Into You Series: The Complete Collection

3. Grace

CHAPTER 3

GRACE

M y hands haven’t stopped shaking since I received the email. They shook when I turned off my alarm clock this morning, they shook when I packed my laptop bag, and they continue to shake while I turn the wheel into an empty parking lot in an effort to get back on the road in the actual direction I’m supposed to go.

“Rerouting … turn left onto State Boulevard?—”

“Shut up,” I groan at my phone’s GPS. It’s been trying to direct me to Treasuries, Inc. for nearly thirty minutes in what should have been a ten-minute drive. I thank my lucky stars I had the good sense to leave early or else this could have been an entirely different day.

Atlanta traffic is no joke.

“Rerouting … turn right onto State?—”

“Stop!” I furiously tap my phone to exit the app and reopen it.

Everyone knows that always solves the problem.

After turning left then right then left again, swerving into the grocery store shopping center, and making a quick stop at a gas station to break up the nervous energy (yes, I may have looked in the mirror and said, “You can do this, Grace! You are a superhero!” but we don’t need to talk about that), I’m finally facing the front of a warehouse building with the words “Treasuries, Inc.” displayed in bold, beautiful letters across the garage door entrance. All with ten minutes to spare.

My old-fashioned yellow Volkswagen bug normally sticks out in a business car park, but in this lot full of eclectics, it fits in nicely. I spy individuals walking into the building. They’re all wearing blue jeans, casual shoes, and band t-shirts.

Oh no.

Some women are even wearing those flowy skirts that seem to say ‘Sure, I could live in a van and go on meditation retreats . ’

I look down at my own attire and groan.

I overdressed. What woman in this day and age goes into a new graphic design position with the notion of dressing like a female CEO? Nobody. That’s who.

Tons of unnecessary money I do not have just went right down the drain.

Wait— no .

Mindset is everything.

I am a confident woman. I overdressed because I mean business. This shows I’m serious, dang it! I’m taking my life by the balls and squeezing them into submission.

Specifically, my ex-boyfriend Joe’s balls.

Metaphorically, at least.

I snatch my phone from its holster on my dashboard, slam the car door shut, and lug my bag right up to the front door. But with confidence. Because I am a suit-wearing female with a plan.

The double doors slide open the second I walk in, and before I can mentally make some snarky comment about whether this is some renovated grocery store, a girl at the front desk raises her eyebrow at me, scans me up and down, and smirks.

She’s just as trendy as everyone else I’ve seen so far, and she can’t be more than twenty-years-old at best. Her platinum blonde hair is perfectly curled, and a hoop piercing hugs the curve of her nose as if it’s always belonged there. Dang, she even looks super cool with her choker necklace and collared tee. But more impressive than the receptionist’s beauty is the building itself.

The interior is massive, but it appears even larger with its exposed ceiling fifty or so feet off the ground. The desks are gathered in clusters, but it doesn’t feel crowded. There are no cubicles. There is no musty carpet. Just clean, open space. The walls are coated in vibrant colors with designs in both graffiti and pop art styles. Painted on the central back wall is a giant treasure chest surrounded by the statement: Work Hard, Play Hard.

The girl behind the counter clears her throat.

“May I help you?” she asks.

“Y-yes!” I stammer. UGH, who stammers? “My name is Grace Holmes. I’m here to see Cameron Kaufman.”

The girl peers behind her cat-eye turquoise-tinted glasses (Can she get any cooler?) and swishes her eyes over to her laptop screen, rapidly clicking on the keyboard.

“He’s not in yet,” she says, her tapping fingers settling. “But take a seat over there. He should be in shortly.”

She points to a set of very stiff beanbag chairs in varying colors of orange. I plop down into one. They may look stiff, but the bag swallows me whole the second my butt hits the seat and my skirt rides up.

Great.

After I’ve taken in more of the scenery, including the comfy looking couches where employees work while wearing massive headphones over their heads, I start to feel like a significant amount of time has passed.

Am I in the right place? Of course I am. This is Treasuries Inc., and by golly, I’ve made it here. I work here!

I look at my watch.

9:20.

Yikes. I’d pictured this Cameron Kaufman guy to be a prompt man, arriving at 7:00 on the dot—maybe earlier. He probably wears suits sharper than mine. But so far, I see no promptness and no suit. Zero for two, Mr. Kaufman.

I glance over at the sliding glass door and watch as more employees trickle in. An older man comes through, waves at the trendy receptionist, and keeps walking.

Was that Mr. Kaufman? He walked right past me.

I look down at my watch again.

9:30.

More happy employees walk in, with me wishing I was one of them instead of in my current role as the loner chilling on the beanbag I’m sinking into.

This beanbag is my destiny, and my soul is the uncomfortable sewn edge now making a mark into the side of my thigh.

