Chapter 1

Emma Swan stepped out of a shiny black Audi sedan and into a pool of streetlight on the corner in front of her seaside hotel.

"Thanks for the ride," she mouthed to the man behind the closed window, waving.

Silently, she was grateful he had stayed in the car; if he were to get out right now, her resolve to keep her hands off of the man would be shot to hell. It struck her that perhaps hell is exactly where he came from. She was certain there were no angels that looked the way he looked tonight: tousled brown hair, stubble, tight black jeans, and dark grey button down shirt with the collar open more than was decent. It wasn't just the clothes. The body beneath seemed as though it had been built for sin. And he knew it. The way he carried himself, as though he was always two seconds away from luring you into a dark corner, trapping you against the wall, and having his way with you. The devil incarnate.

A cool breeze blew up from the water, breaking her thoughts and making her stand up straighter. She took a deep breath and lifted her hair off her damp neck. What she needed right now was to escape the oppressive heat. Escape him, a small voice whispered. Since the breeze was coming off the water, she thought, in her half-sober logic, that it might be a good idea to head down to the marina, maybe dangle her feet from the docks.

She heard the swish of the window rolling down on the car behind her, and felt the air conditioning spill out onto her arms. She turned to face the open window, tugging the back of her tight red dress down as she bent down to speak. Act casual, Swan. "I'm fine, now, Mr. Mayor. You've done the chivalrous thing and delivered me to my hotel. You can go now."

He started to say something, but she stood up and started to walk away, bypassing the path to her building and heading towards the water.

Behind her, she heard the tires slowly crunching on the gravel, and then they were silent. A car door opened and shut. Shit. She could hear his shoes pounding the pavement at a quick clip and then he came to a halt. When she turned around, she found him staring at her with a look of concern knitting his brows. He ran his hand through his hair and exhaled, and she tried to ignore how damn sexy he looked when he was worried.

"The inn was that way, Swan. So unless you have taken up residence in someone's houseboat, you're walking in the wrong direction."

"Where I walk is none of your concern."

"I beg to differ. The water down there is at least twenty feet deep. The last thing I need to wake up to on Sunday is a lawsuit because a bloody tourist decided to take a drunken stroll off the end of my docks."

"I'm not drunk. Just a little buzzed."

"Four tumblers of rum in an hour, lass? If you aren't drunk I'd be heartily impressed."

"Well, prepare to be impressed." She pivoted on her heel and began to stride away, but damn it if she didn't pick that moment to trip on some rope and nearly fall to the ground, grabbing the bumper of a parked car on the way down. "I'm fine. I'm fine."

"Whoa. Here, let me help you." He reached out to help her stand again, but rather than putting her on solid footing, his firm grip around her waist made her feel even more unsteady.

It wasn't the liquor. This man had the uncanny ability of being able to set her off balance. Ever since the moment she first laid eyes on him.

[Three days prior...]

"I'll probably need a little longer than I expected for this story. Let Walsh know I'm not going to make next Thursday's deadline. And we need to talk about-" she paused, grasping for the right words.

"If you are satisfied with your message, please press 1. If you would like to-"

"Seriously?! No, I'm not satisfied." She groaned into her phone. "I hate your voicemail, Neal."

She poked the hang-up button a little more forcefully than was necessary, muttering curse words and tossing it back into her bag, before heading out for breakfast.

It wasn't the phone's fault. She was already in a funk. Emma Swan wasn't the type to readily admit defeat, but the lack of anything resembling a lead was frustrating her.

The residents of Storybrooke had been like every other New Englander she ever knew - excessively helpful when it came to giving directions, but guarded when it came to making small talk. It wasn't altogether unexpected, but she had hoped when she tried to broach the subject of town politics, that someone would give her an earful. Didn't every town have its dirty little secrets? Apparently not Storybrooke.

Then again, when something looks too good to be true, it usually is.

Case in point, Killian Jones - mayor of this perfect little town and pain-in-the-ass-in-chief. He strolled into her world on the morning of her fourth day in Storybrooke for no reason that she could tell other than to complicate her job…or her life…or both.

He was charming enough, she would give him that. But he was fooling no one with his false welcoming committee act. He had casually approached her at the counter of the local diner with an outstretched hand and words of introduction - "Killian Jones, I don't believe I've had the pleasure."

She had been minding her own business, sipping her coffee and enjoying some excellent pancakes, when there he was, sidling up next to her at the counter. She hadn't intended to give the man the time of day, but the English accent made her look. Of course she had done a bit of research in advance, and he presented well enough in newspaper photos. But, in person - well - the guy should come with a warning label. Turning her head and seeing his face for the first time, she accidentally sucked her coffee into her windpipe.

It took at least a minute to clear her throat. He sat there the whole time in his tailored grey suit serenely awaiting her response, eyebrow lifted over those piercing blue eyes, a smile dimpling into his auburn five o'clock shadow. After pulling the cloth napkin away from her mouth, she said, "Emma Swan," holding out her hand.

