Into You Series: The Complete Collection

10. Cameron

CHAPTER 10

CAMERON

W ho the hell does Grace clearly-not-Sherlock Holmes think she is?

I leave the meeting as tactfully as I can, but inside, I’m fuming.

She stepped over the line by undermining me in front of our new client— my new client. This is my first project as Creative Director of this team, and I need to put my best foot forward. But not like she would know or care about that. She’s just a budding designer, and I’m willing to bet she’ll take down anyone who stands in the way of her career advancement.

Generally, at these kick-off meetings, we hear out the client, establish some takeaway items, and reconvene as a team later to discuss. We like maintaining a unified front at Treasuries Inc. If all designers can be on the same page, we have a better chance at convincing the client our ideas will work. We’ve been doing it for years and it’s effective. But the new girl apparently decided that wasn’t good enough and started a brainstorming session right then and there.

These types of new junior designers come and go. I’ve been one—the kind that says, “Look at me, I’m a gift to the design world!” But you quickly realize that you’re not and you’re only pissing off those around you that are more experienced. Unless a new designer learns how to navigate this hierarchy fast, they won’t last long. Somewhere along the line, somebody will need to put Grace in her place. And I’m happy to be the man to do so.

“You have a great team lead in there,” Mr. Feldman says, walking into my office with his briefcase by his side. He’s the picture of a classic businessman, all the way down to his combed mustache and the grizzled strands of balding hair.

I respect the heck out of him. He’s the head of an architecture firm I was eyeballing back in college. A few of my cohort friends went to go work for him, while I went on to design instead. Which makes his comment sting that much more.

I straighten my tie, trying to form some semblance of order in my life that will make me appear less flustered by Grace’s insubordination. Mr. Feldman doesn’t seem to notice. And if he does, he doesn’t address it.

“Who?” I ask, trying to mask my snappy voice with a bit more of a professional tone. But I know exactly who he’s talking about.

“Miss Holmes.”

I find myself laughing a bit, but he doesn’t seem to get the joke.

“She actually just started last week,” I say. “I’m the creative director and team lead. We’re a small group.”

He stops packing and laughs as well. “Then you’ve got yourself a keeper in this group. I’d listen to her.”

Listen to her?

Is he trying to give me an aneurysm? I can feel my heart pumping faster and it’s taking everything I have to not close my eyes and scream.

I nod in response. “We’ll keep our eyes on her.”

I keep reliving the memory of that ridiculous girl with her freckled arm sprouting into the air … A confident smile plastered on her face as if this was just old hat for her, as if she knew what she was about to say was not only a slight against me, but exactly what the client wanted to hear.

She’s too cocky for her own good.

He places his briefcase on the couch and clicks it open.

“Do you have a hard copy of the prospective timeline?” he asks. “I have to get going, but you said first drafts will be in two weeks?”

“Yes, sir.”

Mr. Feldman smiles, taking the schedule from me and placing it in his briefcase. He snaps the handles closed and reaches out to shake my hand.

“I expect great things from this team.”

“So do I,” I respond with a smile.

He nods and takes his exit. But it’s not even a few seconds later until another man, of a more familiar towering stature, barrels into my office with one kick of the door.

“Food. Now. My treat today,” Ian says, throwing his wallet on my desk, causing a couple of my papers to crumple.

I grab the wallet and toss it back to him.

“Not the time,” I say, letting my suppressed irritation spew out.

“It’s always the time for food,” he says, pocketing his wallet back with an arched eyebrow. “What has you in such an awful mood?”

I run my hands through my hair. “The new girl. Grace Holmes. Did you say you knew her?”

He laughs. “Yeah, she’s my sister’s best friend. Always been a little firecracker but, you know, I kinda like that about her.”

I roll my eyes.

He’s not the one having to manage her.

“Why? What did she do?” he asks.

“She decided to be a designer,” I exhale, patting my pockets for my wallet and phone. “On second thought, food is exactly what I need right now.”

“Good lord, she’s doing her job?” he gasps. “Call in HR.”

“I mean, who does she think she is?” I ask, shutting off the light and walking into the hall.

I can’t stop picturing her. The bright red hair that’s way too silken smooth, her stunning blue eyes—and then there’s her cocky personality, and that pretty much ruins the whole package.

“Don’t talk to me about having a shit day,” Ian scoffs, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I’ve had three potential lawsuits from accounting—each one claiming harassment to some degree, and they’re really messing with my good vibes.”

“Your vibes?”

“Isn’t that what the cool kids say now?” he asks, and I shrug. “Whatever, I need hamburgers.”

My stomach rumbles at the thought of food. I guess I must have skipped breakfast and went straight to coffee this morning.

“Yeah, give me a burger covered in chili and cheese,” I say and my stomach grumbles again. Did I skip lunch, too? “With fries. Lots of fries.” I’ll work it off at the gym tomorrow or something.

By the time we get back, my stomach is in knots from both the chili-doused hamburger and Ian’s manic driving. He should not own a sports car.

I do a few hours of irritating, distracted work, drive a short distance to my apartment while still fuming about Grace, take Buddy out for a quick walk, and then return.

It’s fine. I’ll party until sundown to forget. And by partying, I mean bury myself in paperwork. You would think creative directors get more skin in the game design-wise, but you would be wrong. Just more paperwork.

