First Comes Love - Ashlee Price Page 0,39
me and Greyson, in a cab on the way to the airport. Greyson’s head is turned to the window. Both of us are silent.
“This was nice,” he says quietly, at some point.
“Almost getting killed by a fer-de-lance snake, bumbling around the rainforest after Russel, nearly getting our limbs eaten by a grumpy mother puma.” I give a joking sigh. “Ah yes, getting nostalgic already.”
He slings me a smirk. “Goof.”
I can’t resist the earnestness in his eyes, sigh for real this time. “OK. You’re right. This was…” I clasp his hand. “Amazing. I definitely haven’t thanked you enough. I’m not sure I can. This was the experience of a lifetime. Working with you and the team has been incredible. And this gorgeous hotel, just… Thank you.”
Greyson’s smile is off, and he peels his eyes away what seems to be too soon. “It’s been a pleasure working with you, too. And will be, I hope.”
As he releases my hand, I lift my eyebrows. “Is that your way of saying that I’m hired, not just on a transitional basis? Don’t you already have a cinematographer, though?”
“Gabriel’s been muttering about retiring for years now,” Greyson says. “Besides, you’re good—really good. You’ve got an eye for the frames, for pacing. Even watching the shots we got on your camera”—I blush, thinking of the last time we watched them, naked in bed together two nights ago—“I can see they’re gold.”
“Good, I just…”—How can I say this without it being awkward?—“want to be sure that this isn’t… you know…”
The brightness on Greyson’s face is snapped out in an instant. “You really think I’m that kind of guy?”
“No, I just—”
“Forget it.” His head swings away, his tone suddenly flat. “Either take the job or not. Up to you.”
“I’ll take it,” I say.
“Good,” he says.
And the rest of the ride to the airport is in silence. Once we’re inside the airy window-walled building, Greyson is all business. We get checked in, go through security in what seems like a couple of well-planned, efficient minutes. Greyson has some frequent flier or premium customer card that gets us through easily.
At Starbucks, Greyson’s already ordered his coffee when he asks me, “Want anything?”
“It’s fine. I can get myself a peppermint tea.”
“One peppermint tea,” he tells the barista.
“Greyson,” I say, as she walks away to make our orders.
“What?”
“I told you—”
He waves his hand. “It’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing.”
“Fine.” He scowls as he eyes me. “I can write it off as a business expense. Happy?”
“It’s just that, after all those nights at Nayara Springs, I don’t want you to think—”
“What? That you’re using me for free peppermint teas?”
“No, I just—”
“I enjoy spending money on you. Nothing wrong with that.”
As soon as the words are out of Greyson’s lips his eyes widen. Then he scowls. “That came out… Forget it.”
Talk about awwwwwkwarrrrd…
“Sure,” I say.
Minutes later, as we’re sipping our drinks, sitting on less-than-comfy airport seats, he continues, “About before—I overreacted.”
“Which time?”
Greyson glances my way, chuckles. “Maybe I deserve that. I was talking about your comment as to why I want you on my team as Storm Media’s cinematographer. It got to me.” He frowns. “My dad was exactly the type of guy who would hire someone just because they had a thing together. Me, I knew as soon as I saw you behind the camera for the first time out in the rainforest that I wanted you on our team.”
“Oh.” I sip my tea too fast, burning my tongue slightly. “Good.”
“I want you to know that,” he says vehemently. “And that, whatever happens when we get back, as long as you want to work for Storm Inc. and show the skill you have this past week, you will.”
“No matter what?” I tease him, slurring slightly as I nurse my still-burnt tongue.
“Don’t push it.”
“Damn it.” I sigh. “I so wanted to instate a ‘Bring Your Cactus to Work Day’.”
His attempt not to smile fails. “One thing at a time, Harley.”
I give him an ‘OK, captain’ gesture. “Gotcha.”
He smiles at me and keeps on smiling. I smile at him and keep on smiling. I couldn’t stop if I tried.
It’s only a half an hour or so later, when we’re on the jet, which is as private-plane fancy as you’d expect (the highlight for me is the white leather seats that also happen to be memory foam, perfectly shaping themselves to our butts) that Greyson says, “Good thing you wanted to get home.”
“What are you talking about?” I ask.
The look he directs my way is quizzical. “You mentioned how