Fresh Start Read online

  Thanks for downloading Fresh Start!

  If you’re new to my books and this is the first thing you’ve read by me, thank you for giving The Rosewoods Series a try!

  Once you’re done reading this short prequel, the next book is the official start of the series: Taking the Reins, which you can download for free at your favorite ebook retailer.

  Happy Reading!

  xoxo

  Kat

  Fresh Start

  A Short Story – prequel to

  Taking the Reins

  by

  Katrina Abbott

  Over The Cliff Publishing, 2015

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places or events are entirely coincidental.

  February 2015

  Copyright © 2015 Katrina Abbott

  Written by Katrina Abbott

  Also by Katrina Abbott

  The Rosewoods

  Taking The Reins

  Masquerade

  Playing The Part

  Reading Between The Lines

  This Point Forward

  Making Ripples

  Acting Out

  Hitting the Target

  Turning the Page

  Crossing the Line

  New Beginnings - The Rosewoods Series - Books 1 - 3

  Fresh Start: The Rosewoods Series Prequel

  The Rosewoods - Bonus Content

  I'll Never Forget

  Risking it All

  The Rosewoods Rock Star Series

  Along for the Ride

  Going on Tour

  Working for the Band

  Loving the Rock Star (Coming Soon)

  Watch for more at Katrina Abbott’s site.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Also By Katrina Abbott

  Brooklyn

  Find out what happens next to Brooklyn –

  The Complete Rosewoods Series

  Also By Katrina Abbott

  Brooklyn

  “You’re going back to the States.”

  My fork halted halfway to my mouth, the peas sliding off and back onto my plate as I looked up at my father incredulously.

  “What?” I asked, even though I’d heard him perfectly well. Just that when he’d opened his mouth half a second ago, I’d expected him to ask for the salt or for me to pass the platter of ham. But this. This wasn’t food-related. This wasn’t even boring news-of-the-day related. This was life-related. And huge at that.

  “You’re going back to the States,” he repeated, his face serious, which quashed my follow up question of: You’re kidding, right?

  As I sat there, I analyzed what he’d said because he was a very literal guy and he always meant every single word he said. Not we’re going back. You’re going back. Big difference. Because if I was going back on my own, I wasn’t returning to our old life in Denver; the only reason we’d been there was because Dad had worked at Buckley Air Force Base, and if he wasn’t returning to the area, I seriously doubted I would be.

  I’d always known it was a possibility that I’d end up moving again, but I guess after two years in London I’d started to get used to the idea of staying in one place indefinitely. Never permanently, I guess, but for an extended stretch. At least long enough to finish high school. But no, that wasn’t going to happen. Instead, I was getting shipped back to America to start over. Because high school alone wasn’t hard enough and now I was going to start at a new one halfway through.

  “What about you?” I asked, looking between him and my mother as we sat in our London flat over what was now a ruined dinner. Not that my life was so incredibly stellar that moving (again) was going to ruin my entire life, but starting a new school in junior year? Ugh.

  “We’re going to be staying here for the foreseeable future,” Dad said.

  “So where am I going?” was the next logical question. My one living grandparent—Dad’s mother—was in a senior’s apartment complex in Florida, so I knew I wasn’t going there. That left me out of guesses.

  “There’s a boarding school in upstate New York. It’s a great facility and comes very highly recommended,” Mom said. “Considering what we’re paying for it, it better be,” she added.

  “It’s the best education money can buy. And the security there is the best in the country,” Dad said. “If you’re going to be half a world away, I need to know you’re safe.”

  Which of course was always a concern because being the daughter of someone who fought terrorists for a living means safety is always job one.

  “And you’ll be closer to Robert at Yale,” Mom said. Dad glanced over at her and nodded, then put his hand on her arm because she’d begun to tear up a little. Mom was normally a rock, but she didn’t like her kids being far away, so sending me off had to be tough for her. Obviously this was Dad’s decision and probably had something to do with his job. Not that he’d let on.

  “Do I have any say?” I asked half-heartedly, because I already knew the answer. The decision had been made. I was going back to the U.S. whether I wanted to or not.

  Dad screwed up his face in what I’m sure he thought was an apologetic look. “You can choose your courses.”

  Mom cringed as she glanced over at Dad. “I already submitted her forms.”

  Perfect. I sighed and rolled my eyes. “What’s the place called so I can at least look it up?”

  “It’s called The Rosewood Academy for Academic Excellence.”

  “It really is the best school,” Dad assured me. “I want you to get the best education possible and I know this will be the place for you.”

  “You’ll fit right in,” Mom added with a weak smile.

  They were totally overselling the place which was not a good sign, but it’s not like I could fight them on it.

  I nodded and looked down at my plate. “When do I leave?”

  “Two weeks,” Dad said. “I’ll be in Geneva, but your mother will take you to the airport.”

  I wasn’t sure whether to be happy they were letting me go on my own all the way back to the States or mad that they were basically shipping me off. I guess it didn’t matter; I’d learned long ago not to take most of what they did personally.

  “That gives you time to say goodbye to your friends,” Mom said. “And you can keep in contact with them by Skype and e-mail,” she added. More overselling.

