First Comes Love - Ashlee Price Page 0,7

her future children’s children autism, Asperger’s and polio.

Fuck’s sake. I didn’t sign up for this.

I count off the crew as they exit the plane: there’s Manuel, Samantha, Jorge and… no Harley.

Great, another delay.

Back on the plane, I find her, passed out in her seat.

I’m about to give her a good shake, when I pause.

Even asleep, she’s damn hot: full lips parted ever so slightly, blonde waves the definition of bedhead, her mustard button-up showing just the right amount of tan skin to give me a hard-on.

Forget it.

She’s 21, too young and my employee.

The thought makes me grit my teeth with annoyance. I haven’t been this attracted to anyone in a while, but too fucking bad.

I don’t hook up with employees. Ever.

I’m no Emerson, who uses periodic office flings as proof he’s trying to show an interest in the business.

Giving Harley’s shoulder a light shake only makes her shift and murmur sleepily without opening her eyes. When I shake her harder, her eyes snap open.

“Hello?” she murmurs.

“Hi.”

She blinks uncomprehendingly at me, and I tell her, “We’re here. On time, too.”

She chuckles as she gathers herself up, a half-folded book on her belly. “Guess I deserved that.”

“Maybe.” I can’t help but smile, like an idiot. Something about being around her makes me feel lightheaded, stupid. Focus.

I gesture to the book she’s stowing away in her messenger bag. “Any good?”

Harley shrugs, then nods. “Using the adjective ‘good’ for Dostoevsky doesn’t seem at all right. He’s a master, and yet his books are depressing as hell.”

“Wasn’t his life, too?” I ask. “He had a gambling problem.”

Harley pauses, looking at me as if with new eyes. “Whoa. OK.”

“OK what?”

“Handsome and well-read. I like it.”

Jesus, what that voice does to me…

No way am I about to admit that I only knew that Dostoevsky fact because I did a project on the guy in Grade 11.

“Sorry, boss.” She rises, biting her lip as she sidles past me. “I shouldn’t have said the handsome part. Anyway, I’m taken. By my job.”

“Yeah.” I manage to force out a chuckle through my gritted teeth. “Of course.”

I frown at her back, but when she turns my way, pausing, her expression is impossible to read. “Time to go?”

I rip my gaze off where it’s unconsciously fallen—her lips—and jerk my head in some semblance of a nod. “Yeah.”

And then she goes, leaving me to glare at the seat she was in.

What the actual fuck? Who gives a fuck about Dostoevsky? Harley is off limits. End of story.

I pry open my fingers, which have been unconsciously squeezing my frustration into the plane seat.

My phone buzzes with a message, and looking at it only deepens my scowl.

Banged her yet? is Nolan’s latest message.

Dude, I type back. We just landed. Have some respect.

So you like her then, is his whip-fast response.

Go fuck yourself.

Whoa. Most times you’re cool with jokes? Busty Britney, anyone?

I shove my phone back in my pocket. Trust Nolan to screw things even further.

Yes, maybe back in the day we had our jokes about my intern Busty Britney and how she’d bake me a different muffin every day (carrot, banana, bran, cranberry, peach, a baffling amount of others), but this is different. I’m president now.

Nolan’s voice, unbidden, sounds in my head: You know Dad would go for it.

I stride off the plane and out. I’ve wasted enough time as it is.

Although there’s one thing I do know and I know it well: as much as I love and respect Dad, he’s the last person I ever want to become or even emulate.

Yet, as I survey the waiting crew, all round nervous eyes and hopeful faces, I wish I could emulate Collin Storm’s charisma, at least a bit. He’d know just what to say to get everyone all hyped and confident for this upcoming difficult hike to the camp. Whereas the only thing I can think of right now is some trite (was it Kanye?) saying about how “what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.”

Out here, the air is muggy, the sky is dark and I can practically feel the mosquitoes preparing for the feast of a week. Fan-fucking-tastic.

No sooner have I opened my mouth than I hear movement to my left. Taking out a flashlight, I point its beam at the foliage. But it’s a solid wall of plants and trees and…

The movement is nearing—and fast. The others are whispering and clamoring away, while Harley, who’s already off to the side, just looks to me and asks, “Greyson?”

“It’s OK,” I say, “It’s just—”

“Raaaaaaa!” a