Coming to Hale Read online

  Table of Contents

  Coming to Hale

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Epilogue

  A note from Marie James

  Coming to Hale

  Hale Series Book One

  By

  Marie James

  Copyright

  Coming to Hale

  Copyright © 2015 Marie James

  Editing by Jody Lynn and Mr. Marie James ;)

  Cover design by Kari Ayasha of Cover to Cover Designs

  EBooks are not transferrable. All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded, or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale, or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Chapter 1

  Lorali

  Of all the days my washing machine could’ve chosen to sputter and die, it’d be after I procrastinated getting my weekly laundry done! That’s how I’ve found myself, at seven o’clock in the evening on a Monday night, in a dimly lit laundromat, washing clothes.

  Cursing my luck, I shove the three different loads of laundry into their respective machines. I’m not really a germaphobe, but I fleetingly wonder just what’s been washed in these machines prior to my use of them. I remember some of the things I personally had to take to the laundromat after a few wild, yet memorable, sorority parties in college. I shudder and chastise myself for not running a hot, empty wash in them before putting my loads in.

  I look around the empty building. The machines are fairly new and everything seems clean, so that helps alleviate my worries. My three machines are the only ones quietly running, providing the only noise in the entire facility. The comforting smell of laundry detergent surrounds me as I sit down with my Kindle. The sounds and the smell are very calming but the hard plastic chair provided is not only bolted to the floor but its comfort level is nonexistent. I flip through screen after screen of textbooks I’ve all but memorized from college. Ugh, thank God those days are over with. I absently wonder if I should login to my Amazon account and delete them altogether, but I hesitate, unsure if I may need them again someday. Over three years later and I’m still leery about erasing the books

  Not that I’ve really needed them thus far. Shortly after graduating from Colorado State University with my degree in Journalism and Media Communications, I landed, what I’d thought at the time, was my dream job. Only it wasn’t. I’d been told I was interviewing for the lifestyle section. Not my ideal position, but a foot in the door at least. Much to my disappointment, my new job, which I thought would involve swanky parties and invitations to exclusive events dealing with the life and adventures of Denver’s elite, had way less to do with life and had everything to do with death. Yes. I was stuck writing and editing obituaries and attending funerals for well-known, well-loved citizens of Denver. Joy.

  Now don’t get me wrong, I take pride in my job, and I do it well. Obituaries are, after all, the most frequent type of saved and preserved part of a newspaper. They probably won’t land me my dream job of investigative reporting, but it’s a start. A start two and a half years in the making, which now has led to a “promotion” of sorts. Starting next week, I’ll actually be taking over a position working on stories that include people of the living variety of the lifestyle section at The Courier.

  Knowing this takes some of the sting out of being stuck in a somewhat seedy area of town, washing a full week plus of laundry. I vow to never procrastinate laundry again as I stare back down at my Kindle, searching for my Sudoku app to keep me busy. Why can’t laundromats be better lit, and in nicer areas of the city? I guess I’m lucky that I didn’t try to do laundry Sunday, which is my normal routine. If I had, I would’ve been up here when it would’ve been packed to the gills. My procrastination actually helped me this time I think as I take in my empty surroundings.

  I look up when a shadow crosses in front of me, blocking the blue lights from the washing machines. I see the back of a man in a long, dark trench style coat, striding purposely towards the little hallway at the back of the laundromat. He disappears into a room which I presume is the office. There should be someone back there. One of the main reasons I chose this place is because it touts that an attendant is always on premises when they’re open. I realize something is familiar about him as I discreetly stare at the back of his head. His short neat haircut and his stylish clothes contributing even more to his familiarity and allure. He sure is over dressed for a place like this, I think as I catch his scent. Armani Black Code. Nice.

  Closing my eyes, I let the smell envelope me. His expensive cologne overshadows the clean scent of the laundry detergent washing away all thoughts of the task that has me here to begin with. Just his smell begins to evoke illicit thoughts. He smells like sex in a bottle. Mmmm. To have a man like him in my life! Ugh, Lor, get it together!

  Abandoning the Sudoku puzzle I was working on, I opt to read a historical romance novel for the next hour while the clothes wash. A decision I know has to do with the thigh clenching thoughts I had about the stranger. The faint sound of angry voices coming from a small hallway in the back of the facility draws my attention away from my Kindle. I wouldn’t call it arguing, but just a loud stern voice talking over someone else. As quickly as I notice the arguing, it’s gone.

  I go back to reading about Rhett and Mable and their forbidden, torrid love affair. Before I know it, I’m alerted by the washing machine that it’s time for the fabric softener. Standing, I grab the little cup and dole out the recommended amount of the milky, pink liquid. I do this for all three loads of laundry I have. Turning from the machine for the third time I crash into a brick wall, dropping the measuring cup. I count my lucky starts it was empty and hope the damage is minimal.

