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Back First Comes Love Save as PDF
Chapters (92)
  1. First
  2. Love Connection
  3. Zero
  4. One
  5. Two
  6. Three
  7. Four
  8. Five
  9. Six
  10. Seven
  11. Eight
  12. Nine
  13. Ten
  14. Eleven
  15. One Month Later
  16. Twelve
  17. Thirteen
  18. Fourteen
  19. Fifteen
  20. Six Months Later
  21. Sixteen
  22. Seventeen
  23. Eighteen
  24. Nineteen
  25. Twenty
  26. Twenty-one
  27. Twenty-two
  28. Twenty-three
  29. Twenty-four
  30. Six Months Later
  31. Twenty-five
  32. Twenty-six
  33. Twenty-seven
  34. Twenty-eight
  35. Twenty-nine
  36. Thirty
  37. Thirty-one
  38. Thirty-two
  39. Thirty-three
  40. I Have Never
  41. One
  42. Two
  43. Three
  44. Four
  45. Five
  46. Six
  47. Seven
  48. Eight
  49. Nine
  50. Ten
  51. Eleven
  52. Twelve
  53. Thirteen
  54. Fourteen
  55. Fifteen
  56. Sixteen
  57. Seventeen
  58. Eighteen
  59. Nineteen
  60. Twenty
  61. Twenty-one
  62. Twenty-two
  63. A Christmas Date
  64. One
  65. Two
  66. Three
  67. Four
  68. Five
  69. Six
  70. Seven
  71. Eight
  72. Nine
  73. Ten
  74. Eleven
  75. Twelve
  76. Thirteen
  77. Fourteen
  78. Fifteen
  79. Sixteen
  80. Seventeen
  81. Eighteen
  82. Nineteen
  83. Twenty
  84. Twenty-one
  85. Twenty-two
  86. Note from the Author
  87. Sneak Peek – To the Stars and Back
  88. Two
  89. Three
  90. Four
  91. Also by Camilla Isley
  92. About the Author

“Nooo.” Her reply comes out in a howl.

Clearly, the woman is crying.

“Should I turn on the lights?”

I grope the wall for a switch, find one, and flip it. But I only get a quick flash of metal racks filled with linens and toiletries before I’m hit over the head by something white and fluffy—a towel.

“Put that along the threshold,” my fellow stowaway orders. “People outside might notice the light. You’ll get us caught.”

I do as she says and then turn around to assess the situation. The hideaway is minuscule and cramped. Two silver racks crammed with supplies are pushed against the walls with only a narrow hall in the middle. Exactly what one would expect from a hotel storage room.

The woman sharing this impromptu refuge with me is a young brunette in a white T-shirt and jeans. She’s sitting cross-legged in the sliver of space between the racks, her shoulders leaning against the back wall. Hands in her lap, she’s clinging to a phone, its screen dark.

I sit on the opposite side of the closet, resting with my back against the door with a sigh―I’m knackered. I fold my legs close to my chest so as not to invade her space too much—even like this our knees are not three feet apart—and study her. She isn’t looking at me; she’s too busy blowing her nose and wiping tears from her face. But even with a runny nose, red-blotted skin, and tear-streaked cheeks, I can tell she’s pretty.

When the lady finally lifts her eyes to meet mine, their color is breathtaking. A deep, vibrant blue that reminds me of the Pacific Ocean on a sunny day. I wait for those two sapphires to widen in recognition as she takes me in, but nothing happens. Not a blink. She barely spares me a glance, then goes back to blowing her nose.

Could she really not have recognized me? Must still be too shocked a random bloke barged in on her hiding place. I wonder what a crying girl’s doing stashed up in the broom closet of The Peninsula Beverly Hills.

“Hey, are you okay?” I ask.

“Do I look okay to you?” she fires back.

Yeah, Christian, kind of a dick question.

“I meant, what happened? Why are you hiding in here?”

“Why are you?” she retorts.

Should I tell her I’m running from the paparazzi? No real reason why, but a gut feeling is telling me not to. So I decide not to mention the paps.

“Fair enough,” I say. “Want to swap stories?” I tilt my head at her in a silent question.