Into You Series: The Complete Collection

13. Grace

CHAPTER 13

GRACE

I ’m overdressed, but I don’t have enough time to go home and change after work before my not-date date with Joe, so now I am doomed to wear my cocktail dress to an office environment that is, generally speaking, very casual.

I tried to dress the look down a bit with a cardigan but there was no hiding the way the dress hugs my curves. My main goal for today is to remain at my corner desk so as not to draw more attention to myself than necessary.

The only time I leave the corner is to attend our Monday meeting. The moment I walk in, Cameron is already leering at me, but then there’s a second where he eyes me up and down and … is it contempt, or is he checking me out?

I try not to think about it, but I do drink a lot of water after.

Five o’clock rolls around and I’m still at the office. And, of course, so is Cameron.

He walks through the designers’ room like he owns the place which I guess as creative director, he pretty much does. He’s adjusted his business casual attire to a more relaxed look. The sleeves of his denim button-up are rolled up to his elbows, exposing toned forearms. He’s unbuttoned his shirt twice to reveal the crisp, white undershirt beneath.

Ramona’s stupid voice comes back to me.

An office romance. Can you imagine?

Yes, because now my thoughts are infiltrated by fantasies of him bending me over the copier.

No. Go away, hottie. Git. Scram. I can’t handle this today.

As if reading my mind, he walks to his office and shuts the door behind him.

Good riddance.

I continue sketching on my tablet when I notice I can’t seem to get a straight line on the page. My hands are shaking. I wonder if it’s the sight of Cameron, or maybe the fact that I’m about to meet up with my ex-boyfriend (because apparently, I love testing my own sanity), but then my stomach rumbles.

Right. I forgot to eat lunch again. My body wants fuel.

I wonder if the vending machines in the breakroom have decent snacks, but once I get there, I’m disappointed to find the machines out of everything edible with the exception of sunflower seeds, and yeah, no thanks .

My stomach grumbles again and I groan.

“Hush, you,” I hiss at it.

I turn to the doorway feeling dejected and desperately hungry when Cameron walks in, eyebrow raised.

“Talking to yourself?” he asks.

“My stomach,” I say, covering it with my hands. “It’s loud and obnoxious.”

He raises his eyebrows as if to say You two have that in common.

I balk. “Rude.”

“Didn’t say a word.”

I curl my bottom lip in and huff out a breath.

I hear a growl come from his stomach too. He reaches to cover it just as I did. I feel some odd satisfaction at his discomfort.

Cameron looks past me to the vending machines and frowns, but he switches to determined quick. He makes his way to the fridge, swinging it open and squinting to see everything inside.

I’m hoping he brought food and that he’s in some wonderful mood to maybe share, but I know better than to think he’s willing to be nice to me for one moment.

I exaggerate a slumped posture over to the fridge and lean over the door to look inside.

“I didn’t bring anything if that’s what you’re wondering,” he says.

Is he actually a mind reader?

“But”—he picks up some Tupperware and examines the top with a name scrawled in black sharpie ink—“it looks like Saria did.”

“We can’t do that.”

“Got a better idea?”

Through the transparent sides, I can see a turkey sandwich cut in half, a spinach side salad, and some grapes. It looks beautiful and like everything I need in the world right now. Normally, I would balk at the idea of stealing food, and instinct tells me to knock it out of his hand and insist he put it back immediately, but Cameron opens the lid and the smell of Caesar dressing and oregano rises out.

“Fine. She won’t miss it,” I say, forgetting all ladylike sensibilities and snatching it from his hands to place it down on the nearest table. Cameron shuts the fridge and rifles through the cabinets to find plates.

“Who said I was sharing?” I ask.

“Finders keepers,” he responds. “It’s technically mine.”

“No, I think it’s technically Saria’s.”

We sit across from each other with one half of the sandwich and bits of the salad haphazardly thrown on our plates in our joint effort to get this food in our mouths as soon as possible.

We begin eating and I try to maintain a polite approach, but Saria’s sandwich skills far surpass my own and before I know it, I’m scarfing down the sweet tastes of honey mustard, swiss cheese, and pickles like a girl that hasn’t eaten in months.

