First Comes Love: Love Comes To Town, #1

By Ashlee Price

Office Rule #1: Don't fall in love with the woman you're interviewing. Office Rule #2: I'm the boss so I make, and break, the rules.

 

Hobnobbing with staff is against company policy. Besides, a man in my position needs to be ruthless. Who cares if I'm known around the office as the brooding, difficult boss.   As the President of my family's empire, I've got more important things to do than sit in on interviews. Then she walked in the room. Once I laid my eyes on her, I'm filled with a throbbing intensity. A true showstopper. Hot. Smart. Sassy. She's my dream woman. But she's also off limits. Duty calls. My family desperately needs my TV project to be successful. We can't afford another juicy scandal on our hands. That new forbidden fantasy will have to remain just that. One thing is for sure.

 

She's full of fire. A fire that I can't resist. Doing the wrong thing never felt so thrilling. Which makes the temptation, and the risk, even hotter.

 

Book 1 in this hot, new, fun & flirty (grumphole) romance is filled with page melting heat, lots of teasing, drama and some sugar sweet moments that will give you all the feels. Into happily-ever-afters? Don't even wait because this HEA is guaranteed to satisfy your cravings.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ashlee Price
• Release date: Nov 15, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223420484

Book preview

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.

That’s another thing I like about being here, under the McGuinty Overpass: Ulric and the others don’t care who I am or what I do. Sure, they may tease me about my fancy suit from time to time, but at the end of the day, I’m just the same as them, another guy working on a wood project. A wood project that, once it’s finished, should provide shelter for around 20 homeless men.

How’s it coming along, boys? I ask.

Harry pops his head out of the tent to knock two bottles together. Ain’t get shit done when you aren’t here, ya know.

Now... Marlow protests, pausing between two cigarettes to wag an admonishing wrinkled finger. We did adjust it, now.

I chuckle, walking over. No worries.

The structure is about three quarters done, a bunch of pine boards and nails that don’t go far in their current state yet are still better than what these poor guys are living in now: old, stinking tents that are one rip away from being a pile of useless fabric.

The bag of tools is where I left it, so I get to work, hammering away at the boards, losing myself in the bliss of being actually useful.

Imagine seeing you here, a familiar voice purrs.

I keep on hammering away, hoping beyond hope that she’ll go away.

But Amelia Cavendish only switches which hip she has her hand on. You going to make me stand here all day?

I’m busy.

And I told you, I can help.

I pause, already knowing this is going nowhere. Amelia.

She bites her lip. I could help with... moral support?

I shake my head. Not in the mood.

Maybe I like charity work too, ever consider? God, you’re such a conceited prick.

I look at her, deadpan. I don’t mention how the only times she’s been here are when I have, conveniently because this area is visible from her office window. Nor do I mention how our fling a few months back is done, how we have virtually nothing else in common. I don’t need to.

Amelia, this has to stop, I tell her.

Fine, she hisses, tossing her Coke can to the side.

The boys have the decency to hold in their chuckling until she’s several feet away.

Fuck you, Greyson Storm! she yells over them as she storms off.

Guys, I say over their hooting laughter now, can’t you...

We didn’t say anything, Harry protests. Just like you said!

Last time, after Ulric’s innocent ‘nice skirt’ compliment had Amelia threatening to sue, I’d suggested to the guys that it might be easier to keep it down until she, inevitably, left.

My phone goes off.

It’s Madeline. Greyson, thank God. She sounds terrible, like she’s just finished running a 10K and has a runny nose to boot.

You OK? I ask.

By the sound of it, my assistant might need a vacation to recover from her vacation to Costa Rica. She was just supposed to go to Corcovado National Park’s rainforest to make sure all was running smoothly after we lost contact for a few days, but...

No, no I’m not, actually. Everyone here has the dengue fever. I... uh... I have it too.

Shit. Where is everyone? Did they manage to make it to the hospital? Are you OK?

I’m fine, don’t have it too bad, just this fever and a bit of vomiting. As for the others, they’ve booked the next flight out of here. Decker walked out yesterday.

Shit. Suddenly realizing that I’ve been pacing, I stop dead in my tracks. I knew that guy was off the first second I met him, just passed off my uneasiness as wanting to be in the producer chair myself. So StormTV has no crew.

Well— Another low groan. Yes. I’m so sorry, Mr. Storm.

A sick urge to laugh twists in me. Thank you, Madeline, I’m able to make myself say. Is there anything you need?

No, I’m fine, really. Thank you.

