Into You Series: The Complete Collection

11. Grace

CHAPTER 11

GRACE

I was not smart.

Not one bit.

It doesn’t help that Cameron stays just as late as I do. It’s like the second I see his devilish glare, I know it’s my cue to leave or else I’ll inevitably make some snarky comment that digs my hole even deeper … or I’ll just end up with a see-through shirt by accident.

Even as infuriating as he is, it’s the sarcasm, the charm, the blazers, the rolled-up sleeves, and the dimples that keep me longing for his approval.

This is the same thing that got me in trouble with Joe. I like a confident man. I like a man that puts me in my place, and I like fighting him for it.

It’s like a constant battle between forcing him to see that my design decisions are inarguably the correct ones and the tick-tock of my dry spell timer wanting nothing more than to have him push me up against a wall.

I should not be playing this type of game with my boss, of all people.

By the time Friday rolls around, I’m more than ready to follow Saria’s ever faithful lead over to the warehouse where I can already hear the popping sound of plastic balls on the ping pong tables. I make my way over to the crowded bar and shove through enough people to find a free stool.

This is worse than a normal bar.

I check my phone for the first time in hours and find a text from the only devil worse than Cameron: Joe. I’ve been so distracted by my hot, infuriating boss, Joe almost escaped my mind.

Almost.

Joe: How is this Sunday night? I got a reservation at that cute Italian place. Your favorite :)

Of course he picks the fanciest restaurant in town, and of course he’s already made a reservation without even confirming whether or not I’ll be going.

What is he—my mom?

And yes, it is the one restaurant we frequented every year for our anniversary. Joe’s going on full date mode, and I refuse to be na?ve enough to think he doesn’t know what he’s doing.

I should bail if I know what’s good for me.

I should tell him, no, thank you! I’ll have takeout on my own!

Grace: Sure, I’ll see you then.

Apparently I’m not that smart.

Joe: Want me to pick you up?

No. Absolutely not. I don’t need him knowing where I live now. Not that Joe has ever been a creepy kind of guy, but the last thing I need is for his texts to graduate into waiting outside my window with a boombox at three in the morning.

I really need to lay off the ’80s movies.

Grace: No, I can meet you there.

Joe: Always the ever-independent Grace. Sexy.

My heart flutters.

I would say I have butterflies for Joe, but they’re more like gross moths. Flesh eating moths. Do those exist?

Grace: I will cancel right now if you keep that up.

His only answer is another winking emoji, which doesn’t make me feel better. I shove the phone in my pocket.

I don’t know what I’m doing, and I feel stupid for having even agreed to go in the first place. If I’m being honest with myself, I’m not sure what I want. I wouldn’t have been in a relationship with him if I didn’t think at some point he was the last man I would ever date, but now things are so messy. Can we even go back to how we were before we drifted apart?

Wait, no, why am I even considering it?!

I groan, burying my face in my hands.

My phone vibrates again. I reluctantly pull it out of my pocket, hoping maybe it’s Mom, Ramona, or hell, even junk mail begging me to purchase more expensive clothes, but it’s not.

Joe: I’ll see you then :)

I toss my phone on the counter in front of me.

“Seriously can’t control yourself with anything, can you?”

I know that voice.

Lo and behold, there he is: Mother-flipping Cameron. He looks like he’s having an internal struggle between being both very tired and very desperate to drink the alcohol he’s serving. I notice the bruise under his eye is beginning to heal up, but it still looks swollen. If anything, it gives him a bad boy vibe, like maybe someone I shouldn’t be bringing home to Momma.

No. Stop those thoughts, Grace.

“I don’t normally throw things.”

“Could’a fooled me,” he snorts. “What do you want to drink?”

He’s being more sarcastic than before.

“Anything but IPA.”

He takes a glass from underneath the counter and fills it up beneath the closest draft handle. He places a pint of dark brown beer in front of me, the head of it foaming almost an inch before reaching the top. I can smell the hops of a very bitter IPA drifting up into my nose and I’m instantly repelled. But instead of denying it, I stubbornly pick the glass up and take a swig. It settles in my chest, and I can practically feel my tongue tingling at the strong taste.

