Fall Into You (Morally Gray Book 2), page 1
Fall Into You
MORALLY GRAY BOOK 2
J.T. GEISSINGER
Contents
1. Shay
2. Cole
3. Shay
4. Cole
5. Shay
6. Cole
7. Shay
8. Cole
9. Shay
10. Cole
11. Shay
12. Cole
13. Shay
14. Cole
15. Shay
16. Cole
17. Shay
18. Cole
19. Shay
20. Cole
21. Shay
22. Cole
23. Shay
24. Cole
25. Shay
26. Cole
27. Shay
28. Cole
29. Shay
30. Cole
31. Shay
32. Cole
33. Shay
34. Cole
35. Shay
36. Cole
37. Shay
38. Cole
39. Shay
40. Shay
41. Shay
42. Cole
43. Shay
44. Cole
45. Shay
46. Cole
47. Shay
48. Cole
49. Shay
50. Cole
51. Shay
52. Shay
53. Shay
54. Cole
55. Shay
56. Shay
57. Cole
58. Shay
59. Cole
60. Shay
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2023 by J.T. Geissinger, Inc.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by J.T. Geissinger, Inc.
Editing by Linda Ingmanson
Cover design by Lori Jackson
Cover photograph of Mitchell Wick by Michelle Lancaster @lanefotograf
www.jtgeissinger.com
To all the girls I’ve been and the dark roads we traveled alone.
Mostly it is loss which teaches us about the worth of things.
~ Arthur Schopenhauer
Shay
The dark-haired man in the booth is gorgeous, but I can tell with one glance that he’s also trouble. A wolf dressed in sheep’s clothing. In a conservative black suit and white dress shirt, he could be any other businessman enjoying a drink with friends after work.
Except he’s alone.
And he’s not enjoying himself.
He looks how I feel: miserable.
“Now listen, Shay. You have to promise me. No more moping, okay? It’s my birthday. The least you can do is act as if you’re having a good time.”
Chelsea propels me through the entrance of the swanky hotel bar in Beverly Hills, her hand on my elbow, her head bent toward mine. Jen and Angel are ahead of us. The three of them are dressed to the nines in stilettos, colorful outfits, and hair out to there. They look fantastic. A flock of flamingos on the hunt for single men.
I’m the raven of the group, all in black with a mood to match.
I’m only here because we’re celebrating Chelsea’s birthday. If it were up to me, I’d be home in bed with the covers pulled over my head.
The things we do for our friends.
“I am having a good time,” I lie brightly. “That dance club we just left was so fun.”
She squeezes my elbow. “Maybe you should tell that to your face. That smile is tragic. Stop thinking about the twatwaffle.”
Hearing her nickname for my ex, I wince. “Please don’t call him that.”
“He deserves to be called a lot worse. Stop defending him. And every time you miss him, just remember there are plenty of fish in the sea.”
“You know what else there’s plenty of in the sea? Trash.”
“Listen, the only way to get over a man is to get under a new one. That’ll fix things.”
“I need a new man like I need a roach infestation.”
She clucks in disapproval. “Don’t let one bad apple turn you off to the whole apple tree. You’ll find Mr. Right eventually. In the meantime, let’s find you Mr. Well Endowed so you can let off some steam.”
We follow Jen and Angel, making our way into the lounge. Outside, it’s a typical summer evening in LA, the air balmy, the palm trees swaying, and the stars shining bright, but in here, it’s cool and dim.
All the upscale hotel bars around the city have this same intimate, candle-lit ambiance. It’s as perfect for a deal-making meeting between studio executives as it is for a pair of lovers who are married to other people to sneak in a cocktail before heading up to their room.
The difference with this place—and the reason Chelsea chose it—is that it has a reputation for being the spot frequented by the wealthiest men in town.
If I’ve heard it from her once, I’ve heard it a thousand times: “It’s just as easy to fall in love with a rich man as a poor one.”
She might be looking for love, but I’m looking for peace of mind. My ex was hell on my sanity.
I glance over at the dark-haired man in the booth against the wall again. He’s still staring at me. The hunger in his gaze makes my heart skip a beat.
When he licks his full lips, a little shiver of desire courses through me. But I look away and toss my hair over my shoulder.
The last thing I need right now is the attention of a hot stranger who looks like he’s the cause of many a woman’s therapy bill.
I’ve already got my own demons to deal with.
I don’t need another one.
Cole
The brunette is interesting.
Not because she’s pretty, though she is. But there are a million pretty girls in this city. Los Angeles is known for its beautiful women.