"Welcome to Storybrooke." He smiled even more widely and took her hand in his, and the combination of his firm grip and good cheer fueled her annoyance even more. Not to mention, the way he overtly stared at her mouth before meeting her eyes was entirely too familiar. It made her stomach feel tight and her blood hum.

"Thanks," she muttered, and looked back to her food.

He rotated his seat to face the counter, exchanging pleasantries with the white-haired woman working there and sipped his black coffee silently, periodically twisting the large ring on his right index finger.

Emma reached back into her brown leather bag and grabbed her tablet to make herself look busy. She was feeling a bit agitated with him sitting there next to her; he had evidently sought her out to talk to her.

After a few minutes, he broke the silence. "Where are you travelling from?" He was still facing forward, but clearly speaking to her.

"Boston."

"I love it there. What brings you to town?"

"Business. You ask a lot of questions." She glanced at him.

"Do I?" He shrugged and half-smiled. "Just making small talk."

She looked up at him and, again, his eyes met hers, searching. This guy was going to be trouble for her. She could feel it. He made her nervous, which never happened. She sure as hell wouldn't let it show.

Emma finally broke his gaze, speaking a bit more sharply than she intended, "So - the mayor has come out to greet me, why?"

"Oh, so you've heard of me?"

"It's written right on the town sign, Mr. Mayor."

"Killian," he said, and she looked up to find him smiling again.

Unh-unh. She wasn't going to bite at the invitation to get all chummy with a man who was plainly digging for information.

"You didn't answer my question, Mr. Jones. Why are you here?"

"I woke up this morning and said to myself, 'Jones, why don't you go down to Granny's and see if you can find a fetching blonde to vex.'"

"Well, you've succeeded."

"My apologies."

"Apology accepted. Well...uh...it was nice meeting you." She took a bite of her food and stared intently at her plate, hoping he'd take the hint.

He did not.

"Alright. I can see you're a direct sort of woman, Miss Swan, so I won't suffer you with pretenses. The word on the street is that you've been taking photos and asking a lot of interesting questions."

"If you've heard that, then you know why I'm here."

"You're in town taking photos and gathering information for a travel guide?"

"That's right," she said, trying to speak as naturally as possible. "Actually, an article for the travel section of the paper."

"And you honestly believe I am buying that story?"

"I don't care what you think. Whatever I'm doing here shouldn't concern you. Asking questions and taking photos doesn't break any law I'm aware of. I suggest you stick to - I don't know - school board disputes or potholes or whatever it is that the taxpayers pay you to do here." She rolled her eyes.

"Looking out for my constituents is precisely what I am doing here."

She looked at him then, searching his eyes for a moment. "Just what exactly do you think I'm up to, Mr. Mayor?"

"I've yet to discover your true purpose here, but I've still plenty of time."

"Have fun working it out, Sherlock. I'm only here for a few more days. Meantime, I'd like to eat in peace."

He stared at her for a moment, with a look of amusement on his face, and shook his head. Then he took the cue and stood up, leaving a barely-drunk cup of coffee and a couple of bucks on the counter. His chest was right in her line of sight as he pulled on his suit coat. The muscles of his neck looked positively amazing under that white shirt fitted across his sh- What was she doing!? She glanced down to avoid staring at him any longer. Her eyes caught the shine of the silver buckle on his black leather belt, then drifted lower... Crap. She quickly looked back up and met his eyes, which were now wrinkled at the corners as he grinned impishly.

"See you around, Miss Swan."

"I'm sure you will." She suddenly became very interested in her pancakes.

He was still staring at her; she could feel it. But she refused to look up. After a few moments, he began to walk to the door, exchanging pleasantries convivially as he left. It was only after she heard the door shut that she glanced up. He was outside of Granny's now, talking with a striking brunette and an African-American gentleman - both dressed as impeccably as he was. They all looked towards the restaurant window and Emma's head whipped back down, her heart pounding.

She was certain no one knew about her real purpose in town. But there was always that little voice of concern when she was on an investigation. If those people knew something and were talking to Killian Jones about it, then it would blow her story out of the water. After all, when you're doing an exposé on small-town government corruption, the last person you want clued in is the mayor of said town.

Of course she had nothing to worry about. The only other person who knew was Neal Cassidy, her editor at the Globe and boyfriend of three years. Well, him, and whoever gave him the tip - which he had said was a sure thing. Their relationship…not so much. In the last few weeks she had come to find that being with Neal had been what was easy and comfortable. But she decided she would rather be alone with herself then feel alone with Neal. She would be thirty in two years and she refused to enter into another decade unhappy.

She had tried desperately to break it off before she left, but he was irritatingly unreachable. A voice in the back of her head was telling her that maybe he knew what was coming and was intentionally avoiding her calls. He'd earned his stripes in investigative reporting too. He wasn't oblivious. Seeing as she wasn't going to do it on social media, she would just have to put that particular issue aside for now.