She speaks with a careful clip, but I can still hear the anxiety in her voice.

Don’t worry, I tell her, with more assurance than I feel. I’ll get this sorted out. I’ll have a new crew there in days. As for you, you get home and rest as long as you need.

Good luck, boss. Let me know if there’s anything I can do.

You just concentrate on getting better. Thanks again.

I freeze, staring off into space.

Shit.

First Dad dying, and now this. StormTV is a major moneymaker for Storm Media. Without it...

I don’t let myself finish that sentence.

That bad? Ulric asks.

Yeah, I... I’m sorry, boys, I have to go.

Harry grins lopsidedly. Don’t be all sorry. We’ll be here when you have time.

On my way back to the office, I call up Landon, tell him, We have a problem.

**

They’re all waiting in my office when I get there.

You’re lucky I felt like a stroll downtown, Emerson says, running a hand through his golden hair, blue eyes narrowed. Otherwise you’d have had to wait a good hour until I was done practicing.

Noah snorts, intones in a caveman voice, Piano love. Piano life.

We crack up, even Emerson. Not all of us can be business superstars.

Although truth is that Emerson turned down the Storm position Dad handed to him, decided to go out in left field and try to become a concert pianist of all things.

I’m no business superstar, I grumble. I’m just the guy who got thrown into the president position.

My brothers all like to pretend that being cooped up here in this office is my calling or something. Like dealing with all the shit Dad left behind is just a blessing.

Same here, Landon says, his muscled arms tensed as he rubs at his light-brown-haired temples. Minus the president part. It’s not like I have some undying love for poring over figures from five years back.

Nolan gives him a sympathetic pat. Landon really did get the short end of the stick for this one. As hard as running this company seems without Dad, making sense of the books which Dad self-admittedly ‘played by his own rules’ is damn near impossible.

Anyway, I say. We’ve got a problem.

Catastrophe, Nolan agrees morosely.

I don’t call my brothers in for many business meetings, but when I do, they know it’s serious. All it took was a one-text summary of what had happened, and they were here within minutes.

What are our options? Landon asks.

Emerson crosses his arms across his chest, his fingers absently drumming out some chords from some piano piece. Hire a new crew, obviously.

What’s to stop the same thing from happening again? I say. The rainforest in Corcovado National Park is no walk in the park, and Decker came with all the right credentials.

He was an ass, Nolan says simply.

An ass you all wanted to hire, I remind him. You ignored my reservations.

It doesn’t matter, Landon states. We’ll just have to choose better next time.

I plan to, I say.

All eyes swivel my way.

Greyson, Emerson begins, You’re not seriously suggesting—

Actually, I am, I say. What better way to ensure that we don’t run into the same difficulties again? That, and getting each crew member vaccinated.

I don’t like it, Landon says simply. You’re supposed to be the president. You can’t just go gallivanting off here, there and everywhere, just like... He trails off, scowling.

Just like Dad used to? I point out. Too bad. I’m going.

Three cool pairs of eyes greet me. I have to get my temper in check if this is going to fly, even if I am pissed. I didn’t want to be president, but if I am, there should be some perks attached to it. One of them being that I get to decide what I do, when I want.

Which technically I can, but I’d rather not deal with three pissy brothers while I’m gone.

Taking a breath, I force my tone into a neutral one. C’mon, admit it, me being there will speed everything along and make everything that much easier.

Not to mention that you get to return to your dream job, Emerson grumbles.

I eye him. That so bad?

My brothers scowl. Clearly they agree already, and don’t like one bit of it.

Admit it, I say, This is a win-win.

It could be, Nolan says. Although that doesn’t solve everything. We still need a new crew ASAP.

I grin. And there it is, just what I was looking for: agreement, implicit if not explicit.

I get out my phone. On it.

One Day Later...

I still don’t see why we all had to be here. Nolan gives his long light brown hair-ed head an irritable shake as he chomps on some cashews.

Agreed. Emerson’s on his phone, glaring at it as if it’s to blame. My knowledge of business practices is exactly zilch.

You know I value your opinions, I tell them. Besides, it’s not like sitting around interviewing endless candidates is exactly my idea of a great time either. If I suffer, it’s only fair they do too. Anyway, it’s time.

The next few hours in my office pass in a blur of faces and names, takeout food, first impressions, quick discussions and split-second decisions.

After what must be all of the hires, I’m already out of my chair, ready to leave, no questions asked, when Landon stops me. We still don’t have a cinematographer, and we’ve got four hopefuls out there.

Shit.