I hate IPAs.

“Very funny joke,” I deadpan. “Real knee-slapper.”

He leans his elbows on the counter, holding one fist in the other. His eyes are the deepest brown with little flecks of green sprinkled throughout. They’re captivating and I have to shake off my urge to stare longer.

“I thought so.”

“I expected a bartender to have better taste,” I say.

“I’m not a bartender.”

“And yet you’re behind a bar.”

He barks out a laugh. “Does the title ‘creative director’ mean nothing to you? Do you care at all that I’m your boss?”

I open my mouth to speak, close it, then narrow my eyes and flash the least genuine smile I can muster. “Yes, sir.”

He’s infuriating and at the same time my willingness to say “sir” in his presence is oddly turning me on.

“Why does it feel like you’re mocking me?” he asks, tilting his head to the side.

“I’m simply expressing my opinion.” I snap my fingers. “Oh, right, but you hate it when employees do that.”

I’m feeling feisty. It’s dumb to strike out against Cameron, I know, but the combination of his presence and Joe’s annoying text is testing my limits.

And I never said I was smart when it comes to respecting authority figures.

He shakes his head. “You know I can write you up, don’t you?”

I don’t. In fact, I’m too busy staring at his ass during meetings to remember he’s my boss. But then I’ll make a suggestion on using a different typeface, he’ll override with some twisted logic that somehow makes my idea sound like trash, and we continue on with the meeting as if it never happened.

I want nothing more than to strangle the guy.

I lean in. “Come on, you know my ideas are good. You wouldn’t put me on the bench with a write-up.”

He pushes his arms on the counter to lean closer to me as well. “Try me,” he growls.

I can smell his campfire scent again and my desire to slap him across the face quickly turns into a burning lust to grab his collar and kiss him. Thankfully, my unruly sexual impulses are pushed to the side when Ian shows up.

“Figured you could use some company,” Ian says, plopping himself on a stool beside me. I think he’s talking to me, but then Cameron leans back and groans.

“Please,” he begs. “This is basically jail.”

“Glad to see my company is such a joy,” I say, regrettably taking another swig from my glass. I cough. I forgot it was the IPA.

Cameron notices and smirks.

Then I hear a voice from beside me.

“It’s your last night, Cam.” Nia says, quiet as a cat while she approaches. “I’m not trying to punish you.”

Jesus Christ, where did she come from?

When Cameron offers her a beer, she simply raises her hand in protest. “No, not for me.”

No wonder she’s able to maintain her figure. Lack of beer will do wonders. I could probably learn a thing or two, I think as I’m swallowing another mouthful of beer I hate. My face contorts in disgust.

“So, how are you guys enjoying tonight?” Nia asks, a smile crossing her face. She’s friendly enough—at least as friendly as someone who needs to be familiar with her co-workers is.

“I’m doing good,” I reply, and Cameron nods in agreement.

Ian moves forward to catch Nia’s eye on the other side of me. And even though it’s painfully obvious, she’s definitely trying her best to ignore him.

“I’m doing good as well,” Ian calls down to her, giving a slight wave.

“Didn’t ask you, Ian,” she replies.

“Come on, Polly,” Ian coos. “Don’t be like that.”

Polly?

She exhales and glares at him. “I’ve told you not to call me that.”

“Well, you also didn’t like it when I called you Apollo, so I figure I’ll try something else out for a while.”

“Just Nia is fine.”

“You never come to Beer Fridays,” Cameron says, as if trying to change the subject away from … whatever this is.

“And now I remember why,” she shoots back, meeting Ian’s eyes with so much contempt and focus that I wonder if either of them would even notice if I left right now.

Tension radiates off her and I get nosy, mentally begging to know the context behind this interaction. Instinctually, my eyes flick to the only other person present who’s not involved in this awkward exchange and find that Cameron is staring right back at me—eyes wide open and cringing as well.

At least Cameron and I can agree about something.

It’s a weird moment. The shift in our dynamic unsettles me. I avert eye contact.