  Dropping to my hands and knees, I shuffle after the measuring cup. I notice several drops of fabric softener have landed on the top of a very fine pair of super expensive Italian leather shoes. Fuck. If those shoes are ruined I’ll have to work a month just to pay for them! Using my fingers I attempt to wipe the substance away from the leather. Doing this only leaves behind darker wet spots.

  “Stop,”
the brick wall says.

  I freeze…the husky voice sends goose bumps over almost every inch of my skin. One word has the muscles in my stomach clenching.

  Slowly letting my gaze wander up the brick wall’s body, I take in his dark gray suit pants, and his stark white dress shirt, framed by a very expensive tailored suit jacket. Moving my eyes further up, I drink him in as my eyes make it to the unbuttoned collar of his shirt, where a smattering of trimmed hair peaks out. I draw in a ragged breath as I try to imagine what the hollow part of his neck would feel like under my tongue.

  Holy shit, Bennett. Get it together. Lusting after a throat is a sure indication it’s been way too long since I’ve been laid! I need to get out more, I think with a frown. I vow then to setup a girl’s night out with Alexa and Josie.

  My heart rate’s still increasing as I take in his strong, chiseled chin and ridiculously sexy mouth. A good, three day stubble clings to his face surrounding full, plush lips, which are actually set in a smirk. A smirk! Further up, his hazel eyes gaze down at me filled with mirth. His dark brown hair’s expertly faded, longer on top and super short at his temples. I’m lost. I haven’t a clue how long I’ve been crouched down here, staring up at him, holding my hands in my lap, palms up with fabric softener dripping from my fingers.

  His eyebrows rise as if he’s saying “Like what you see?”

  Ummm…..yes I like what I see!!!

  I snap out of the trance he’s held me captive in and stand up. Do I know him? Why does this beautiful, yes this man is most definitely beautiful, man seem so familiar to me?

  I take a step back from him, after realizing I was leaning into him as if I’ve been pulled by some magnetic charge. The thought of latching myself on to his leg so he can take me with him when he leaves strikes me as quite comical and I laugh.

  “I’m pretty sure I ruined your shoes.” I reply softly and shoot a quick glance back down to his ruined shoes.

  With no response he just stares down at me.

  Man he’s tall….I’m five foot seven...and he’s a full head taller than I am, so that makes him what six-two, six-three? Mmm, manly!

  “Don’t worry about it,” he says dismissively as his eyes continue to pierce me.

  He continues to stare at me for another long minute before giving his head a quick shake. He side steps around me and continues his way out of the laundromat without another word.

  I turn and unabashedly watch him retreat; wishing he didn’t have that long jacket covering his ass. Man, I bet he has a great ass.

  Keeping him in my line of sight I watch as he slowly bends and gets into the seat of a very sleek white car. The second before his head disappears inside he glances up, making eye contact one last time, the smirk on his face once again.

  Once inside the car, he’s completely obstructed from my view. He backs out and takes off, his sporty car letting out a sexy growl as he drives away.

  Chapter 2

  Ian

  My blood has reached its boiling point by the time I exit the closet sized office at the Happy Suds Laundromat.

  I’m pretty sure that Mr. Suds and I’ve come to the same conclusion; I’m not a man to be fucked with and further seedy activities involving Seth would be detrimental to his health. He had thought for a brief minute he could man up to me and it was just that, brief. I’m pretty sure he’ll have marks on his neck where I held him against the wall to persuade him to my view of things.

  As I stride towards the exit, I notice a woman pouring some type of liquid in the extended hatch of one of the machines. I nod my head in approval as I approach. She really makes a t-shirt and a pair of tight yoga pants look good.

  At the exact moment I go to pass her she turns and slams into my chest. Seriously? I want to be angry but it only lasts for a brief second because I can feel the heat her body is emitting. I’ve the urge to reach down and adjust my cock which just twitched in my pants at the sudden contact.

  Without even making eye contact, she drops to hands and knees on the tiled floor in front of me, scurrying after the cup. Well, at least it wasn’t full, I think absently as I look down at her. She begins to rub her fingers on my shoes….What the fuck?

  “Stop,” I tell her. I can see her body shudder at my command. My dick twitches again at her uncontrolled response to my voice.

  She’s on her knees, ass resting on her feet, hands in her lap. Her eyes float slowly up my body, taking me in. Wouldn’t be the first time my looks have brought a woman to her knees.

  Once she sweeps my entire body, her eyes meet mine. Here she is, in a submissive rest position, gazing up at me dreamily through long lashes. My cock twitches. Again. I raise my eyebrows at her as the sudden image of her looking me in the eye while she devours my dick crosses my mind.

