Colors Of The Wild

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

I wish I’d answered the phone differently. Actually, there are so many things 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 impersonal yeah?

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 of ums and a barely coherent uh-huh.

Weird Barbie would 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 my car’s vent. The AC must be broken. I’m driving a mini sweat lodge on wheels.

Fiona Sterling, the color analysis GOAT, the Edna of 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 picked me?” 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 mentor me?

“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 a paw 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 many thank yous before 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 car will likely smell of sour whipped cream tonight, but I don’t care. Because Fiona Sterling chose me.

I brace myself for the steep hike up the curved driveway, tucking my gold purse under my arm so my hands are free to grip Giorgio’s leash as I clutch a pint of strawberries to my chest—the strawberries that were supposed to go with the massacred pie.

My hamstrings burn by the time I reach the open double glass doors, a baseball game blaring on the TV, and loud chatter buzzing through the room. Forcing my shoulders to relax, I step slowly over the threshold into a world that feels scratchy and ill-fitting.

I smile a greeting at Aunt Sheri as she dashes into the living room, wiggling her Michael Kors purse at me with a wink. My fingers tingle with the urge to adjust the hem of her blouse so that it accentuates the dip of her midsection.

Giorgio whines at my feet, reminding me to bring him back outside before he vomits all over Mom’s imported Persian rug.

I hang my purse on a hook in the spacious entryway, my coral dress catching the sun and creating a soft pink halo on the floor.

Off-white marble tiles reflect the light spilling through high windows, designed for the sole purpose of appeasing the bonsai plant resting on a pedestal in the center of the foyer.

The miniature Japanese black pine is like my parents’ third child. Mom calls her Kuroki, but she’s a flamboyant little diva and deserves a fitting name.

“Hey Beyonsai,” I whisper to the plant, noting the way several new needles have sprouted from her tiny limbs. It looks like she’s reaching out, desperate for contact.

“Will,” Dad’s voice startles me. “We needa talk.”

My stomach twists.

He knows something.

“Sure, just let me bring Giorgio out back and put these in the fridge,” I lift the strawberries, forcing a smile as my gaze flicks to the camel color of his polo shirt.

That color is way too washed out for him.

He’s a winter, and these bleached mustards are aging him, adding ten years to his rugged, fifty-five-year-old visage. But I can’t tell him that.

There are a lot of things I can’t tell my dad, I remind myself as he leaves me with a kiss on my head and a churning in my gut.

My path to the kitchen is once again interrupted when my gaze lands on Juliet—my perfect older sister.

She seems to be holding her audience captive with yet another account of her latest athletic achievement, every eye in the cavernous living room locked onto her like she’s narrating the second coming.

“This one should give me enough points to qualify for the Olympic team selection.” She glows in reference to her newest gold snowboarding medal. Her smooth skin practically sparkles—a byproduct of being kissed by the sun and lavishly celebrated for one’s accomplishments.

Tightness claws at my chest as Dad’s proud gaze aimed at Juliet adds to her glow. I hate how much I crave that look.

To know that feeling just one more time.

Juliet releases the crowd from her spell, my aunts and cousins swarming her, each one hungry for a feel of the shiny new medal my parents have already cleared a spot for in their overcrowded crystal shrine.

Dad’s framed football jersey is proudly on display beside the spot where the TV was designed to go.

Giorgio paws at my shins, and I shift the strawberries and his leash to one arm, returning to the foyer to get a poop bag from my purse once I hear his stomach gurgling threateningly.

Mom pokes her head in from the kitchen as I continue digging through my purse.

“Oh, Willow, you’re finally here,” she declares before disappearing, her voice muffled as she continues giving me orders. “Come to the kitchen, I need you for a second. And stop standing so close to Kuroki. You’ll upset her soil.”

“See ya later, Bey.” I tap one of her leaves. “Photosynthesize like you mean it, sis.”

“There you are,” Mom says, her eyes tracking me with a frown as I place the strawberries in the fridge. “Where’s the dessert you said you were bringing?”

“It didn’t survive the drive,” I smile tightly.

Even if Giorgio hadn’t relapsed into his sugar addiction, the store-bought pie would still have garnered a look of disappointment.

I told Mom I’d make a dessert from scratch, but I abandoned the plan as soon as Paul Hollywood’s judgey face popped into my head.

Giorgio scampers out the kitchen door as soon as he hears it open, and he rushes straight to the lawn to chomp on a few blades of grass.

“I hope you learn from this,” I tell him, shaking my head.

I turn back to the kitchen, only to be met with a forkful of something that doesn’t look remotely edible being aimed at my mouth. I crane my neck back as the menacing tongs grow closer.

“Taste this potato salad. It needs something.”

I gulp, eyes flicking between the fork and her hopeful gaze, but I eventually give in. Just like I always do.

The pinkish sludge goes down cold as I hide my grimace with a forced cough. “What did you put in this? And why’s it that color?”

“Oh, it’s not that bad.” She bats a hand before scooping some for herself, wincing as she swallows and points her fork at me. “Better than the first batch.”

“My gratitude at being summoned for the second batch cannot be overstated.”

“How’s school going? You’re staying focused?” She asks with a raised brow, and there’s no missing the way her eyes flick to my outfit.

The real question is whether I’m letting my “little hobby” interfere with my future career—God forbid.

The first time I mentioned becoming a professional stylist, Dad laughed.

And that pretty much sums up how they’ve viewed any of my career aspirations which can’t be measured by traditional standards and high achievements.

“Of course she’s staying focused.” Dad’s voice interrupts from behind, making me wince. “She’s going to make us proud.”

I’m going to make them proud. As in, not presently giving them anything to brag about.

“I need to steal this one for a second.” He smiles at Mom, ushering me out of the kitchen and into the sunroom.