Into You Series: The Complete Collection

15. Grace

CHAPTER 15

GRACE

I should not have had dinner with Joe.

I knew it was a bad idea from the start. I wanted to stand him up. I wanted to abandon him. Unfortunately for me, my mom encouraged me to go and also tried to convince me that this was the perfect time to let him have it.

“He needs to see how strong you are, and how you’re achieving your dreams every day! Without him!”

Thanks, Mom.

A few minutes later, I’m standing in front of the little Italian place we used to call our own. There are too many memories here. Our first date, our anniversary, and even that one time we snuck into the bathroom for, ahem , other activities.

I reach for the handle of one of the double doors but pull back. I can do this. I can do this. I stretch out my palm and shake my fingers out. Looking at my reflection in the window, I tug down my tight dress that has already bunched near my thighs. Okay, let’s do this.

I attempt the door again, but then a spiced scent washes over me and a hand touches my waist. Another reaches from behind me to open the door.

I twirl around to see Joe. Looking at him is like seeing a ghost. I barely recognize him. His chest is broader than it had been three months ago. His arms are toned. He could always lift me above his head, but now I wonder what else he could do.

Wait, why did he start going to the gym after our breakup?

“Hey, beautiful,” he croons.

I try to smile, but it only tugs at one side of my mouth.

“Hey, Joe.”

Yep, I’m not ready for this.

We go inside and are escorted to our table. He tries to put his hand on the small of my back to guide me, and I shimmy out of his grip. When he tries it again one second later, I try to make conversation with the hostess.

“Wow, crazy night, huh?” I say with a weak laugh.

“Ma’am, we’re always this busy.”

Right.

Joe and I sit across from each other, and I stare intently at my menu. I’ve been here a thousand times, and the lasagna will probably be just as good as it always is. The only thing different is who we are.

“Are you going to look at me, or are you changing your regular order of lasagna?” His tone is deep yet still playful. It urges me to look up with only a few words.

Joe has always been a sight for sore eyes, but he looks so much better now. His jawline is more prominent and even his deep brown hair looks softer and clean cut.

I mean—does he have a glow about him now, or am I crazy?

“Just looking is all,” I say with a gulp.

I want to be mean. I want to channel my mom’s feistiness.

How is it that I can be a jerk to my own boss, but not this guy? The one who cheated on me?

I want to give Joe a bad time by spewing all my revenge curses at him. Like a witch with a voodoo doll. With every word, I want a new wound in his chest.

But I can’t bring myself to do it.

I’m weak under his gaze.

“I, uh, hear they added some type of soup,” I mutter, lifting the menu over my eyes.

Oh yeah, really wounding him here, Grace. He’s going to feel that sting for sure.

He chuckles. I can smell his fresh toothpaste across the table. I used to know that toothpaste. It used to kiss my lips every night before bed.

“Baby, you’re still just as funny as ever,” he remarks.

I didn’t say anything funny, you liar.

“I’ve been going to the gym,” he says. He puts down his menu and leans forward to steeple his hands.

“Good for you,” I say.

“Yeah, I’ve met a few gym buddies. I guess you could say I’m a gym rat or whatever. I don’t know.” He seems bashful. It feels insincere. “But they’re pretty cool dudes. I go golfing with them a lot. Oh! Brian told this funny joke the other day—you would have loved it, Grace.”

And then he goes on to tell me some stupid joke from some guy I’ve never, and will never, meet. The punchline is predictable, but Joe still laughs afterward like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard. He even wipes his eyes with the cloth napkin beside him.

“Yeah, Grace, he’s hilarious,” Joe says. “Terrible golfer, though.”

“God forbid.”

This gives Joe pause, but only long enough to flash me another grin. “So, tell me what you’re up to now, Grace.”

I wish he would stop calling me by my name. Like, sure, I know it’s my name and all, but it feels oddly impersonal. I’m absolutely positive he read somewhere that calling someone by their name makes conversations that much more intimate. If wanting to barf all over his freshly cut Armani suit is intimate, then I’ve been doing love all wrong these past few years.

“Well, Joe,” I say. Yeah, how do you like it when I call you by your name? “I moved into an apartment. Hank is adjusting well.”