Anyway, she'd see him soon enough. She'd only be here for one week, two, tops. As she thought this, the sound of a female voice broke through her reverie.

"You're that reporter, aren't you?"

"What?" Emma turned to her left to find a brunette with a pixie cut smiling at her broadly. She hadn't even seen her sit down, but she must have been there for a few minutes, since she was already halfway through her yogurt and berries. Whoever she was, she looked like she belonged on a 1950s advertisement: perfect pink sweater set, floral knee-length skirt, twinkling eyes.

"I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to bother you while you were eating. Mary Margaret Blanchard."

Emma took her hand and shook it. "Emma Swan. Yes. I'm the one doing the 'Day-trips from Boston' story. And, it's no bother."

"I heard something like that. I can't say we aren't all a little excited. We could use the publicity. Camden gets all the tourists - no one seems to notice us out here."

"I'm hoping to change that a bit. So, you've lived here long?"

"All my life."

"You like it here?" Emma pulled out her tablet. "Do you mind if I take notes?"

"Sure. Yes. It's great, mostly. The beaches are lovely, we have all we need in town, and everyone looks out for each other."

"Can't get more idyllic than that. Did I spell your name right?" Emma showed her tablet to Mary Margaret.

"That's it."

"I can see how your town got its name." Emma smiled. "It's so quaint. Almost like it's been stuck in time."

"It feels that way sometimes." Mary Margaret sighed. "Oh, don't get me wrong. It's nice. But sometimes I wish…Oh, never mind."

"That's okay. I'm not here to pry." Liar. "So, the mayor? He seemed…nice."

"Killian. You met him? Yeah. He's wonderful. I teach here. So, I see the work of his administration up close and personal."

Wonderful. He's "wonderful." Not "corrupt." Not "shady." Emma decided to try a different tack. "It must have been really easy for him to be elected - being that he's so personable. And attractive."

Mary Margaret's eyes got wide. "Yes! He is." Then she paused, thinking, taking a bite of her yogurt. "Well, you would have thought he'd be a shoe-in - charm, looks, hardworking, and intelligent - but he had tough competition. Regina Mills, the local bank president. She was the mayor before him; in fact, twice before. There were claims that- well, you heard his accent? He's not from around here. You know how that goes. Outsiders running for office in a town full of people afraid of interlopers."

"Typical for small towns, though," Emma said. "I wondered what had brought him here."

"He was an orphan. He had a brother named Liam who raised him. They were teenagers when they moved here. I understand maybe they ran on the other side of the law at one point, but I never saw it. And then, a few years ago, there was an accident…Liam…"

Emma could see her eyes were shiny with unshed tears.

"Sorry to hear about his brother," she said, putting her hand on Mary Margaret's arm. She'd have to look into these claims about the mayor's past. But it still wasn't what she was looking for. All teenagers go through wild periods. Emma had, herself. It didn't necessarily lead to a life of crime.

"The whole town was beside themselves. Liam Jones was quite the guy. Everyone loved him. Anyway, at least Killian has David." When she spoke again, it was softer - almost breathy - and her eyes were looking past Emma into the street, "David's like a brother to him now."

"Who?"

"David Nolan. He's-" She cut herself off, refocusing her gaze on Emma. "His family has been here forever. They have a lot of pull. They were so upset when he went into law enforcement. He was supposed to take over the family farm."

"So he's a cop here?" Emma hoped she wasn't being too obvious with the leading question.

"Sort of. He's the sheriff."

Emma made a mental note to not ask the sheriff any obviously probing questions.

Mary Margaret suddenly exclaimed, "Oh! Listen to me talking. I'm not helping you with your story at all."

"No, I like hearing these everyday stories. It adds color."

"Where's your family from?"

"Mine? Oh you know, all over." She wasn't going to say how she had no idea who her family was or what it must be like to have a family at all. Let alone a family that went back generations. It seemed Emma had more in common with the mayor than she did with Miss Blanchard. Yet, she felt oddly drawn to her. It was hard not to.

Mary Margaret waited expectantly for the story that never came. And then took a sip of her tea, seemingly nonplussed at the lack of response. "So, how long are you staying?"

"Another few days, I think."

"Well then. I am taking you on a walk through Storybrooke Forest. There are waterfalls and gorges, and at least two dozen different species of songbirds. Are you free tomorrow?"

"Thursday? Absolutely."

"Great," she said, reaching into her bag and pulling out her cell phone. "Give me your number and I'll text you later."

"Here, I'll type it in to your phone. I look forward to hearing from you." And to hearing more about the town. This conversation had been the most productive she'd had yet.

She placed her money on the counter. "See you tomorrow, then."

Emma smiled at her as she walked out, "See you!"

Perhaps things were looking up for her after all, she thought.