First Comes Love (Love Comes To Town)

“Oh, I know that.” The woman plops on a log opposite me and shoots me a significant, bitchy look. “I don’t go questioning my boss.”

I open my mouth just as Manuel says, “Plantains ready!”

I close it, my belly giving a joyful grumble. No way do I want to put off breakfast just to tell off some bitchy coworker. Maybe she just needs coffee too.

As the others gather, Greyson joins us too, in a slightly tight shirt that sets off his lean body even more.

I peel my eyes away.

Don’t.

“Oh, hey!” Samantha’s by his side in a millisecond. “I just wanted to say how brave you were last night—and how honest and just, like, virtuous you were, letting us decide for ourselves whether we should stay.”

Greyson only has eyes for the plantains, though. “Thanks,” he says distractedly.

His gaze wanders to me, freezes, then snaps away like a live wire.

Yep, either he hates me or wants me.

Why not both? Hannah’s smug voice in my head asks.

I sigh.

Han doesn’t get it. Maybe Greyson is hot and smart and sexy, but this job is my dream. My literal dream from when I was a kid and used to film my beanie babies spinning on the overhead fan before they were plopped in random places (wooden bed, cluttered desk, book-filled shelf) in my bedroom. All through university, even through the classes with the notoriously horrible professors, I persevered because I knew it was worth it. Because when I get behind the camera, everything else fades away. Time doesn’t slow down or speed up, it ceases to exist. Everything is pure flow, magic, creation. And I love it. I can’t get enough of it. And if I actually managed to make a go of it, to make this work, to have this—my love—be my career too? Well, there’d be nothing better in the world.

Even if Greyson has been my film idol for years, and is even hotter in person.

I go and get some plantains on a plate too, although I have barely eaten one bite before someone approaches.

“Hey, can we talk.” It’s Greyson, plantain-piled board still untouched as he stands before me, his eyes carrying even less of a question than his words.

Samantha thankfully huffs off to chow down her plantains in bitchy silence.

“Sure,” I say, following him a bit of a ways off so we can talk with some privacy.

“About yesterday,” he says, awkwardly. “I wanted to thank you.”

“Really?”

“No. I wanted to tell you not to embarrass me in front of the others again. But then I realized I was being an ass, just how…” He pauses, his mouth working as if he was about to say something different. “Just how I didn’t want to be, going into this. Maybe all that about suggestions and being a team is lip-service for StormTV, but I think we might actually need it here.” He runs a hand through his dark hair, scowling. “I’m not used to working like this, to be perfectly honest. All my regulars are out with dengue, my assistant too, and…”—these last words come as if physically pulled out of him, as if he’s as surprised by them as I am—“you were right.”

“Wow, I…” Greyson Storm is thanking me for being a pushy bitch last night? I’ll take it. Half of it was probably just my sleep-deprived grumpiness talking, that and pure old stubbornness, but still.

“Thanks,” I tell him. “Although if I told you that you have a stain on your collar?”

His scowl deepens. “Don’t push it.”

“Fair.” I bite my lip, but can’t help smiling.

Open to criticism? Check.

Willing to own his mistakes? Check.

Not a pushover? Check.

Be still, my rapidly beating heart.

“So, about this game plan…” I begin.

“Nothing set in stone yet,” he says. “Although I do have some ideas.”

“Oh?”

He takes a bite of the plantain, exhales in pleasure.

“It is good,” I agree, taking a bite of my own.

“Don’t tell me,” he says, after he’s chewed and swallowed. “You have some ideas too.”

“Not many,” I admit. “After all, I’m just a rookie. I may know my way around a camera, but I don’t have my head so much up my ass that I actually think I know much about trekking through a rainforest.”

He chuckles. “But?”

“Well, what were you thinking?”

“We’re in a major time crunch.” Without thinking, he reaches forward and brushes a crumb off my cheek. I swallow. Without missing a beat, he continues, “The show was supposed to be ready already. We’ve got two weeks, but it will most likely take half that much, at least, to get to the old camp, near the swamp where all the American crocodiles are. What I was thinking was that those don’t have to be the focus of the entire show. They can be the climax, but…”

Something throbs in me as I zone out. Dear Lord. I’m so attracted to this man that even hearing him say the word ‘climax’ sets me off. I would roll my eyes at myself if Greyson wasn’t standing right in front of me, eyeing me expectantly.