The good old days of constant designing are gone; management days have arrived. Management of Grace freaking Holmes.

The only positive thing about moving to management is that I can allocate the creative side of my brain entirely to architecture now. The piles of hotel sketches in my apartment are starting to build up, and I couldn’t be happier. But it came at a cost. They say you can’t buy happiness with money, and they’re right. My promotion came with a hefty raise I was hoping I could use for travel, but so far I haven’t taken any vacation, and I’m almost ready to burn all this paperwork to the ground for that amount of “happiness” it’s given me.

When I get back to the office, I notice the parking lot is only occupied by the cars of one or two managers in other departments and, in the back corner of the lot, a tiny yellow Volkswagen.

Whose car is that?

My questions are answered when I sneak back to what I expected would be an empty design studio. It is instead occupied by a single light: The tiny desk lamp on the back corner. Grace Holmes is beneath it, head buried so close to her tablet that it may as well be burning her eyes out.

Of course she is.

My irritation boils up once more.

It’s clear she must not have seen me walk in because my appearance breaks her concentration. She jumps in her seat, swinging her hand out and knocking her coffee all over her.

“Damn it!” she yells.

“Shit,” I say, adding to the chorus of expletives. “Let me get some paper towels. I’ll be right back.” I hastily jog to the break room and return. Grace stares back at me with zero amusement.

She’s clutching the neckline of her shirt and wringing out part of the coffee back into the cup. I hand over the wad of towels I have in my hand.

The shirt she’s wearing was completely white. Now, it’s also see-through.

Jesus.

“Why are you still working?” I ask.

I sound irritated and I know it. But she hasn’t left my mind all day.

The confidence.

The cockiness.

“Oh, is this your clever way of kicking me out so you can have the office to yourself?” she asks, raising an eyebrow.

I wait a bit too long to avert my eyes from her top, but she doesn’t seem to notice. Even if she does, I’m so turned on that I forget proper office etiquette for a good five seconds, like the fact that you shouldn’t be staring at your employee’s breasts.

When I don’t respond, she says, “Part of me thinks you scared me on purpose.”

“Good grief.”

“Okay, Charlie Brown.”

She crosses her arms, remembers her shirt is soaking wet, then uncrosses them with a small curse and wipes at the coffee residue on her arms. My gaze slides down, almost against my will, to a sliver of cleavage where the wet part of her blouse is stuck to the rest of her shirt. I pull myself back together with some effort and clear my throat.

“I wouldn’t scare you on purpose,” I say.

Although if I could have done it on purpose knowing I would see her wet blouse, I wonder if I would have.

What the hell is wrong with me?

“Very likely story.”

She stumbles a bit as she heaves her large bag, and without thinking, I hold my hand out to steady her, taking gentle hold of her forearm.

Her skin is soft beneath my fingertips; it’s been too long since I’ve felt the smooth skin of a woman—felt how it practically slides beneath my hands. I sit on Gary’s desk and cross my ankle over my knee. My blood has rushed south and that’s the last thing she needs to see.

I don’t feel guilty being attracted to Grace. I’d be blind if I wasn’t. Even without a see-through top to keep me entertained, the large slit along the side of her long black skirt exposed most of her upper thigh when she was sitting down.

But the fact remains that she’s my employee. And she’s been the main driver of my irritation all day. The reminder helps clear my head.

“Let’s have a chat real quick,” I say.

She turns to face me. She’s skeptical, I can tell, but I also sense some sort of mental obligation to pay attention to me since I’m her boss.

“Listen, today was out of line.”

“What? Me?”

“We don’t brainstorm in front of clients first thing,” I continue. “Pitching ideas without prior input from the team is presumptuous and not exactly the rules we follow here.”

Her posture falters a bit.

“And why don’t we?” she asks, a genuine tone of confusion in her voice. It barely masks the layer of defiance lurking beneath.

“Because we’re a team.” I press. “This isn’t a one-woman show, Grace.”

“I wanted to get the ball rolling,” she says. “He looked like he did too.”

I narrow my eyes. “And speaking out against me was the way to do it?”

She pauses, inhaling a shaky breath but exhaling with more determination. “I didn’t mean … it’s just … nobody was saying anything. We made progress, didn’t we?”

“How are you still trying to tell me I’m wrong? I know this place. You don’t.”

It’s like I’m in that conference room all over again looking at her cocky smirk with her silly hand arced toward the sky.

Her chin trembles as she considers words. I can tell she wants to say more. For a second, I think she may leave, but then she juts out her chin and exhales.

“He liked my ideas, didn’t he?”

My jaw clenches.

She’s defiant. She’s bold.

I’m so angry I could snap a pencil and yet … my blood rushes down to my cock.

Her confidence is hot as hell.

“I won’t have someone on my team not being a team player.”

“Then don’t hold me back,” she says. “Let me make this team better .”

I grind my teeth.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Grace.”

It’s all I can think to say.

“Good night, Cameron,” she says, moving her shoulders back to raise her head a bit higher.

“Most people call me Cam,” I correct.

But then she opens her damn mouth again.

“I prefer Cameron,” she says, shrugging, then turning on her heel to leave.

This woman is going to make me lose my mind.