobwebs, and checked the contents just in case. ~Good, everything was here.~ I set off on my journey back to the office.

I decided to call my friend Maisy to keep me some company on the way back—she was due for a visit around the holidays, and we still needed to go over the details.

I soon learned, however, that visit might not happen after all.

“Can he really do that? It’s Christmas for crying out loud! And we haven’t seen each other in ages!”

I readjusted my grip on the box.

“I’m sure there’s got to be some kind of rule against denying PTO around holidays. You stuck to the minimum notice, right?” My breath formed fleeting little clouds in front of me. My fingers were turning white and stiffening up, since I wasn’t wearing any gloves.

“Listen, we’ll talk about this later. I need to save my fingers from frostbite.”

I balanced the box of ornaments on my knee, grabbed my phone from where it was wedged between my ear and shoulder. I hung up, and rolled my neck to relieve my cramped muscles before covering my hands with my sleeves.

Then, I took a deep breath through my nose, put my leg down, and started walking again. I shook my head in a futile attempt to clear my vision of my hair, which clung to my face, dampened by snowflakes. I hadn’t even taken five steps before I bumped into something hard.

I stumbled backward, and the faint noise of wet cardboard ripping made my stomach drop. The box I was holding caved in, and dozens of ornaments fell through its now-open bottom, scattering far and wide around me. “Are you kidding me?!” I yelled into the sky. Wiping my hair from my face, I froze when I realized what I’d bumped into. An open car door—with a man behind it. My eyes settled on his face, and my heart skipped a beat. The man was breathtaking. He looked a bit older than me, maybe in his mid-thirties. He had light brown slightly tousled hair and angular features. His ice-blue eyes and low-set dark brows made him look almost angry. His eyes caught mine, and I felt my heart flutter.

“I’m so sorry,” I squeaked out when I finally regained the ability to speak. “I didn’t see—”

“Go ahead and put those in the trunk, Miles,” the man spoke in a low, almost raspy voice.

I furrowed my brows, looking over my shoulder to see a kind-looking man had gotten out of the driver’s seat and was now picking up my ornaments. I quickly shrugged off my coat and laid it on the snowy street. “You can put them here!” I said, “I’ll fold it into a knapsack. Thank you so much!”

“In the trunk, please, Miles,” the man repeated, before turning his attention to me. His gaze slid over my body, raising goosebumps in their wake. They halted at my feet, and then he reached out of the car and picked something off the ground.

He unfolded the ball of crumpled paper, and smoothed it out with his hand. His eyes found mine again. “Did you draw this?”

I suddenly registered exactly ~what~ he was holding. “Hey!” I said, snatching my drawing from his grip.

“Did you?” the man coaxed.

“None of your business,” I mumbled, and crumbled the drawing back into a ball.

“It’s good,” the guy remarked casually. I narrowed my eyes at him, trying to gauge if he was being genuine. “Why did you crumple it?” he asked, sizing me up.

“Because it’s shit,” I mumbled, stuffing the ball into my purse.

“It’s not,” the man countered, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “The lighting and composition are spot on. Great use of color too—it really draws you in. This could easily be on a children’s book.”

I furrowed my brow. “Yeah? And how would you know?” I clipped.

I didn’t even know why I was being short with him—perhaps I’d just had all the unsolicited opinions I could handle in one day.

The man opened his mouth to respond, but was cut off by the driver stepping into view.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, but everything is in the trunk,” he said.

The handsome man nodded, and turned back to me, jerking his chin in the direction of his vehicle. “Get in the car.”