Into You Series: The Complete Collection

4. Cameron

CHAPTER 4

CAMERON

M y name is Cameron Kaufman, but most people just call me Cam. If you needed to use it in a sentence, it could be said as: “Hey Cam, I have these new layouts for you,” or “Cam, don’t forget we have the new girl starting on Monday!” and, “This is the third time you’ve been late this month, Cam.”

Human Resources loves that one.

What most people don’t realize is that the brand new Mr. Boss Man Cam has a lot going on right now. First, there’s the promotion. Then, the crazy responsibilities. And finally, and this is the big one, my girlfriend doesn’t give me the time of day.

Let’s just say that, even though I let off some steam joking around with the new girl, her first day is the least of my worries, and Human Resources needs to understand that.

I sound irritated but, in reality, our HR lady Nia is quite nice. She bakes cookies.

As I’m looking at my shiny new official write-up, complete with both mine and Nia the HR Manager’s swoopy glamorous signature, I hear a kick on my door followed by long legs striding into my office.

Some people start their weekdays with coffee. I start mine with Ian Chambers. Ian is gregarious, as tall as that butler from the Addams Family, and he could sweet-talk a toad into boiling water.

“Good morning, Cam!” he sing-songs into my office, running a hand through his jet black, curly hair. “Finally got that third warning you’ve been aching for?”

“Months and months of being late time and time again, and all I get is a silly piece of paper!” I jest, waving it in front of his face. “Where’s my medal? Where’s my face on the wall of Slacking Employee of the Quarter? ”

“Nobody wants your face on a wall,” Ian says, snatching the paper out of my hand. He skims it over, his glasses sliding down the end of his nose. He may look ridiculous while he’s in lawyer-mode, but he’s also the sharpest dude I know.

I’m on the creative side of Treasuries, Inc., but he’s our in-house attorney. Ian conducted part of my orientation about five years ago, and as a young, budding designer I thought it would be funny to ask legal advice on what to do if a client asks for nudity in their design. He replied that the client is always right, we should do what they like, and then asked if I was taking commissions.

We’ve been best buds ever since.

“They put you on probation?” he asks, letting the paper fall to his side. “For being late a couple times?”

“I have to volunteer at Beer Friday for the next two weeks,” I groan. “You know, I thought being promoted to creative director would grant me some immunities, like not serving beer to the whole company.”

“But you love Beer Friday,” Ian says.

“Exactly! I would prefer to be drinking the beer rather than pouring the beer.”

Ian quirks an eyebrow at me. “You should not be a manager.”

“Hey, I’m a great manager,” I say, pointing a finger at him. “I just also like booze.”

Ian rolls his eyes and places the document back on my desk, patting it as it rests.

“This is beautiful documentation,” he says, looking at the paper as if it were wearing a two-piece string bikini. “You told Nia I love her when she signed it, right?”

I smirk. He’s only joking.

“Of course not.”

“Darn,” he says. “She’ll never know.”

“Yeah right,” I say. “You’ve been bugging her for as long as I’ve known you. But, HR or not, you’re playing with fire.”

He motions his hand open and closed like a yapping mouth, mocking. “Don’t need your judgments, Cam. I’m a lawyer. I know what I’m doing.”

“Sure ya do.”

“So,” he says, narrowing his eyes and changing the subject. “How’s your sleep?”

I know what he’s really asking. This is what I get for not indulging him. Let’s delve into my love life instead. Perfect.

“Getting better,” I lie.

“You were late to work again,” he says, folding his arms across his chest.

I scoff and shake my head, averting my eyes and shuffling papers on my desk—using anything to avoid this conversation.

“Nah,” I laugh. “I was only late by, like, five minutes.”

“Forty minutes,” he corrects.

“I got caught in traffic.”

If looking guilty was a sport, I’d be the national champion. I can feel my eyebrows pinching together in the middle, holding the weight of my bold-faced, nasty, no-good lie.

