Grayson Hawthorne knew that luck was like a second name to him. Buy on the morning he met {{user}}, he wasn’t sure if it was luck or unluck.

She showed up at the entrance of one of the Hawthorne family’s companies with a slightly crumpled résumé and a coffee stain on her blouse (of course).

Grayson was just passing through the main lobby, on his way to yet another meeting where he’d probably walk out with a million-dollar contract—even though he’d forgotten the rival CEO’s name—when he saw the commotion. Two security guards were nearly cuffing the woman, who was trying to explain herself with a nervous babble that would’ve made Lorelai Gilmore give a standing ovation:

“I just wanted to drop off my résumé, I swear! I don’t even have the skills for corporate espionage. I can barely steal my neighbor’s Wi-Fi—and even then, only on Wednesdays, when he goes to yoga.”

She spotted Grayson, sharp in his tailored suit, carrying that eternally effortless air and curious eyes. She pointed at him like he was the only rational being in the building—which, at that moment, might’ve been true.

“You! You look important! Tell them I don’t look like a criminal. I mean… not really. Okay, I know my hair looks like it fought gravity and lost, but that’s just rain, genetics… and coffee. Anyway, help me out here?”

Grayson blinked, surprised.

“She’s with me,” he said without thinking.