Page 1 of Where Are You Now
Chapter One
It could be worse, Ava St. John thought through the piercing throb in her head, the beeping machines, and the blinding hospital light,I could be dead.
She had no time to be dead. She had people to see. There was work to get done.
The cool feel of the bedding under her was comforting for her sore body, and it would be nice to rest, but she couldn’t. A sense of panic set in: she had to get out of there.
Unsure how she’d ended up in a bed, she blinked, trying to get her bearings as quickly as possible. She was in the hospital. A private room. Looking for someone to call out to, she scanned the sink and counter that stretched along the wall beside the exit to the hallway. Across from her bed, a heavy bathroom door was cracked open, and on the other side, a window held thick, sturdy, light-blocking beige curtains. No one else was in the room.
Even though she was incredibly sore, she had to know what was going on with the rest of her life. Through blurred vision, she did what she did best: She checked the numbers. While she wasn’t versed in reading an electrocardiogramspecifically, the data seemed decent—all flashing in green. No loud alarms going off. She was sure she could plead her case when the doctor came in.
She squeezed her eyes shut to alleviate the pain wrapping around her head, only for the movement of her cheeks to cause more. Carefully, she lifted a bruised arm with IVs taped to it and touched her swollen face. What day was it? Was it still Wednesday? Her heart drummed. Ithadto be Wednesday. She needed someone to bring her a strong cup of coffee; then she could hobble out of there and get to work to extinguish whatever fires had cropped up due to this little leave of absence. She definitely hadn’t planned onthisin her carefully orchestrated day. Waking up in a hospital room could wreck her tight timelines, and this was literally the worst moment to alter timelines.
While waiting for someone to come into her room, Ava closed her eyes and tried to recall the events that had gotten her there, drifting in and out of consciousness.
Wednesday had begunlike every other day.
“We’re excited about the potential opportunity of working together,” she’d said into her phone that was wedged between her shoulder and ear.
Mark Bozeman, the CEO of Coleman Entertainment and Media, chattered on as, ever the multitasker, Ava bent over and slipped off her workout sneakers and set them on the floor of the locker room at the gym.
“We’ve tailored specific marketing tactics and a custom-built digital campaign strategy that will elevate the Coleman brand to the stratosphere.” She righted herself and took a pair of sensible walking shoes from her locker before setting them on the floorbeside her.
“We’re eager to see what McGregor Creative can do for us. We really want to ramp up the emotion in this campaign,” Mr. Bozeman said.
“I’m your girl.” She checked her watch: 8:57 a.m. “We believe that with your vision and our expertise, we can create something truly exceptional,” she said.
A text from her mom pushed through her phone, but she had to dismiss it to finish her call. She’d catch up with her tonight.
She slipped on her trousers and put one arm in her blouse, stepping out of the way as two women in towels passed by.
“Looking forward to this afternoon,” Mark said.
“See you then.”
Ava ended the call and finished getting dressed. She was smug. Marketing wasn’t about emotion. It was about the skilled manipulation of people’s feelings that led to the all-powerful numbers, something she could manage like a champion. Even her well-ordered life was calculated down to the number of minutes she spent on the treadmill before taking her last sip of water. Her complete mastery of all 1,440 minutes in a day was how she’d become a powerhouse in business.
She’d gotten her work ethic from her father. He was the only person in her life who’d ever worked as hard as she did. Her dad had been a busy bee like Ava, unable to stay still, the two of them running all over the place together. She’d ridden shotgun on his trips to the hardware store, she’d spent hours with him out in the fields, and they’d gone fishing early every Saturday morning.
No one else seemed to understand how to live that way, including her ex-husband, David, who’d left because he’d said he couldn’t keep up with her daily grind and that it left no time for the two of them. He was right on both accounts. Her father had taught her how to work hard for things, and sheadmitted she wasn’t great at being a wife. She’d been a bit of a tomboy growing up, and she hadn’t spent as much of her free time with her mom as she had with her father. Perhaps she should have paid more attention to her mother’s gentle ways instead of fishing all day. Maybe she’d know how to be a better partner. Her mother and father had been together her whole childhood. How had they managed that?
She didn’t allow herself to think about the collapse of her marriage very often because getting emotional would only slow her down. Her disappointment over losing David wouldn’t bring him back, and it also wouldn’t move her forward in her career. But every so often she’d notice the silence in her Manhattan apartment that they used to share, and the tears would well up. Working helped to squelch that feeling.
She’d worked her way to the top of McGregor Creative, the third largest marketing firm in New York City, and with the Coleman account, she was about to blow past Scott Strobel, her rival for the prestigious title of partner. He was older and had been around longer, but she had killer instincts, an impeccable work ethic, and a fresh perspective that would crown her the youngest partner in the history of McGregor Creative.
She went over to the mirror and pulled her comb through her chestnut waves, then applied eyeliner under her doe eyes that seemed to convey a sense of honesty and control. She finished with a swipe of lipstick—the last thing to do before walking out into the gorgeous fall weather.
New York City streets in autumn were her favorite. The leaves on the trees in Central Park showed off the warmth of the season with their bright yellows and burnt oranges; the coffee shop chalkboard signs lining the pavement were full of cinnamon lattes and pumpkin cappuccinos; the flower beds littered with mums in cranberry, yellow, and white. On Saturdaysshe walked through the High Line, an elevated public park that connected to Chelsea Market, where she could grab lunch and finish up her week’s work at a little tucked-away bistro. But today was all business.
With her workout clothes now in her bag, her walking shoes on, and the gym café’s signature kale protein smoothie in hand, she slid on her jacket and made the brisk journey to her apartment’s private parking garage. While she usually carried on walking the couple blocks to the office, today she had to drive across the bridge. She was headed to Spire Distribution, one of the firm’s associates for trade publications and media outlets, to have a mid-morning meeting before noon before heading into the office to set up subcontractors for a start-up bike brand she was building.
Once she got to her car, she called Rachel Bronson, Spire’s COO. While they never saw each other out of work, Rachel was the person closest to a friend Ava had at the office. They both operated with the understanding that at their level of career, friendship had to happen while working.
“I’m on my way,” she said to Rachel as she tossed her gym bag in the backseat and set her high heels on the floorboard. “Traffic’s a nightmare downtown this morning—the map on my phone nav looks like a bowl of spaghetti with all the red—but the highway seems decent.” She started the car.
“What’s your ETA so I can have Shelly make us some coffee?” Rachel asked.
Having her assistant, Shelly, do anything for anyone other than Rachel was a privilege—the perks of being on Rachel’s A-list.
