First Comes Love (Love Comes To Town)

Prologue

Greyson

What’s better than winning the lottery?

Hitting jackpot when you didn’t even realize you’d bought a ticket.

And this woman— this Harley Davison— has jackpot written all over her.

Thin yet strong athletic body. A dipped-in waist I instinctively want to put my hands around. A generous mauve-lipped smile that slays me. Green eyes with a brand of amusement I’m not quite sure I get but want to. Even her gap-toothed teeth and every golden wave on her head seem to beam.

I rip my gaze off her, force it onto her hands. Lithe rosy-skinned, small-boned things, they flit and fidget, as if small birds that want to be cooped up in this over-air-conditioned office as little as I do.

“I’m Harley,” she says.

Her voice has an exotic flare to it—Australia? New Zealand?—one that her clothing—red-gold brocade blazer, black on black pinstriped pants— only accentuates.

Just another quick glance and a whole number of ‘exotic’ things I’d like to do to her flash through my head.

Focus, Greyson.

But it’s too late. Another smile of hers and I’m done for.

Why she’s here, what I’m supposed to be doing, what this interaction is even for, all falls away.

I have to grip the arm rests of my seat to physically keep me in place. No more glances for me, who knows what would happen.

All I know is that I, impossibly, unaccountably, incredibly, with an intensity that’s almost painful—want her.

Chapter 1

Greyson

One Day Earlier

Here we go again.

Another day at the office, in a position most people would kill for—Storm Media President.

Below the second-level balcony I’m standing on, the open-concept, plant-friendly configuration of cubicles buzzes with eager-anxious activity. Around me wafts the vanilla scent from the air freshener that our janitor, Gladys, installed last night. Across my neck, prickling where I grazed the skin with my razor this morning, is the slight whish of the energy-efficient fans.

I pause, appreciating all the productivity in competent motion, even if I’m not a part of it. One office down from mine, Landon has his head down, slogging away at the mess of the books Dad left us.

I should get back to the office too.

Ah, yes: the office. Still haven’t managed to successfully call it ‘my’ office. Probably because it isn’t.

It’s Dad’s, from its memorabilia-strewn walls down to its desk—his luggage for the first trip that got him backers, back when Storm Media was just a dream in an overly ambitious college kid’s head. The place even smells like him: some sort of spruce—weird, since he never was one to spend an afternoon in nature that could be spent building up the company.

Every time Emerson saunters in here, his first comment is how this is a museum, and his second a question on when I’m going to ‘clean it up’. Truth is, I don’t know. I don’t think I want to. With Dad gone, it’s one of the few things I have left of him.

Seems like every day I’m getting angrier, more restless, pacing the floor of my office like a trapped panther.

Anyway. Time to get started on…

I scowl at my reflection in the laptop screen before turning it on.

That’s just it. My assistant’s on vacation, and even then, Madeline has been admittedly muddled at what exactly I’m supposed to do now that I’m president. Somehow, Dad managed to be busier than anyone I knew, and yet his files and instructions leave out one major point: on what?

Everyone knows he was a great man for raising morale—but exactly how many times are you supposed to saunter around telling people to ‘keep it up, you’re doing great’? What else did he do?

Build and conquer, always, his voice echoes in my head. I reach for my phone, stopping myself just in time. I’m not the producer for StormTV anymore, no matter how much I want to be. My place is here now, even if we all know I’m no Collin Storm.

I wander to the door, then out. I know, without thinking consciously of it, where I’m headed. Where I always go when I lack inspiration, or when I just need a break from it all. Better that than me snapping at some clueless intern, which I’ve been doing more than I’d like to admit these past few weeks.

Makes me feel like a slacker, strolling off with everyone else hard at work, but I did pull several all-nighters last week to get through all the company’s day-to-day minutiae, plus get caught up on all the press conferences and tell the reporters, “Yes, sorry, we still don’t know how it happened,” when what I really wanted to say was, “No, I don’t know how Dad died and I wouldn’t tell you if I did, you bloodsucking leeches.”

Outside, the air is fresh after a rain, although I see no signs of it. A few blocks, and I’m there.

Ulric looks up first, smiling his one-toothed smile. “Lookee who the cat dragged in.”