I couldn’t pull my attention away from his hand on mine. From the sudden rush of blood pressing against the surface of my skin. From how weak my knees were in this man’s presence. His beauty was unnatural. Radiant. Devilish. I was only an awkward kind of pretty. It had taken me twenty-three years to grow into my features.
“Order number forty-two!”
Grayson leaned forward, eyes skimming over my receipt. “Looks like that’s you.”
I gave a slight laugh and then hurried to the counter, shouldering through the tight crowd as best I could. Handed my receipt to the woman on the other side of the counter and then took the bags she’d offered. All I had to do was make it to the front door, and then I’d be free from Grayson’s Adonis-esque beauty and soul-piercing eyes.
But that pesky-ass fate had something else in mind. And by that, I mean, another dose of humiliation. My body slammed up against Grayson’s when I spun around.
Only this time, he caught me before the bag dropped.
“Jesus … you’re there again.” I pulled the bagels to my chest as Grayson slowly let go of me. “Listen, you really don’t have to worry about my Kindle. I can take care—”
The humored glimmer in his gaze halted my words. He held up his receipt and then pointed over my shoulder to the woman holding two cups of coffee out to him.
“Right … you’re next, and I’m … in the way. Sorry.” That was my cue. I slid past him with enough heat behind my cheeks to power the sun. Thoughts pinged clumsily around the inside of my skull, like an overworked game of pinball.
Smooth, Prim. Real smooth.
I fought my way to the front door. Told myself everything was fine. The embarrassment was over, and I’d never have to see him again. Once outside, I pulled in a huge breath of stale city air, focusing on the feel of my expanded lungs. A whirling of unfamiliar emotions pressed and stretched behind my skin.
Did that really just happen?
I turned away from the stream of cars, back to the storefront, unable to make him out from the slew of bodies. A small bout of laughter tore past my lips when it all crashed over me. When I glanced down at his card, still tucked inside my hand, with his number handwritten on the back. I had Grayson’s number, and he wanted me to get in touch with him.
Me.
I slid the card into the pocket of my skirt. My head shook as I lifted a hand in the air to hail a cab, a silly smile plastered across my lips. The moment the cab sidled next to the curb, an arm reached around me and pulled the door open.
It was him. Again.
“Sorry about all that back there. I’d love to say it doesn’t happen often, but, well, you know …” He turned and grabbed the two coffees off the newspaper stand he’d placed them on while I stood there, as dumbfounded as ever. “Shoot me a text or call me when you have time to meet up.” He paused. Searched my face which I seemed to have lost all control of. There was that laughter of his again, the deep notes strung with a bit of nerves. “What am I saying?” He shook his head. “You barely know me. If you’d rather not do either, you can always email me. I’m sure I can have it sent to you. Regardless, I want to replace it.”
“O-okay.”
“It was nice, bumping into you, Prim.” He finished the sentence with his famous panty-melting grin.
“Nice … bumping … too,” I said with a faint wave, watching his form disappear into the ever-changing crowd. I stopped. Spun in a half circle as if I were looking for something.
Oh, yeah.
My common sense.
What in the hell just happened?
Don’t Poke the Bear
Grayson
“YOU’RE LATE.”
“And yet, you still walk with me,” I said as I handed Finley’s coffee to him.
He smirked. “Can’t quit a ritual this late in the game.”
He stood on the stoop to our loft, a hand tucked into his pocket and a cigarette dangling on the edge of his lips. He was a poster child for young, gritty bar owners who lived hard and partied even harder. With wayward black hair, a five o’clock shadow, and the smell of last night’s regrets permeating through his skin, one would think women would steer clear of him.
But not Fin. Case in point …
“Ah, there you are,” Fin said the moment the front door opened.
A woman with bright red hair and a dress that clung to every inch of her skin slithered down the steps, pausing only to kiss him on the cheek before heading out into the morning rush.
My gaze followed her as a smirk emerged. “Another waitress? I thought it wasn’t good for the boss to date the help.”
