Free Awakening (A Dangerous Man, #1) by Serena Grey Page A

wanted, isn’t it.”
    My mind goes to my portfolio of sketches, back in my
apartment. I’ve been sketching for ages, but I didn’t decide on jewelry design
until a few years ago. Of course, Aunt Josephine flat out refused to pay for
Art School, so I applied to City U, UDub, and Bellevue like wanted. The
acceptance letters are gathering dust at the top of the rusty old fridge in my
apartment. Now that I have no money, I’m not going to pursue aids and grants to
spend four years doing something that’s not my dream.
    “Art School is a dream.” I smile ruefully. “Maybe at some
time in the future, I’ll go, but for now I think I’ll just try to find a job.”
That’s is if anybody will hire an eighteen-year-old Catholic school graduate
with zero experience whatsoever.
    “Okay.” She is still frowning, but she doesn’t say anything
else.
    I go back to dusting the shelf. It doesn’t need the cleaning,
but I need something to do. I run my dust brush over a polished woodcarving of
a forest scene, a colorful crystal vase, and a green ceramic piggy bank.
    As I work, Stacey gets up and moves from the front desk to the
glass front of the store, peering down the road that leads to Ashcroft Hills
Resort, the only thing that keeps our small town on the map. It has a couple of
bungalows, a sizeable swimming pool, a spa, a few conference rooms, and it’s
just an hour’s drive from downtown Seattle. Brett Carver, Stacey’s husband,
calls it the ‘businessman’s’ paradise.
    “Lots of cars going to the Hills today,” Stacey observes.
She is trying not to be too hopeful, but I’m sure she wishes that it would make
a difference in sales. She stares down the road for a few more minutes, and
then sighs. “I’m going to run a few errands,” she tells me. “You’ll be fine, won’t
you?”
     I nod in response. I love the shop. The wood carvings,
glass sculptures, etched glass, and vanity items we sell are the closest I’ve
ever been to real art. It seems fitting somehow that the last place I’ll really
know in town before I have to leave is my favorite place in it.
    I sit at my desk reading a book for a long time after Stacey
leaves. Only a few people come into the shop, Doug Randall, who runs the
sporting equipment store, stops by every morning to ask how I am, while his
eyes explore my chest, as well as a few other people. There are no sales
though, but it’s too early to lose all hope.
    I place the book down on the desk and move towards the door.
There is an old gilt framed mirror hanging on the wall, and as I walk through
the shop, I catch a glimpse of my reflection. I’m wearing my black blouse, a
gift from Stacey, and the blue jeans that have become my uniform. I am not pretty,
at least I don’t think I am, though Stacey would argue otherwise. I don’t look
like any actress or model I’ve ever seen, and I’m not thin enough to be
conventionally pretty anyway.
    I adjust the barrettes that hold my hair back from my face.
Stacey constantly goes on about how my hair is my best feature. It is pale gold
and extremely thick, hence the barrettes, but I prefer my eyes, they are green,
the same color as my mothers’ were.
    I continue to the door, and step outside. The air is fresh
and crisp, and the wind is blowing dead leaves across the paved street. On the
other side of the street, the second-hand bookstore looks sadly empty. There are
only a few people about. Many of Ashford’s residents work in Seattle, which is commuting
distance away.
    I am about to go back into the shop when a car cruises past,
coming from the tree lined street that leads to Ashcroft hills. It is a black
sedan, with tinted windows, so I cannot see whoever is in it.
    I turn around and enter the shop. Through the glass front, I
see the car stop suddenly, just past the store, and after a short pause, when
it stays unmoving on the street, it slides back to park right in front of me.
    I watch, curious. It is probably only someone from