While I’m focused on making sure my skirt returns to an appropriate length, footsteps squeak across the laminated concrete, and if this weren’t my first day on the job and I wasn’t trying to maintain my professionalism, my jaw might have hit the floor when I see the man approaching.

I’m pretty sure it’s unfair to be that good-looking.

His jawline could cut glass, and it’s lightly covered by a layer of stubble that softens his features just enough that I can imagine running my hands over his chin. His hair is shaved closer on the sides, but it’s thick and mussed up at the top with just the slightest bit of gel—or maybe it’s still wet from the shower.

His denim shirt is tucked into cream-colored chinos. It’s casual yet still professional. But unlike other employees, his clothes are more well-fitted, as if he’s gotten them tailored. Or maybe he’s just built exactly how the designers imagined a perfect man to look.

The man stops at the front desk, and the girl directs him over to the prison of beanbags where I’m sitting.

As he approaches the corner I have begun to claim as my own desk area, I find myself starting to sweat, and I pray to the good lord above that my black suit won’t reveal armpit stains.

He sits in the beanbag next to me, crossing his ankle over his other leg. His pants come up just enough to reveal corgi-patterned socks peeking out.

Be still my heart.

He turns to me, as if he’s going to speak, but I nervously blurt out, “Is this your first day, too?” before he even has the chance.

What would be the odds?

I don’t know, but I want the first word in this conversation. It’s a control issue I have when I’m nervous. I’d rather have an eighty percent chance of looking like a fool rather than my usual one hundred percent chance when I’m caught off guard by good-looking men.

He stares at me for a second, squints a bit as if considering, then smiles.

Boy oh boy, if I wasn’t dead yet, those dimples would have just done me in.

“Uh, no, I’m here for”—he pauses, glancing at his watch—“an interview, actually. How long have you been waiting?”

His voice is deep but calming, like he’s the boy next door you’ve been swooning after your whole life. Unattainable, but welcoming.

I break my gaze away to glance down at my own watch.

“Thirty minutes,” I say, and then I shrug. “Which, if you ask me, is a bit too long.”

Great job, Grace. You really can’t filter your thoughts right now? Seriously?

I’m kicking myself knowing that I’m completely incapable of hiding the frustration at how long I’ve had to wait.

But come on! Half an hour? On my first day? What is this, the DMV?

His eyes widen in surprise, and he laughs. “Dare you to say it louder.”

I smirk in a knowing glance, arching my eyebrow.

“Nice try.”

“So, thirty minutes, huh?” he asks. “Who are you waiting on? Some hot shot exec, I bet.”

As he talks, his eyes slip down to the part of the beanbag that’s tugging on a corner of my pencil skirt, exposing an immodest amount of thigh. I awkwardly adjust and he averts his gaze.

“Cameron Kaufman,” I say.

“Does this guy know he’s incredibly late?”

“Well, that’d be irresponsible if he didn’t, wouldn’t it?”

“Very. You know,” he says, leaning in a bit closer and lowering his voice, “if that’s how they act around here, then I sure as hell don’t think I want to interview anymore.”

I can’t help but let his scent of body wash waft over me. Is that some type of artificial campfire? Maybe mahogany wood? Whatever it is, I’m pretty sure I have a candle with that scent.

I can tell he’s joking by the way he smiles wider, and I find myself attracted, rather than put off, that he is willing to walk out here on a whim. Maybe it’s the risk of it all. A man taking risks isn’t the worst thing that’s happened in the world.

Well … aside from wars and such.

That’s beside the point.

He looks down at his watch again and shakes his head.

“9:45,” he says with a low whistle. “They’re really pushing their luck with you.”

“Thankfully I’m patient,” I say.

He looks down at my bouncing leg that I was unaware of until just now and laughs, “Clearly.”

I cave. “Okay, so sure, I’ve got a bit of a patience issue, but forty-five minutes? Get real.” I’m not trying to trash this Cameron guy, but I’m totally trashing this Cameron guy, despite the fact that part of me knows I should be thanking my lucky stars I’m even here to begin with.

That sobering knowledge calms me down a bit.

A bit.

“Well, you’ve convinced me.” He stands up, clapping his hands as if announcing his imminent departure, and I instantly long for him to stay.

He’s exciting.

He’s wildly impulsive.

He’s … unnamed.

Why does that make him even more mysterious?

He holds out his hand to me. “It was nice to meet you, Miss …?”

“Grace. Grace Holmes.” I shake his hand.

“Are you related to Sherlock?” he asks with a grin.

I’ve heard that joke too much in my lifetime, but he’s just so good-looking that I’ll give it to him.

“Distant cousin.” I smile. “Always second best. But hey, I try.”

He nods. “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Grace.”

I refuse to let this man leave without getting a name, a number, an address, a hand on those forearms …

“I’m sorry—what did you say your name was?” I ask.

“I didn’t. I’m Cameron Kaufman.” Then his face transforms into the most arrogant, sly grin. My heart sinks. “But most people just call me Cam.”

Shit.