Fight or Flight

I laughed softly at the thought, amazed that this was happening.

Nick smiled, caressing my cheek with his thumb. “What?”

“Only you could turn the worst night ever into the best.”

He grinned and wrapped his arm around me, pulling my head down onto his shoulder. “I can’t believe you like me back.”

“You thought I wouldn’t?” I asked in disbelief.

“You’re the most beautiful girl in school. Even the guys on the varsity team talk about you.”

“They talk about a freshman? Perverts,” I joked.

He chuckled. “My point is, you could have anyone.”

I frowned. “But I don’t want just anyone.”

“Not even Styler James?” he teased.

I rolled my eyes. Styler was Gem’s big crush, and I indulged her by oohing and aahing over him sometimes. He was a junior and admittedly extremely cute. “His name is Styler, Nick.”

My head rose with his shoulders as he laughed quietly. “Doesn’t seem to bother every other girl, including Gem.”

“Gem can have him. I want you.”

I felt his lips on my forehead. “You have me,” he whispered. “I’ll always protect you, Ava.”

Snuggling deeper into him, I believed it. I believed it with every bone in my body. He had all my faith.

“So you’re my girl?” he asked. “I get to tell everyone to back off now, ’cause you’re my girl?”

“Yes.” I reached for his hand. “I’m yours. And you’re mine.”

“Always.”

I woke up in a jolt from the dream. The memory. Sweat soaked the hair at the back of my neck and my skin felt flushed.

So much for sleep taking me away from the ghosts my time back home had stirred up. If sleep wasn’t going to do it, then I hoped running would. I got up just as the dawn was breaking, changed into running clothes, and took off.

A few miles later I felt marginally better, but I knew keeping busy would be the only way to distract myself from the shaky hangover dreaming of my past had left me with. Which was why I was so happy to return to work that morning.

Stella Larson Designs was located on Beacon Street, just a few doors down from XV Beacon Hotel but on the opposite side of the street. It hadn’t always been in such a prime location, but as Stella’s company took off, she relocated, taking the risk on an expensive office location in the hopes that it would appeal to wealthy clients. And it seemed to work. We had an airy reception room with muted gray tile flooring, a white leather corner sofa scattered with a few different-sized pillows in a gray palette, and a gray throw. At the back of the room was a sideboard in a gray-painted finish that held our public portfolios. Hung on the wall above it were photographs from some of our favorite designs framed in thin lemon-colored frames. That tiny burst of color continued in the vase on the sideboard, the handblown glass bowl on the coffee table, and the miniature button-back armchair in the corner of the room.

We had a glass reception desk, chosen so that it would seem to almost disappear into the room, but it was only for show. There was a bell that sounded in each of our offices when someone entered our reception area, and one of us would go out and greet the client. Stella didn’t see any point in wasting money on a full-time receptionist when most of our clients came in by appointment.

The great thing about our location on Beacon Street was that I could walk there from my apartment in less than ten minutes.

As I strolled into the office, relief flooding me at being home, my cell rang. Of course it did. I sighed, digging through my purse to locate it. Not even two seconds into the place and my clients needed my attention already.

However, caller ID told me it was my uncle David, not a client. “Good morning,” I said as a greeting, always happy to hear from him.

“Good morning, sweetheart. Just checking in to make sure you got home okay.”

It must have been the stress of the last few days, but his words caused a burn of tears in the back of my eyes. Grateful for his concern, I smiled. “I’m home, safe and sound. Just walked into the office, in fact.”

“And you’re okay?”

Here was the thing that you needed to know about my family. My childhood had been tumultuous since my parents didn’t really know what to do with a kid. They’d wanted one, but when they got me, they seemed to flounder. They were never outright unkind to me; they also never provided me with any real affection, beyond whatever they gave to anyone else. Their philosophy was to let me find my way, believing it would make me a freer, more independent person. They also didn’t believe in grudges or arguments. So when I was bullied in the seventh grade, they told me to just forgive Amanda Pointer for pushing me facedown in the dirt until I almost passed out, and get over it.

I could have been out smoking dope and stealing cars, and they would have shrugged it off as me “trying to find myself.” They knew very little about my personality, never taking the time to get to know me, and the only compliments they ever gave me were on my physical appearance.

One bright light in my upbringing was my uncle David, my mom’s big brother. He was totally different from my mom, and he disapproved of the way they brought me up. I’d heard him attempting to say so to my mom when he visited, and my mom would tell him they didn’t invite negativity into the house. I knew she and my dad frustrated my uncle to the point of real anger, but he still visited whenever he could to check up on me.

He even sent me money when I attended Savannah College of Art and Design. With his support, and with Nick and Gem only a few hours away studying at Georgia State, college had been the happiest time in my life. A year after graduation, however, after I’d been convinced to move back to Phoenix, the two people I trusted the most destroyed my faith and broke my heart. It was my uncle who stepped in to help me pick up the pieces. He insisted I move out to Boston to stay with him and his wife while I got on my feet. I’d been working as an intern with an interior design company, so my hope was to find a new position with another company. My uncle was a successful accountant and I convinced him to let me redo his office so I could add it to my small portfolio. Instead, Stella Larson noted the changes on her next visit to my uncle’s office and inquired about it. Being the super supportive guy he was, my uncle waxed poetic about me to her and got me an interview. Seven years later the rest was history.

It wasn’t the only time my uncle David had come through for me. He was also the reason Harper got a chance at Canterbury. Jason Luton was not only his client, but they’d become friends, and I asked him to ask Jason to give Harper a shot as an apprentice chef when she was nineteen.

My uncle was semiretired and lived in a beautiful house in Hyde Park. One they didn’t stay in that often because his wife liked to travel. Still, Uncle David stayed in touch as much as possible. And I knew he’d been worried about me after the news broke of Gem’s passing.

“I’m fine,” I replied, strolling past Stella’s office and waving to her as she looked up from her computer. My office was just as I’d left it—spic and span. All my work put away and organized. It didn’t look like that normally. It was the one personal space of mine that was usually covered in drawings, fabrics, photographs, and papers. “I’m just glad to be home.”

“I would have dropped by, but we’re in New York. When we get back, let’s have dinner.”

“I’d like that.”

“And how is my sister?” he asked, almost reluctantly.

“The same.”

He grunted. “Okay. Well, I’ll let you get back to work. Call me if you need anything.”

“I will. Love you.”

“Love you too, sweetheart.”

We hung up and I slumped into my chair, looking around my office, preparing myself. First coffee. Leaving my bag and phone at my desk, I headed back toward reception and to the fancy coffee machine that had taken me months to figure out how to use correctly.

“Welcome back.”

I glanced over my shoulder and spotted Stella leaning against the doorway to reception with her arms crossed over her chest. She wore a white blouse with balloon sleeves tucked into an oyster pink pencil skirt. On her feet, nude patent Louboutins. I could admit I may have modeled my own style on hers, because I thought she was pure class.