Ian knows Abby and I are struggling, and he’s trying to be a good friend. But there are multiple issues popping up left and right that even I have a hard time comprehending—let alone trying to explain.

If I’m late to work, it’s because I didn’t sleep. And that’s because Abby and I stayed up all night arguing.

“Fine,” I sigh. “Another bad night. Happy? God, sometimes it feels like Abby is arguing for the sake of arguing.”

“You think she’s just going through something?” he asks.

“I think she’s just made up her mind to hate me.”

Don’t get me wrong—Abby’s not a bad girlfriend. Not exactly. We’ve been through a lot together. She’s practically Buddy’s, my dog, stepmother. Much to her disdain.

But the real point of contention—the elephant in the room …

Ian sighs. “Maybe if you … I don’t know … proposed?”

Bingo.

Even after five years together, the idea of a ring, vows, a wedding … it’s all still off-putting. Potentially committing to a lifetime of something inescapable makes me sweat. It makes me feel like I’m wearing the thickest, highest turtleneck on a beach in August.

Some might say it’s a fear of commitment. And, sure, I’m a child of nasty divorce. But think about this: I wanted a tattoo that was an exact replica of The Rock’s bull head tattoo when I was seventeen. Did I get it? Absolutely not. That horrible decision would still be on my arm today—some token representing a teenage dream about becoming a professional wrestler.

Getting a really bad tattoo, or in this case a ring, on my finger for the rest of eternity is just not my thing. Abby has never explicitly said it bothered her, but enough of her friends have hinted at it.

I groan, rubbing my hand over my face.

As if on cue, Nia pokes her head into my doorframe, forcing the door open and leaning her hips to the side.

“The new girl’s ready for you,” she says.

The words are sharp. Our HR rep is as hard and ruthless as they come. She follows her self-written company policies to a T. Strong women are definitely my type, but even she is a bit much for me.

Plus, office relationships? Not for me.

“Oh, right, Grace is starting today,” Ian says, snapping his fingers and breaking his fixed gaze on Nia.

“How do you know her?” I ask Ian.

“I got her to apply,” he says. “She’s my sister’s best friend.”

“No kidding?”

“Boys,” Nia snaps, “Reel it in.”

“Is she still in your office?” I ask.

I turn on professional Cameron: The personality I should have given to the new girl this morning rather than teasing her. I can be myself around Ian, but I know it’s better to approach Human Resources with “Is she still in your office?” rather than, “Please leave so I can nap, Nia.”

Yeah, that wouldn’t go over too well.

Nia shakes her head, sending her blonde hair swishing from side to side. “She’s had most of her orientation, but she’s still filling out some paperwork. She’s at her desk in the back corner near the printers.”

Lucky girl. That was my old desk. Before I had this office, it was impossible to concentrate with our office’s open layout. I negotiated for that desk, purchasing my team member, Gary, gummy bears for an entire year so he’d switch with me.

“I’ll be there in a second to show her around,” I say.

“Perfect,” Nia replies. Every word with her is a direct statement. Just one more checkmark on her list before moving on to the next task.

Once she leaves my office, Ian sighs wistfully.

“That woman.”

He plops down on the small sofa in the corner of my office. His long legs dangle over the edge of the arm rest and touch the floor.

He’s hopeless for her. I don’t get it.

“All right, morning chat is over,” I say. “Out of my office, bud.”

Ian barks out a laugh. “You’re such a stiff now. I hate Manager Cameron.”

I open the top drawer of my desk to pull out the new girl’s design brief for the company and walk toward the door.

“I’m just here to do my job,” I say.

“You’ve changed!” he calls once I leave.

“Have not!”

Well, he’s actually not wrong. I used to be just another designer until a month ago. Just another dreamer. But then I got the offer of Creative Director, and I couldn’t turn down the next step up or the high raise. I’ve quickly learned that the jump from being a cog in the machine to being the handle that powers it means having to put on a face that may not be your own.

It’s just a job, I guess.