“What can I say? I’m weak.” He sipped his coffee. With a grimace, he added, “This shit’s cold, man. The last time you brought me cold coffee was years ago. And that was because of what’s her name.”
“Isabella?”
“Yeah. Her. The crazy one with the sexy-ass mouth.”
“If you’re referring to when she decided to go live on Instagram after I broke it off with her, then yeah. You only got cold coffee because of a breakup from hell. I got bashed for weeks. Good publicity for the coffee shop though. I heard they made damn good money after the video went viral.” I paused, grinning. “Wait … I’ve been bringing you coffee that long? I must be insane.”
He smirked. “So … what happened this time?”
I filled him in about Prim, whose smile still lingered in the back of my mind like a faint, airy light.
“Leave it to you to graduate from breaking girls’ hearts to breaking girls’ digital means of ignoring us.” We started in the direction we took every morning. “So, what’d she look like?”
I stepped to the side to avoid a pile of dog shit someone had ignorantly left in the middle of the sidewalk. “Small.”
“Small?”
“Yeah.” I laughed at how ridiculous that sounded. “I don’t know, man. Think Emilia Clarke, only softer. More innocent.”
“Shit, man. The platinum version or the brunette?”
“Brunette,” I said, thinking about the long, wavy length of her hair. The contrast of her fair skin against the deep chocolate color that smoldered into black. How the blue in her eyes seemed almost iridescent, enhanced by rounded black frames that shaped her face. And that smile. Damn, that smile filled with wonder and intrigue and hope. Curved like the star-kissed moon.
His grin melted into a pompous slant. “Did she do the whole freeze-and-giggle routine?”
“It wasn’t like that. I can’t explain it.” I couldn’t deny the draw I’d felt. The foreign pull to what I’d found in her eyes. A tenderness that had me feeling all sorts of things I never thought I’d feel again. Something virtuous and true.
Something a guy like me would never have the pleasure of knowing.
“Oh, I’m sure it wasn’t.” He stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. Twisted his legs in like a shy schoolgirl while his hands shot to his mouth.
Here we go.
“Oh my God … it’s Grayson Pierce.” He attempted a high falsetto that sounded more like an old aunt who’d smoked for forty years. “Someone call the firemen because he’s lit my panties on fire.” He peered around to the small audience he’d attracted and smirked. “Hose me down. Make me yours. Grayson …”
When he was finished goading me, he swaggered back to my side, that pompous grin of his high and wide. “You’re lucky I like you,” I said, resuming our walk. Somehow smiling myself.
“You love it.”
“Wrong. I tolerate it. You know I hate the attention. I’ve had enough to last me a lifetime.”
He chuckled. “Well then, pass it on this way, brother. Business could use a little fame.”
“That bad?”
He shrugged. Forced a grin that didn’t quite fit his face. “I bet she slyly slid her number your way.”
Another of Fin’s many talents—evading. Though I wanted to press him for more, I decided against it. He knew I’d back him financially if he ever needed it, but I think hi
s pride meant more to him. Fin never could take a handout. He was bred from years and years of working hard for what you wanted … which was the very thing that pulled me to him when I met him back in college.
“Actually, I had to give her mine,” I said, smiling at the memory of the astonished look on her face when I handed the card to her.
His head jerked my way. “No shit?”
“Like I said, it wasn’t like that.”
I couldn’t get her out of my head. Had I not clumsily bumped into her, I probably would never have even noticed her. She had an air about her that made her somewhat invisible. Not that she wasn’t easy on the eyes. It was her energy. The way she tucked into herself, hiding from the world. That energy carried over into her smile. Into the shock that took over the entirety of her face every time I spoke to her.
Pure.
She was the embodiment of purity.
“You think she’ll call?”
“Doubt it.”
He snorted a laugh. “Don’t stress it, man. She could be a stage-five clinger like that Monica chick.” He tossed a smirk my way. “Whatever happened to her?”