What makes her interesting is the way she carries herself. It’s like watching a champion boxer walk into a room. She’s confident, almost cocky, but there’s also a wariness that suggests she’s used to taking punches.
Beneath the tough exterior, she’s got bruises all over her soul.
Riveted by the contradiction, I can’t look away.
Dressed in a black skirt, black blouse, and black heels, she struts through the entrance of the bar with three other women. Her companions are in brightly colored dresses, laughing and chatting with each other as they make their way inside, but the brunette is silent. She scans the room, sizing up the place and the people in it.
Her smile is small and cool, as if she’s bored already.
She catches me looking at her but quickly glances away. When she glances back again, I stare straight at her and lick my lips.
She raises her brows. Then she tosses her hair over her shoulder, lifts her chin, and looks away, dismissing me.
Smart girl. She knows a monster when she sees one.
Shay
“Wouldn’t it be amazing if that existed in real life? An eight-foot tall blue alien with two huge cocks who’s totally obsessed with me? Yes, please!” Angel laughs and takes another sip of her margarita.
“Only if he’s also a billionaire,” says Chelsea, giggling into her martini.
Jen shakes her head in disbelief. “You guys and your monster smut books. I just don’t get the appeal.”
Angel snorts. “Excuse me, Judgy McJudgerson, but you’re not in a position to be snobbish about other people’s choices in literature. May I remind you that your favorite TV show is a cartoon?”
Jen rolls her eyes. “First of all, monster smut isn’t literature. Secondly, BoJack Horseman is one of the most brilliant—”
“Dark comedies ever written, blah, blah, blah, yes you’ve told us a thousand times,”
Angel cuts in. “It’s still a cartoon.”
The argument continues, but I’ve already tuned out.
The four of us are sitting at a round table in the middle of the room. We’re surrounded by beautiful people on every side. The couple at the table behind me bickers over Tahoe or Tulum for their next vacation spot. A pair of young female models prowls past, taking selfies as they walk. Patrons jostle for position at the bar, trying to get the attention of the handsome bartender who I recognize as an extra from the television series Succession.
And sitting in the lone booth beside the bar, the dark-haired stranger is still staring at me.
It’s strange how such a good-looking man can give off such an unpleasant vibe. He’s a black hole over there, extinguishing all the light around him. He looks like he’d refuse to smile even if someone put a loaded gun to his head and ordered him to.
He’s probably thinking the same thing about me.
Chelsea sighs. “Shay, seriously! Stop scowling. It’s scaring all the hot guys away.”
“Not all of them,” notes Angel, glancing in the direction of Mr. Dark and Stormy.
Chelsea turns around in her chair and squints. “Who, that guy in the booth?”
“Yeah. He’s been eye fucking Shay since we got here.”
I scold, “Chelsea, f
“Why the hell not? He’s fine.” She sends him a broad smile.
The glare he sends her in return is so freezing, it could crack stone.
With a low whistle, she turns back to us. “Wow. Ten for the face, zero for the personality.”
“Maybe his dog died,” Angel says.
Chelsea looks at me and suggests playfully, “Maybe you should go over there and cheer him up.”
“Very funny.”
“It wasn’t a joke.”
“Give me one good reason why I’d want to talk to that man.”
“Because it’s my birthday, and I want you to.” She smiles and takes another sip of her drink.
My heart sinks. She always smiles like that when she’s about to dig in her heels. The last thing I want right now is to be on the wrong side of her stubborn streak.
“He doesn’t want to talk to me.”
“I bet his dick does.”
“If his dick has the same personality as its owner, I’m not interested.”
“Give me a break, girl. Nobody’s asking you to marry him. Just go over there and chat him up!”
“So I can be publicly humiliated when he throws his drink in my face and tells me to fuck off? No thanks.”
“I’ll bet you a hundred bucks he doesn’t throw his drink in your face.”
“No.”
“Please?”
“No.”
“Pretty please?”
“No.”
“C’mon. If you won’t do it for yourself, do it for me.”
“That’s blackmail.”
She widens her eyes innocently. “Remind me again whose birthday it is?”
When I make a sour face but don’t reply, she goes in for the kill.
Leaning forward, she grins. “If you go talk to that guy, I promise I’ll stop calling Chet the twatwaffle. In fact, I won’t say a mean thing about him ever again.”
I pause to examine her expression. She appears earnest, but Chelsea’s a slippery one. She’ll conveniently forget this conversation by morning if it suits her.
“Okay, you’re on. But you have to record yourself saying that and send it to the group text.”
“Why?”
