CHAPTER ONE
I wish I’d answered the phone differently. Actually, there areso manythings about the last sixty seconds I wish I’d done differently.
Of all the times to forgo my usual polite greeting, I huffed out a frustrated and impersonalyeah?while fighting to keep my eyes on the road. Also, there may have been some awkward grunting as I wrestled my dog away from the food sliding around on my passenger seat. And all I’ve managed to sputter out since then is a couple ofumsand a barely coherentuh-huh.
Weird Barbiewould do a better job at a first impression than me.
But what else was I supposed to say when my literal idol of almost seven years just up and called me out of the blue? Technically, she hasn’t even introduced herself yet, but I’d know that voice anywhere. I’ve watched enough of her seminars and listened to every podcast and interview she’s ever done. I hear her voice in my head every time I pick up a garment on a hanger to examine its hues.
My caller finally introduces herself over speakerphone, her voice fighting with the onslaught of air blasting me from mycar’s vent. The AC must be broken. I’m driving a mini sweat lodge on wheels.
Fiona Sterling, the color analysis GOAT, theEdnaof image consulting, is on speakerphone.
The only nerves I anticipated today were for the feelings of inadequacy I’ll undoubtedly experience at the extended family Memorial Day gathering I’m headed to. But a higher tier of anxiety has just been activated, spiking my heart rate.
I fiddle with the AC vents as the pitiful stream of air loses its battle against the dampness gathering at my hairline.
Focus, Willow—she’s talking to you.
“. . .The scholarship is valid for three years, but considering your current social media influence, I think now would be the best time. . .”
“You pickedme?” I say, my mouth feeling dry as my brain lags on processing what Fiona is saying. I tap my foot a little too hard on the brakes, making my Boston terrier, Giorgio, flinch with a snort. His button-black eyes blink twice from the passenger seat before he resumes wolfing down the store-bought banana cream pie that was supposed to serve as my contribution for lunch, the foil lid making a metallic “ping” with every lick of his tongue.
“I’ve seen what you’re doing online, Willow. You’ve got natural talent. We chose you because of your passion.”
If I died right this second, I’d go out a happy woman.
“You’re exactly the type of person I want to mentor,” she adds when I’m too stupefied to respond.
Fiona Sterling wants to mentorme?
“Wow,” I croak through my verbal paralysis.
I nearly miss my turnoff and swerve at the last second, causing the pie to slide over the seat. Giorgio whimpers at the threat of being separated from his indulgence, and I make a similar sound as I watch him abandon all restraint and smush apaw into the deconstructed pie. My eyes bounce between the road and the phone as I attempt to mute the call.
“Giorgio, stop!” I whisper through clenched teeth, one hand on the wheel as I push him away. “Bad boy! Back to your seat!”
“Should I be jealous of what’s going on there?”
Fiona’s voice startles me, and I can picture the grin on her regal, fifty-five-year-old face.
“I’m so sorry! Please, um, please ignore that,” I stammer. “I’m so honored, Ms. Sterling, and I promise I won’t waste this opportunity. I mean, I’ll definitely be enrolling this year.”
Which also means hiding the entire thing from my parents.
But this isn’t just a scholarship—it’s a beacon of hope after resigning myself to a life devoid of passion. It’s a lifeline.
The chance to finally get my certification in color analysis and a mentorship under my idol? All without having to pay for it? How could I pass it up?
I stumble through another awkward sentence with too manythank yousbefore Fiona gracefully ends the call.
My hands tremble as I arrive at my parents’ house, the leftover adrenaline mixing with a familiar sense of apprehension. I park behind the line of vehicles, scrunching my nose in disgust as the smell of barbecue intermingles with banana and whipped cream.
As soon as I stop the car, I deposit a leashed Giorgio onto the ground and search for every takeout napkin I can find. I wipe his face and paws, straightening his little doggy scarf and cringing at a smear of cream on my dress.
“I hope you’re at least a little ashamed of yourself,” I say and scowl at his adorable, dessert-soaked face. He tilts his head in that way that makes it impossible to be mad at him.
I’m not all that angry, though. The glittery high from Fiona’s call lingers like a sprinkling of pixie dust clouding me from reality. Giorgio will probably throw up within the hour, and my carwill likely smell of sour whipped cream tonight, but I don’t care. Because Fiona Sterling choseme.