I mentally set aside my long hot shower for another hour. Alright, send them in. Might as well get this over with.

The first woman barks more angry questions at me than I have for her. By the end, I’m ready to fling my clipboard at her head, except she leaves first.

The next woman walks in as I’m sipping my water. I look up and freeze.

Hello, she says. I’m Harley.

Hello, I force myself to say, while I try and fail to tear my eyes off the showstopper that’s just walked in.

Keep your head in the game, Greyson.

But it’s too late. One smile of hers and I’m done for. Those turned-up mauve lips light up her entire face, make her green eyes crinkle in the corners, her freckled nose crinkle too; even her gap-toothed teeth and every golden hair on her head seem to beam.

Everything else falls away.

All I know is that I want her. I want her bad.

Landon clears his throat, and I brace myself against the chair. Attractive or not, we still have an interview to give. With any luck, she’ll flub it and the choice will be easy. On the other hand, I just want to get these interviews finished and get out of here.

Why do you want this position? I ask, swiping a brief glance at her.

I love cinematography and I’ve loved your work from the start. Evergreen Avenue, then that special on flamingoes, plus the show where they were all cooped up in the cabin, I’ve watched every one of them dozens of times. Opportunities like this don’t come every day—sometimes they don’t even come every lifetime.

My back teeth grind together. Alright, she’s good, I’ll give her that.

Landon shoves a resume under my nose and I scan it briefly. Harley is just as young as she looks: she’s fresh out of college.

Why do you think you’d be a good fit? I ask her next.

I might be new, but I know my stuff. I was top in my class at USC School of Cinematic Arts, and even now on my days off I’m always learning and practicing. I love what I do. Oh, and I don’t quit. Ever.

The intensity in her tone makes me look up. I swallow.

Her face is even more driven, which makes her look even sexier. And the way she’s acing all these questions... fuck.

You have any questions for us? Noah asks.

He likes that one, claims it’s the only half-interesting question, thanks to some terrified man who started crying two hours back and then basically ran away.

What do you want?

She looks straight at me. My mouth falls open. She can’t possibly...

Catching my eye, her mouth falls open too. She recovers herself quickly, though.

I mean, for the job—what are you looking for?

You, Emerson says, then chuckles. At my glare, he coughs. Joking, of course. I’ll let my big business whiz brothers answer this one.

Thanks. Landon’s ironic look is no less harsh than my glare was. We are looking for someone who’s passionate in what they do, a team player, someone who isn’t afraid to get a bit dirty.

An awkward silence settles as I force myself not to look her way. A bit dirty—he has to use this phrase with our hottest applicant yet, when I’m already having trouble concentrating? Seriously?

And I thought today couldn’t get more frustrating.

Meaning, I cut in, forcing unwanted images of Harley, bent over my knees right here and now out of my head, the rainforest can be dangerous, even to the experienced. There’s disease, rabid animals, shitty weather, the works.

Her chin lifts. I can handle it.

Then, all innocence as she looks to me, After all, you’re going, aren’t you?

Where did you hear that? I ask.

A half-shrug. One of the women you interviewed earlier mentioned it to us while walking out.

My brothers scowl, while I have difficulty holding my smile back. They probably planned to try to talk me out of the decision later, but me stepping in as producer is looking like more and more of a certainty.

This Harley isn’t just hot, she’s on the ball. Way too young for me, but I’ll be too busy in the producer’s chair to be distracted anyway. About fucking time I get to do something I like for a change, too.

Alright, you’re in, I say.

My brothers heave a relieved sigh—clearly, I’m not the only one who’s fed up with all the interviews.

Great! she says.

We shake hands, her fingers looking even smaller entwined with mine, although her firm handshake is no pushover. Electricity zaps through my fingers. I push it down.

Not the time.

We’re happy to have you as part of Storm Media, I recite the spiel Dad developed who-knows how many years back. Repeating it now feels stupid and trite, especially considering what I suspect about Dad, but it’s all I’ve got, so I go with it: For us, being punctual, true to our word and a real team are the most important things. But for us, team means something a bit different. We like to work as equals—at least in the suggestion and idea sense. So, if there’s anything you think we could do differently or better, just tell us.

Really? Harley tilts her head at me.

Really, I say, looking to the door.

I’m too tired and horny for this. This is not the normal response the spiel gets.

She bites her lip. Well, if being punctual is the most important thing for you, then you should hold to it. My interview time was... she glances at her phone, scheduled an hour ago. I get it that you guys are in a time crunch, but then maybe you should change your tenets?

What. The