“Permanent evidence. If you renege on the deal, you have to buy me, Jen, and Angel new iPhones.”
Jen and Angel scream with laughter, but Chelsea’s eyes bulge in horror. “What?”
My smile is ruthless. “Deal or no deal, birthday girl?”
“That’s like three grand!”
Knowing she’ll agree eventually, and sooner if I act like I don’t care, I shrug and take a sip of my whiskey.
Disgruntled, she huffs. “Okay, fine. You’re on. But you have to stay over there and talk to him for at least ten minutes.”
I glance in his direction. He stares back at me, his gaze intense and unwavering. Thunderclouds churn over his head.
The thought of approaching all that negative energy and trying to start a conversation is daunting, but if it will get Chelsea to stop her smear campaign against my ex, it’s worth it. I’ve been enduring it for three months now, and I’m tired.
“I’ll try, but I can’t guarantee anything. He looks like he bites.”
Angel snickers. “If you’re lucky, he does.”
“Okay, you win. Here goes nothing.”
I sigh heavily, then chug the rest of my whiskey. Rising from the chair, I smooth my skirt with damp palms, then cross the room with my chin lifted and my shoulders squared, pretending a confidence I don’t feel.
Dark and Stormy watches me approach with the all the warmth of a contract killer.
By the time I stop at his tableside, I’ve decided to go with the truth rather than some cutesy opening line. In my present state of mind, I doubt I could come up with one, anyway.
“Hello. I don’t want to be here.”
He looks me up and down, his gaze traveling slowly over my figure. After a beat, he says in an unfriendly tone, “Yet here you are.”
We stare at each other in an oddly tense silence, as if both of us are waiting for the other to say something next and think whatever it is, it will be awful.
Finally, I say, “It’s my girlfriend’s birthday.”
A crease forms between his dark brows. “I don’t understand the connection between that and you standing there.”
“She promised me she’d stop trash-talking my ex if I came over and talked to you.”
He thinks about that for a moment. “That’s blackmail.”
“When it comes to Chelsea getting what she wants, all means of coercion are on the table.”
He glances past me. “Which one’s Chelsea?”
“The blonde.”
“She looks harmless.”
“All the most dangerous creatures do.”
He leans back against the booth and tilts his head, showcasing his beautiful jawline. His gaze grows assessing. “Were there any other terms of this blackmail of hers?”
“I have to stay for at least ten minutes.”
“And it’s important to you that she stop trash-talking your ex?”
“Yes.”
I can tell something about that pleases him, but can’t imagine why. He says, “All right. Sit down.”
He gestures to the empty space beside him in the booth. Somehow it doesn’t look like an invitation. Though his mouth is saying I should sit, his expression says he’d prefer I take a hike in a distant, snake-infested wilderness.
Apparently, he only likes to stare at women, not speak to them.
Too bad for him I’m not intimidated by cranky men with bad manners.
I sit beside him and smile politely. “I’d apologize for the inconvenience, but I think I’m going to enjoy annoying you for the next ten minutes.”
“Why would you want to annoy me?”
“You look like a lot of women’s biggest regret.”
We stare at each other in another tense silence. Only this time, I can smell his cologne. Spice, musk, something woodsy. Sexy and expensive. I can also see the color of his eyes, a fathomless dark blue that could be beautiful if it wasn’t for their hardness.
His tone low and his gaze piercing, he finally says, “And you look like a diamond some clown discarded so he could play with dirt. How long were you and this clown together?”
Startled, I blink. “Hang on. I’m trying to pick myself up off the floor.”
“What do you mean?”
“Is it really so obvious I’ve been dumped? How awful.”
“It’s your whole vibe. You’re like one of those shelter dogs.”
“Pardon?”
“You know. Barks real loud and acts tough, but only because it’s scared it’s about to get kicked again. And your man didn’t dump you. He freed you. He did you a favor. Take all that energy back that you’re wasting mourning the relationship and focus it on yourself. A queen doesn’t need the love of the village idiot.”
A breathless laugh of disbelief escapes me. I can’t decide if this guy is a mind reader, a genius, or a just a jerk.
I also can’t decide if he’s complimenting me or not. In the same breath he called me a queen, he compared me to an abused animal. Also, his entire demeanor suggests he thinks I’m a hopeless case who shouldn’t be allowed to vote.
“And here I thought Chelsea was the trash talker. We’re not even two minutes into the conversation, and you’ve already called my ex a clown and an idiot.”
“That’s being generous. Because any man who’d let a woman like you go is nothing but a little bitch.”