“He’s old, though,” Joe interrupts. “How picky can the dog be?”

“He still has preferences, Joe.”

“Remember when we went to the shelter and tried to get a new dog?” he asks.

“You wanted a new dog,” I clarify. “You said Hank was getting old.”

“His white hair isn’t getting any more golden,” he laughs.

I don’t get the joke. Is it a joke? What’s the punchline?

I laugh anyway. I hate myself for it.

“There’s that smile.” He reaches across the table to stroke my hand. His touch is impossibly soft and warm.

My heart leaps into my throat and I suddenly feel dirty—and not the good kind of dirty. Goosebumps rise up my forearms. I pull away and lean against the back of my chair. It was good timing too, because my hands were going to be clammy in T minus three seconds. Maybe I should have kept them there so he could feel disgusting too.

I clear my throat and pat the napkin in my lap. “I really like the company I work for. It’s Treasuries, Inc.”

“That’s great,” he says. “Never heard of them.”

You liar. You big, filthy liar . Who in the modern world hasn’t heard of my company?

But I say nothing. I just let myself smile cordially and nod.

“I got a promotion,” he says.

“Oh yeah?” I ask.

I feel my blood pressure rise.

I’m realizing quickly just how self-centered Joe is. How did I overlook this?

“Yeah,” he says. “It took a lot of hard work. A lot of golfing, if you know what I mean.”

“Schmoozing?” I ask.

“You get it, darling. You’ve always gotten me.”

Darling??

My eyes dart to the door. Do I want to run or am I just hoping somebody, anybody, will walk in and save me? My heart is racing, and this napkin is doing nothing to quell my shaking hands.

“Listen, Grace, I’m a changed man.”

“I don’t want to hear …”

“Listen.”

I look back at him. His eyebrows are cinched in the middle as if pleading for me to hear him out. And, silly me, I give him my undivided attention.

“Okay, go,” I direct, exhaling a shaky breath.

“I’ve changed. When you left, I … I felt lost. Like I’m missing a shoe.”

“A shoe?”

“A limb ,” he corrects, stretching the word so I can feel the weight of it. “I got a promotion for you . They told me I was the best employee they’ve had for years. That I’m a prodigy. I have my own office now.”

It’s weird; The words coming out of his mouth feel less like an apology and more like bragging.

“I’ve been hitting the gym hard. For you ,” he continues. “I can deadlift almost two hundred pounds now. I lost ten pounds. I would have lost more, but I think it’s all muscle. I quit the dating app. I didn’t need it anymore. I only need you. I was getting hit after hit after hit, but it all means nothing. Even the models that tried to message me mean nothing. Nothing compared to you, Grace.”

I want to roll my eyes so hard they fall out of my face. Maybe that way I wouldn’t have to look at him again.

“That … sounds rough, Joe.”

“It’s been a nightmare.”

I don’t respond, but instead find the nearest server and order their most expensive bottle of wine. I’ll have to remember to tell my mom that my integrity went out the window.

He somehow finds a way to tell me about his personal office—how it has floor to ceiling windows. The chairs are leather (“ Leather, Grace!”) and his desk is mahogany. I’m relieved when the meal arrives, and I shovel it into my mouth. I don’t have much of an appetite, but anything to wash down the horrible taste from this sorry conversation.

Was he always like this? Have I been blind?

“I have to admit something,” he says after the fiftieth golf story of the night. “You’ll laugh when you hear this, actually.” He sets his fork and knife down on either side of his plate. “I’m actually seeing someone.”

I sit there in stunned silence. I can suddenly feel the weight of the steak, heavy in my stomach. I want to ask so many questions. The one on the tip of my tongue is “ Who is she? ” but instead I ask, “Then why are we here?”

“I met her at the gym,” he continues, like he didn’t even hear me. I bet she can run a mile on a treadmill without stopping and do that whole pull-up machine. I sure can’t. “But, I need you, Grace. I can’t live without you, and I would end it with her if you would come home with me. Let’s try this again. For ol’ times sake.”

The world goes silent.

“Are you … kidding me?” I whisper.

I blink over and over to try and make the room appear high definition again. So far, I’ve been floating above my body just looking down on this situation. I see myself with my hands folded over each other, my posture so fitting of a bright young woman. But what bright woman goes on a date with this kind of man?