“Aw, Polly,” Ian croons. “Don’t be that way.”

“You are ridiculous,” Nia groans.

I watch her stomp off, and Ian shakes his head with a grimace, but the determination doesn’t leave his face.

“Do you always do that?” I ask, turning to face him, leaning my head in my hand.

“Do what?” Ian says, still looking at the spot where Nia was. “Try to get to know her?”

“No,” I say. “Do you always get on her nerves like that?”

“Not always,” Ian says, taking a sip of the water glass Cameron discreetly set in front of him.

“But that was nuts. You. Her. You know that, right?”

“Best not to insult HR, Grace,” Ian says, lifting an eyebrow.

Cameron snorts and I shoot him a glare.

“She’s never gonna like you if you keep that up,” I say, but my comment is sort of pointed toward Cameron. At least in my head it is because, well, who does he think he is, laughing at me?

“Seven years, Grace,” Ian laments. “Seven years, and I still think she’ll break one day.”

“Ian thinks he’s invincible,” Cameron says. “Kind of like some other person we know.” He lifts an eyebrow at me.

“She hasn’t written you up yet?” I ask Ian. “I thought that was common around here.”

I shoot a pointed look at Cameron. He isn’t smiling.

“No, she has not,” Ian straightens his back and points between the both of us. “And why do you think that is?”

“Because you wouldn’t listen anyway?” Cameron asks.

“Because,” Ian explains, lowering his voice in the way some people would share deep secrets. “I don’t think she really minds me all that much.”

Ian taps the side of his head with his index finger in a knowing kind of gesture as if to say, ‘Didn’t think of that, did ya?’

Cameron smiles at Ian and leaves to fill another beer for a passing employee who’s frantically waving him down. Ian and I don’t exchange words. He’s staring off in the distance, and I imagine he’s still replaying the interaction with Nia. I don’t interrupt his thoughts. Cameron returns to us moments later, his arms crossed as if contemplating whether to say something or not. The silence kills me, so I blurt out the first thing I can think of.

“So, how’d you get that bruise, Cameron?”

His eyebrows tug to the middle and he takes more than a comfortable amount of time to answer.

“Yes, Mr. Cameron, how did you get that bruise?” Ian asks, coming out of his thoughts and batting his eyes.

Cameron shoots him an eat-shit look, but then exhales.

“How do you think I got it?” he asks me, avoiding the question.

“Well,” I muse, “I’m thinking you went to the zoo and had a fight with a bear. It’s the only logical answer.”

“Oh really?” he says, barely amused at my clearly super clever response.

This man does not know humor.

“Hell, how about a dragon if we’re playing that game?” Ian says, tipping his water to his lip as if bored.

He seems less than impressed that Cameron isn’t sharing the true story with me. Which means that Ian totally knows. And I want to find out even more now.

“Both of you are mistaken,” Cameron says matter-of-factly. “It was a lion.”

“Not a hippo?” I gasp. “I hear they’re nasty.”

“If only. That’d be quite the story.”

“And lions aren’t?”

“Nope. Any old schmo can fight a lion,” Cameron says, exhaling dramatically. “Alas, I’m just another story.”

“Oh, woe,” Ian mumbles.

“Boo,” I say, throwing my thumb down in protest. “I demand better stories.”

“I don’t have time for that. I’m volunteering, remember?” he says.

“Then enjoy your customers.”

He shoots me one last look before walking away to serve another employee. The crowd is picking up once more, and I don’t expect him to return.

“So, Grace,” Ian starts, swiveling on his bar stool to angle himself toward me. “It’s not like I’m the lawyer or anything but, oh wait, yes, I am. Listen, eventually Cameron’s manager side might come out. Maybe you should tone down the whole kickass redhead act before you piss him off.”

“Oh Ian,” I sigh. “You know me better than that.”

He laughs, “Unfortunately, I do. But you’re an employee now. Don’t forget that. Plus, I vouched for you.” He pokes my shoulder. “Don’t make me look bad, all right?”

“No promises,” I grin.

He rolls his eyes.

No promises.