“She’s fine. Still working for that sleazy tabloid Orb the last I heard.” I glanced over at him. “And I thought I told you to stop calling her that.”
“Dude, she literally showed up for a week straight outside our door after you boned her.” His head shook. “I told you, man, don’t shit where you sleep.”
“Sage advice, coming from you.” I groaned and dropped the empty coffee cup into the trash. “Listen, it was a onetime thing, and she was okay with that. I told you, she was helping me with a piece that week for Harry.”
Another snort trickled up his throat. “Sometimes, I think you’re blind.” We both stopped at the entrance to his bar. “You coming out tonight?”
“Maybe.”
His lips tilted with a gleam in his eyes. “If she calls, bring her by. I have to know who has your panties in a wad.”
I pegged him with a hard look. “Remind me again why we’re friends?”
“Because I’m the only one who won’t put out when you smirk. It’s annoying … that fucking panty-melting smirk.”
A solitary eyebrow rose in his direction. “Looked in the mirror lately? I might be able to wield it, but you’ve turned that shit into foreplay.”
I dodged his fist with a chuckle. Hailed a cab just as my phone vibrated in my hand. “Good morning, Gwen,” I said after I slid into the cab. “Tell the old man I’m almost there.”
A small sputter of laughter fluttered through the speaker. “Good morning to you, too, sir. I’ll be sure to let him know.” There was a short, weighted pause. “Also … there was a call from a Mrs. Pierce.”
All my thoughts halted. The only Mrs. Pierce I cared about was gone, planted beneath our favorite oak butted up against the lake at my childhood home. A home my father had since paraded countless women through. Tainted with shame and lies.
Mom’s fading smile was the only memory I’d since clung to.
My jaw tightened to the point of pain. “What does she want?” The questions rolled out controlled and devoid of emotion, despite the hailstorm raging behind my ribcage.
“She’s invited you to the annual charity ball for the Badgers.”
The Badgers. My dad’s football team, passed down to him by his father. A team that had secured him a dynasty. A team I wanted nothing to do with.
I stared blankly at the license taped to the back of the glass. “Please regretfully decline.” Regretful was the least of what I felt, but I wasn’t the same young kid with a chip on his shoulder, looking to get revenge. I was past that phase of my life.
“Sure thing, Mr. Pierce. Should I send anything along with the decline?”
Yeah. A middle finger.
“That would be great, Gwen. How about a bottle of scotch and a bouquet of yellow tulips?”
That would get his attention. Mom had loved yellow tulips.
And if they’re given to his fourth wife, who openly and knowingly labeled them as too cheap, then he’ll be given his annual reminder that I still don’t forgive him, I thought, enjoying what I imagined would be the expressions on their faces.
“I’ll call the florist first thing.”
The end of the call left me alone with my sullied thoughts. With a staggering amount of memories that stirred awake the dark inside of me. The flashing red lights. The barrage of headlines that buried my modeling career.
I wouldn’t give in to them.
The building where I worked loomed over the street like a giant, pointed incisor. I followed the crowd of suits up to the tenth floor and then made my way past the rows of occupied tables and early morning office chatter.
Harrison was located on the other end of the room in a corner office filled with gaudy fixtures and worn leather seats. Heavy wooden furniture and enough books to last a lifetime. The room always carried the scent of cigars even though he didn’t smoke. He kept an oar mounted on the wall—from his rowing days at Harvard. Pictures of him shaking the many famous hands he’d encountered along his rise to the top.
I found him standing at the window like a king overlooking his kingdom. In some ways, he was a king in New York. With a few words, he could make or break a person. His opinion on just about everything was sought after. Anticipated. Desired.
“You’re late.”
His back was to me, one hand on his hip, the other holding a black marbled mug, no doubt laced with the whiskey he kept on the bar cart in the corner.
“But I’m here,” I said as I plopped down onto the chair across from his desk.