  What friends? I didn’t say. Not that I was hated at my school in London, I’d just never really fit in. Maybe knowing I could have to leave at any time made it hard for me to even want to build relationships. But maybe this could be a fresh start. Maybe this would be my opportunity to start over at a new place and get some real friends and—dare I hope—a boyfriend.

  Dad suddenly got up from the table and turned toward the china cabinet and pulled out one of the drawers, reaching for something. He turned back around and sat down, sliding a large beige envelope across the table toward me. I looked down at it and then up at Dad, who nodded toward it.

  It wasn’t sealed, so I slid my fingers in and pulled out the two passports—the only contents of the envelope. The first one was mine. The second one wasn’t, but had my picture in it. I knew what that meant.

  “You’re now Brooklyn Sylvie Prescott,” Dad said, confirming my guess.

  It wasn’t the first time I’d taken on a fake name, so I just nodded and slid the pile back into the envelope. At least the Brooklyn part was real. I bet when my parents had named me that, they didn’t realize at the time it would end up being one of the most popular names for girls my age, a fact that was both annoying and convenient at the same time.

  He gave me a moment to process before he continued, “The regular protocol
is to be followed. No social media. Avoid pictures. No one gets the real story. Understood?”

  “Of course, Dad.” I said, like I had countless times before. My commitment to following protocol could mean the difference between life and death. I got that. Still. Someday it might be nice to have something of a normal teenage life.

  As my parents turned their conversation to world news and politics, I tuned them out and looked through the window to the London skyline. I was going to miss the city that had been my home for two years. I would also miss the people I’d come to know, even if they weren’t precisely friends. But as I watched the city beyond our window, a tiny seed of excitement began to germinate inside of me.

  Until later in my room when I Googled the school.

  My parents were right in that it was very highly esteemed. It looked like a nice place in that old ivy-covered brick way and even had its own stables right on campus. But they forgot to mention one important fact. And I had to think they totally did it on purpose: The Rosewood Academy for Academic Excellence is an all-girls school.

  Sigh. So much for that hope of finding a boyfriend.

  ~ ♥ ~

  It felt like a pivotal moment, getting on the plane. I guess it was one—moving back to the States from London. Starting a new life, leaving the old one—and my parents—far behind. I was excited and at the same time terrified. Would I like my roommate? How about my classmates? Would this school be full of celebutantes and snobs?

  And most importantly, would they like me?

  I tucked that thought away for the time being as I waited for the people in front of me to get themselves sorted in the aisle. I knew I’d be heading to the back of the plane, but at least it was a window seat, so I only had to deal with one adjacent-sitting stranger on the way to New York. Maybe I’d get lucky and the plane wouldn’t be full. Right, I told myself, almost laughing at the thought. Because the universe is always kind. My luck I’d get stuck next to a giant guy who loved talking about his various gastrointestinal problems only slightly more than he loved garlicky foods.

  My backpack still slung over my shoulders, I tugged my carry-on bag down the aisle, keeping my eye on the row numbers: forty-six, forty-seven, forty-eight. There. Row forty-nine, seat B was so far unoccupied, so I said a little prayer as I shoved my carry-on into the overhead bin that it would stay so.

  I took my earphones and sleep mask out of my backpack and tucked the bag under the seat in front of me, then lowered myself into seat C. Still no one beside me.

  I pulled the seatbelt across and fastened it with a satisfying click when a young-ish woman stopped at my row. She wouldn’t be so bad, I told myself, giving her a friendly smile. She returned the smile and dropped into seat A, leaving the one between us empty. She leaned over the aisle and spoke to a man sitting in the other aisle seat, so it looked like they wouldn’t be using that center one.

  I finally settled in and waited, watching over the seat in front of me as people got themselves sorted, stuffing their luggage and coats into the overhead bins and getting out their assorted pillows and technology for the long overseas flight. As the aisle started to clear when most people were getting settled in their seats, one of the flight attendants came down, snapping the overhead doors closed.

  Still, the seat beside me remained vacant.

  I exhaled and closed my eyes, waiting for takeoff, grateful for my good luck.

  Until a few minutes later, when the seat moved under me and an elbow met my ribs.

  My eyes flew open and I let out a gasp, more out of shock than pain.

  “Sorry,” said the grinning guy who was now sitting in seat B. “Didn’t think I’d make it,” he added, his breath labored as he recovered from what must have been a sprint through the terminal.

  “It’s okay,” I said, smiling back at him and hoping my face wasn’t as red as it felt at that precise moment.

  Because okay, so the universe wasn’t going to grant me a free seat for the eight hour flight, but it was going to give me this. This being a really cute English guy. He looked to be in his early twenties and had on a light blue button-down over a white t-shirt and a pair of worn jeans that probably felt like flannel right out of the dryer. Speaking of, he almost smelled like he was right out of the dryer, all clean and warm, and I fought the urge to lean in close to get a good whiff.

  Add to that his sapphire blue eyes and messy dark hair and if I hadn’t already been seated, I would have felt just a little bit dizzy.