“So how was your day?” I ask between bites, trying to be as nice as I can. We did agree to share a stolen sandwich after all. This counts as breaking bread with your enemy.

He swallows his chewed food. “Better now that I have Saria’s overlooked leftovers.” A sly smile follows, and he takes another bite, making sure to finish it before continuing. “Hey, throw me one of those, will ya?”

I pick up a grape and he opens his mouth wide. Is he seriously wanting me to throw it in there?

“Go on,” he coaxes.

I toss the grape, and he moves his head just in time for it to fall in his mouth.

“Well, there lies your true talents,” I say. “Catching grapes.”

“I don’t have any more talents?” he asks.

“Not sure you’re too great at management,” I laugh, but his sense of humor is clearly gone, so I quickly stumble out, “I mean, the … people aspect of it at least.”

Cameron shakes his head. “Were you this much of a pain at your last job? I’m having a hard time believing you didn’t get fired or something.”

I stiffen. The mention of being fired brings me back to reality. My mom is right. I shouldn’t be doing anything to jeopardize this job. It’s been my dream and I’m sitting here insulting my boss over some grapes.

“I … speak my mind a lot.”

“Clearly.”

He huffs out air. We eat in silence.

I’ve gotten too comfortable too quickly, but where the heck do we go from here? I’ve already set the tone. So I try something different.

“Uhm, I think I could put ‘world record for the most times I’ve burnt soup’ as one of my talents,” I try to joke.

That’s one way to lighten the mood, I guess.

He peers up at me with narrowed eyes. He looks skeptical, but not exactly mad.

“How does one burn soup, anyway?” he asks.

“With talent,” I say. “But also forgetfulness. It stays on the stove too long, then the bottom part of the pot has a layer of black, burnt soup.”

“Delicious,” he responds, yet with a little less contempt than two seconds ago.

I’ll take it.

“You’re talented, Grace. I’ll give you that. But you’re …”

“Frustrating? Annoying? Difficult?”

“All of the above,” he deadpans.

“Well, I wouldn’t have to be if you let me just …” I stab the salad with my fork. “ Do things.”

“This again?”

“This always .”

He narrows his eyes. Then smiles. Then busts out into laughter.

I’m apprehensive, but then I start laughing as well.

And then we just seem like a bunch of idiots laughing over salad.

We’re like one of those cheesy stock photos in real life.

“God, what are we gonna do with you?” he asks.

My stomach churns, but I can’t help the small bit of fluttering in my chest.

“Hopefully not fire me,” I say with a laugh.

He chews his food and shakes his head with a lopsided smile.

“We’ll see.”

Cameron and I finish our thieved food in some weird sort of non-silent silence. Chewing. Maybe understanding? Hopefully not scheming how to fire me?

I watch his forearms flex every time he brings the fork to his mouth. I watch his lips wrap around the tongs.

Christ.

We finish and he places the now empty Tupperware in the very back of the fridge so as to conceal our horrible deed. Then we return to the designer den, where I’m feeling very full and not at all prepared to be thinking about stupid dinner with Joe. I’m too distracted by the stupid boss with his stupidly gorgeous forearms.

“What’s wrong?” he asks. I turn to look at him and shake my head.

“Uh, we stole food,” I say, avoiding the truth. “Doesn’t that bother you?”

“You’re the one who ultimately took the food out of the fridge,” he says, shaking his head. “Don’t drag me into this.”

“Hey, what, come on?—”

I think he starts to smile.

Wait, is he joking with me?

Then he starts fumbling in his pockets. He pulls out his phone and stares at the caller ID for a second, a look of dread falling over his face before saying, “I gotta take this.”

I quickly wave my hand in dismissal. “Go, go. Take your call. I’ve gotta run anyway.”

He doesn’t even raise his head to look at me when he walks away, stopping for a second mid-movement as if considering something else, then enters the office and closes the door.

His leave reminds me that I, too, have a commitment in the form of apocalyptic doomsday. I take a deep breath, pack my things, go to my car where I take one last look at myself in the rearview mirror, and then drive off to dinner with Joe.