He swiveled around, tucking a hand into the pocket of his trousers. A shadow of a grin rested at the corners of his mouth—a sign I’d come to learn as dangerous.
“What?”
“Oh, nothing.” A bated pause. “Just waiting for Quinn’s call.”
Quinn. His rival. His ex.
“You posted it?”
I had known Harrison had approved a story to be run that was a subtle poke toward Virago—Stud’s mirror blog for women—but I never thought he’d post it.
I take that back. This was Harrison I was talking about. Of course he’d post it.
“You know I couldn’t pass up this opportunity. She had it coming.”
“Or maybe it’s because you got bored and decided to pour a little gas on that simmering flame of Quinn’s,” I said with a chuckle. “What is it with you two?”
He was only half-listening, his gaze laser-focused on the phone. “Any moment now.”
He set his mug down and clapped his hands together, a jolt of excitement splicing through the air. It was his favorite pastime—stirring the pot. Especially when it came to Quinn.
“Haven’t you learned not to poke the bear?”
He chuckled. “Poking is half the fun.”
I reached for the newspaper on his desk. Harry was a stickler for the simpler things in life. He liked ink on his fingers and whiskey in his coffee. A cab ride to the local deli and a face-to-face conversation.
“So, what have you got for me?” His head dipped, and I braced myself. “You sure you don’t want to take up the offer to cover this upcoming football season? With your name and history, people would flock to hear what you have to say.”
I set the paper down. “First off, I don’t watch sports. Second, I enjoy writing about style. I was style not too long ago.”
A snort rested in his throat. “So, what’s it going to be this week? How to dress for a date? What to wear in your Tinder profile pic? Are man buns in or out?” He huffed and shook his head. “Millennials, I swear.”
“Hey now. Those millennials make up seventy percent of your readership.” After straightening my tie, I added, “And this week, it’s all about leveling up your casual look, old-Hollywood style.”
He let loose another smirk. “If you need pointers, let me know.”
That warranted a chuckle.
Gwen’s voice buzzed th
rough the speaker. “Sir.”
“Yes?”
“The article just went live.”
He glanced up at me. Held out his hand and counted down. On one, his phone rang, and his face lit like the Fourth of July. Quinn’s voice boomed on the other end of the line so loud that even I heard the profanities she tossed at him.
“Hi, Quinny,” he said, waving me off, his lips tilted in the widest smile as he put her on speaker.
“I told you to stop calling me that over twenty years ago, you egotistical prick,” Quinn barked. “You think some joke of an article is going to get at me?”
Harrison leaned back in his chair, a sated smirk on his lips.
“I curse the day I met you, Harry. Mark my words. You want to go to war, well then—”
With a shake of my head, I left his office and made my way to the table I had claimed that overlooked the city. It wasn’t much … the same-sized space all the other bloggers shared, but to me it was a sanctuary. A place where I finally felt I belonged. A place where my name took a backseat to my thoughts. To my opinions.
I signed on to my computer. Pulled out my notepad muddled with notes and then set it in its designated spot. Grabbed a pen and placed it on the pad. Everything was where it should be.
Only this time, my phone was right beside my keyboard instead of in my drawer.
Just in case.
The Big Bad Wolf
Prim
THE CHAOTIC BUZZ IN THE office sang a wild tune in my heart. Phones vibrated against their cradles. Papers belched out of fax machines and copiers. A hustle of bodies wove around one another, talking into wireless headpieces.
I stared up at the brightly lit violet logo in scripted font on the entry wall, my lungs expanding with an unfamiliar excitement.
Virago.
A solitary word that held such strong meaning. Female warrior. Empowerment. Heroic and morally just. Everything the leading women’s blog stood for. Virago was the Joan of Arc in a male-led industry. Carving a path in our march toward equality.
For years, I’d waited for this moment, and here I was, about to take hold of it like the badass—
Love in the Headlines: A Star-Crossed Friends-To-Lovers Romance (Love in the Headlines Series Book 1) Page 2
