First Comes Love (Love Comes To Town)

Sounds good to me, I text him back.

Guess even if the rest of this afternoon is a snore, I have something to look forward to, at least.

**

The end of the afternoon can’t come quickly enough. More documentaries, more go-die stares, and by the time the clock ticks to 5 PM, I’m practically bounding out of my seat.

At home, after losing track of time in the latest Kate Morton novel and ending up with just minutes to spare, I yank on my blush half-crochet dress, slip on a beaded headband, call to Hannah, “There’s leftover spaghetti in the fridge!” and run out the door to meet Greyson.

“Sorry I’m a bit late,” I tell Greyson as I get into his car.

“Good thing you look good,” is all he says.

“And if I didn’t?” I tease.

His gaze glides over me for a nice long while before he starts up the car and gets driving. “Impossible.”

“You should see me when Hannah and I do mud masks.”

He chuckles. “Still not buying it.”

“What if I spontaneously developed a second nose?”

Stopped at the stoplight, Greyson turns to look me over, his gaze lingering when it meets mine. “Beautiful. End of story.”

And then he kisses me.

It’s a soft kiss. One that knows what it wants and is in no hurry to get there. It’s the kind of kiss that I’ll recap to Hannah tonight, relive when I go to sleep later on. The kind of kiss that takes your breath away. That you remember until the day you die.

And then a car speeds past us and, realizing the light has changed, we separate.

“What was it you wanted to ask me, anyway?” I wonder as we continue along.

Suddenly, Greyson’s jaw tightens. “Not now.”

“OK…” I say, and, for some reason unable to shut up and shake the sense that it’s something serious, continue, “Because I promise, I let my crazy friend use my laptop a few years ago, so any Google searches involving pipe bombs was totally not me.”

Greyson swings an amused look my way. “What makes you think I know about your Google searches?”

I crinkle my nose. “OK, maybe not you. But the government, maybe.”

Still amusement, touched with the slightest amount of suspicion. “Why would the government care?”

“Because I’m a criminal, of course.”

I expect him to laugh, but he doesn’t.

“What?” I tease, “Think I’m a criminal?”

“Are you?”

I stare at him, waiting for the crinkling in the corners of his eyes to show that he’s joking.

“I mean, I got arrested for protesting once,” I admit. “Spent a night in jail and even got a mug shot, but…”

I stare at his neutral yet still gorgeous side profile. “Why am I getting the feeling that this isn’t a surprise?”

“Is that all?” is all he asks.

OK, now I’m getting pissed off.

“What does that mean, is that all?”

“Just that.”

“What, am I supposed to tell you every bad thing I’ve ever done or thought of doing? What’s gotten into you?”

“I told you. I talked to a family friend. A lawyer.”

“And he knew about the arrest.”

“He knew about a lot more than that. Something about tax evasion?”

“Oh, that.” I almost laugh. “I was just an idiot and let my sketchy cousin Terry do my taxes. Turns out he didn’t, just took the money for doing it from me and some other people and disappeared to Hawaii without telling anyone. That was when I first got into film school, so I was working my ass off so much that I didn’t even realize what Terry had done until a year later when the tax people got on my ass. The woman they assigned to my case was a complete Nazi, tried to make the case I did this all on purpose. It was ridiculous. I paid the money and they threw her case out of court.” I swing him a sidelong glance. “Is that what this is all about?”

Greyson’s eyes are on the road, his mouth set. He looks like a stranger.

“It’s a big deal,” he says quietly. “With my father’s tax evasion coming out how it did, and all the damage control I’ve had to do because of it, if it comes out that an employee of ours was involved in anything even remotely linked to tax evasion…”

“Anyone who knew the first thing about it would know it’s complete BS!”

“But that’s just it!” Greyson growls. “The media doesn’t look into things, it thrives on misinformation. One shitty article and the general public’s mind turns like a teeter totter.”

“In that case, there’s nothing we can do about it,” I argue. “They could post a bogus article claiming either one of us is some Satanist and people will buy it.”

Greyson says nothing as I scrutinize him.

“That isn’t what you’re worried about,” I say flatly, realizing it as I’m saying it. “It’s us getting out, too.”

“Both.”

He pulls into a parking spot. I stare out the window.