  She rises slowly, maintaining eye contact. She licks her lips and giggles. She fucking giggles! I’d pay a very hard earned million dollars to be privileged to whatever thought just ran through her beautiful head. You wouldn’t be able to giggle if I had my cock down your throat.

  “I’m pretty sure I ruined your shoes,” she says sheepishly as she takes a small step back and looks down at my shoes again.

  I take a moment to examine her. Her silky, honey colored hair is pulled into a messy pile on her head and a few errant strands have escaped around her ears. Bright, icy blue eyes gaze intently at me. She’s tall for a woman, much taller than I usually go for. Her astounding good looks aren’t helping the growing situation in my pants. My eyes wander over her elegantly shaped face and I fleetingly wonder what her smooth, milky skin would feel like on my fingers. They begin to tingle at the idea of touching her.

  “Don’t worry about it,” I say eventually, continuing to be mesmerized by her face. I’ve always loved a woman without makeup. You’d be surprised what kind of flaws can be hidden. This fresh-faced woman looks like an angel, no blemishes in sight.

  Before she can notice the ever growing bulge in my pants, I give my head a little shake to abate the visions of my cock in her mouth, step around her, and walk out of the laundromat. I can feel her hot eyes on my back as I make my way to my Gran Turismo. I thank the Lord it’s still in pristine condition. I was worried it’d be up on blocks by the time I made it back out. This is definitely not the greatest of neighborhoods to be parking a hundred and sixty thousand dollar car.

  I chance one more look back in the honey-haired goddess’s direction. To my amusement, she continues to stare in my direction. The idea that she’s just undressed me with her eyes contributes to my smirk as I gracefully fold myself into the car. All you have to do is ask and I’d willingly oblige.

  Leaving the parking lot, I shake my head again as thoughts of her begin to take up space in my mind. I may have to visit “Mr. Suds” again if it means running, literally, into that beauty again.

  By the time I get back to my house my mind has already started reliving the night’s events. Ms. Honey specifically. The only difference is, in my mind she’s now naked except for a lacy black garter belt and silky thigh high stockings and her hands are tied behind her back. She gazes up through those obscenely long lashes as I rest my cock on her bottom lip.

  Man I need a drink.

  Chapter 3

  Lorali

  Friday finds me slowly coming out of the knee deep pile of obituaries that have been unusually high. This year has been especially brutal due to a larger than normal outbreak of the flu. The elderly are just not standing a chance against this super aggressive strain.

  By three o’clock I’m as caught up as I’m ever going to get and my mind once again wanders back to the beautiful stranger from the laundromat. Trying to control the humidity level in my panties, I dig in to my emails. My boss being the wonderful, absent minded man that he is has sent me a last minute email, informing me that I’m expected to get a jump on my contribution to the lifestyle section by attending not one, but two events tomorrow evening.

  No time like the present I guess.

  After respon
ding I’d be in attendance at both events, I decide to start going through past articles in the lifestyle section to get a better grip on what’s going to be expected of my coverage of the events. I hate being unprepared and this seems like the best way to see what’s been passing as appropriate for The Courier.

  Sifting through story after story of the goings on of Denver’s upper crust, I discover that many of the articles seem to be repetitive. Same type of event. Same people attending.

  Ugh. Is this what I have to look forward to? Going to these stuffy over-priced events, documenting how great the lives of the rich are? And the articles: you mean two paragraph snippets and loads of pictures? This isn’t journalism; this is more like simple blogging or blurb writing. My questions of why Alice insisted on keeping this lowly spot have been thoroughly answered. The job description should read: Social butterfly that mingles with rich people as they feign interest in the poor, tattered, and lost souls of Denver by spending loads of money at overpriced events.

  Determined to still give one hundred ten percent, I think my time could be spent most judiciously by being able to recognize the who’s who by face. I know it’ll look very unprofessional if I always have to ask others around me the names of people. I click on the photo gallery for the lifestyle section and begin my research.

  A few slides in I stop, and stare at the face that’s taking up more than half of my computer screen. Fuck me sideways if it isn’t Beautiful Stranger himself. The caption under the photo reads: Ian Hale and unnamed friend attend this year’s 19th Annual Royal Gala at the Denver Convention Center.

  Ian Hale.

  That name is familiar. After minimal research, I determine he’s a local business man who apparently has his fingers in many different pies around state. His main office is here in Denver.

  The frequency of his face popping up in the photo gallery promotes my belief that this may be the reason he seemed so familiar to me Monday night. I’ve possibly seen his face and name in passing but how in the hell I could “pass by” his picture and not commit it to memory is beyond me.