  Get a grip, I told myself. I dropped my eyes to look at my fidgeting fingers as I tried to do the math on how many minutes and seconds I was going to spend seated next to this guy.

  Needing something to do other than math, I took the Sky Mall catalog out of the seat pocket in front of me and started flipping through it, still very hyperaware of the guy as he settled in and fastened his seatbelt.

  “I’m Graeme, by the way,” he said suddenly and when I lifted my eyes, I noticed his hand out.

  Being right beside him made shaking hands an awkward maneuver, but I rested the magazine on my lap and stealthily dragged my slightly sweaty palm along my thigh before sliding my hand into his. “Brooklyn.”

  If he noticed any clamminess, he didn’t let on.

  “Charmed,” he said, which was hilarious because if either of us was charming, it sure wasn’t me. “Here’s to a smooth flight.”

  Here’s to not making a fool of myself in front of you, I thought. Outwardly, I simply smiled and returned my eyes to the magazine, but not my attention. Every move, every breath, I felt or heard as my entire consciousness was tuned to this guy beside me.

  Trying to strategize the best way to engage him, I rejected pretty much every idea my decidedly non-charming brain threw out.

  Witty banter? Not unless stuttering and saying ridiculously lame things could be considered witty.

  ‘Accidentally’ bump his hand over the armrest? Too intimate.

  ‘Accidentally’ bump his thigh with my knee? Waaaay too intimate.

  Get up to go to the bathroom and slide across his lap? Okay, not. Giving a cute guy an unsolicited lapdance on a plane is not a good way to get his attention. I mean, of course, it would totally get his attention, but not in a good way at all.

  So yeah. My choices were pretty limited and all had the potential for disaster. Which meant I did nothing.

  After the safety demo where I pretended to pay attention out of respect for the flight attendants, I slid the Sky Mall catalog back into the pouch and pulled out my sleeping mask. It was reasonable to have a nap on an evening overseas flight and just to sell it a little, I faked a small yawn.

  And nearly did a fist-pump when Graeme yawned almost right after, telling me he was paying attention. It was possible that was one hell of a coincidence, but I didn’t think so.

  Pretending I hadn’t noticed (and hoping he didn’t notice the tiny smile I was fighting) I pulled the mask over my face, hunkered down in my seat and stuffed my hands into the side pockets of my hoodie.

  “Sleep tight,” I heard from beside me.

  “Thanks,” I said, allowing the smile now, wishing I hadn’t covered my eyes, but now it was too late. The mask was on, I was committed to sleeping. Or pretending to sleep while I listened to him rustle and breathe beside me.

  Finally, as his breathing evened out and deepened, I matched my breaths to his and eventually drifted off.

  ~ ♥ ~

  It took a second of panic over being completely blind and in what sounded like some sort of wind tunnel before I remembered the sleep mask and where I was. Once that realization hit home, another one landed: my head was resting on something. Something warm and distinctly human. That smelled like manly laundry.

  I cursed in my head as I gingerly removed the mask from my eyes and confirmed my worst fear: that I was indeed sleeping on Graeme, the cute stranger beside me. My gaze drifted up and my worst fear suddenly changed to him looking down at me just as I realized I had been sleeping on him.

&nb
sp; He grinned as I blinked up at him. “Hullo,” he said softly.

  Horrified, I pushed back away from him. “Sorry,” I mumbled, still a bit stupid from sleep.

  “Quite all right,” he said.

  Then I realized my actual absolute worst fear ever had occurred, when my eyes drifted down to the small wet spot on his shirt. Which precisely aligned to where my mouth had been just a moment ago.

  Oh. My. God.

  I had totally drooled on a hot stranger that I was still stuck beside for several hours.

  Now what? Do I apologize? Pretend it doesn’t exist and hope he never notices? It was dark in the cabin, but if he looked in the right spot, he’d totally see it. My mind whirled in panic as I tried to figure out the best tactic to employ in this situation.

  “Something to drink?” the flight attendant whispered from the aisle just then, holding out packets of pretzels and nuts.

  I looked up at her, suddenly very thankful for the interruption. She was smiling at me expectantly as she leaned slightly over the sleeping woman sitting in the aisle seat. “Water, please,” I said as I took the snacks from her.

  “Same,” said Graeme.

  The flight attendant gave a nod and turned to her cart, giving me a moment to put down my tray as I thought about what to do next. Still, I came up blank as to what to do about the drool situation.

  As she reached out to pass me the squat glass of liquid, something in my brain short-circuited and I came up with what was probably (I realize now in hindsight) the stupidest idea I’d ever had. But still in panic mode, it seemed like the best plan of action in this worst case scenario. I took the cup from her and fumbled it, spilling some of the water down Graeme’s shoulder. Not enough to soak him, but enough to cover most of the saliva mark I’d left. Better to be seen as clumsy than drooly, like a St. Bernard, right?

  “Oh crap,” I blurted. “I’m so sorry!”

  Graeme’s gaze went from his shoulder up to meet mine, his eyebrows arched high. “Well. I guess that will wash out the saliva. Good enough.”

  It felt like every molecule of blood in my body rushed to my face at that and all I could do was sputter. “Oh my God...I...”