“Are you seriously freaking kidding me?” I repeat in a whisper. But then I repeat it again. And again. And again. Louder and louder until I’m finally yelling it through the restaurant.

The waiter briskly walks over and asks if there’s a problem, suggesting I lower my voice, but he doesn’t understand. He doesn’t know what man—what demon—is sitting across from me. If he did, I’m sure he would be screaming, too. Which I am, while simultaneously throwing cherry tomatoes at Joe’s face.

“A woman trusts you, and you’re here with me?!” I yell, tossing my food bit by bit with every piece bouncing off his stupidly perfect cheeks. “ I trusted you!”

“Gracie, calm down!” Joe demands, holding his arms out like Chris Pratt trying to calm the velociraptors in Jurassic World .

“Screw you!” I shout, standing to my feet.

“Ma’am, that’s inappropriate language—” the waiter starts, but I interrupt him with a swift come back.

“ You’re inappropriate language!”

Nailed it.

Before he can demand that I leave—I can tell by how tightly his arms are crossed—I snatch my purse and storm off.

“She means nothing!” Joe yells after me. I hear the squeak of his chair moving as well.

The hostess, oblivious to what happened inside the dining area, smiles at me as I stalk past her.

“Have a good night, miss?—”

I snarl wordlessly at her. Because I’m a crazy person. But she’s only an innocent bystander to this train wreck, so I backtrack and say, “Sorry” before barreling on once more.

Joe follows me outside yelling things like, “I need you!” and “It’s not attractive when you yell!” But I storm off in my car, zipping out of the parking lot with a wheel spin that could rival The Fast & the Furious . And boy, am I furious.

I drive until I find my way to my apartment. I navigated without the help of a GPS for the pure sake of letting myself get lost so I could drive more and cool off. When I finally park, I break down. I grip the steering wheel and sob like it’s the end of the world—like nothing else can heal this moment. I even put on some Coldplay because wallowing in my own self-pity seems like the logical thing to do.

What was Joe thinking? I can only imagine that poor girl. All she wanted to do was build a nice butt in the gym with some squats and this douchebag comes into her life with his big arms and toned abs and ruins it all in one fell swoop. And she doesn’t even know it yet.

I need a drink.

I get out of the car and slam the door behind me before making my way to the gate of my apartment complex, blasting it open and letting it bang shut behind me. I whip out my phone and dial the one person I can hopefully blame for this mess, and after three rings, she finally answers.

“That was a horrible idea, Mom,” I say. “He’s an asshole, a cheat, and doesn’t deserve anything from me—insult or not.” I spit out more words. I don’t even know what I’m saying at this point. I’m just spouting sentence after sentence. It’s coming out as blubbers.

“Honey, slow down, slow down,” she says, finally getting some words in while I’m in the middle of a deep, wet, tearful inhale. “I’m sorry I told you to go. I’m sorry he’s such a horrible man. And I’m sorry, so sorry, that you have to go through this.”

“Men are trash,” I say. “Men are garbage that don’t understand how the world works. This isn’t their world where they can play games with whomever they choose?—”

“I know, honey. I know.”

I stop for a second. My heartbeat slows and I take a deep breath, letting the cool night breeze blow through my hair. We let the silence drift between us, and it’s almost soothing to hear nothing except the cicadas.

I finally walk again.

“Mom, I can’t do this.”

“Listen,” she says. “I’m going to make a pact with you, okay? For just a few months, don’t date, and neither will I. Your father was one of the good ones. Not all men are bad. But maybe let’s take a bit to realize that.”

My mom rarely discusses my dad. I hold my breath wondering if there will be more. But there never is. My mourning pales in comparison to Mom’s level of denial about Dad’s passing.

Love doesn’t exist for me and probably never will at this rate. My mom and dad’s love was so powerful that it probably sucked all the love out of the rest of the potential couples in the world.

“Don’t let Joe take your progress and make it worth nothing,” she says. “Do we have a deal, Gracie? No men for just a couple months.”

“I like it,” I say through a sniffle. “Let’s do it.”

Up ahead is my trusty neighborhood bar and my destination. It’s a borderline biker bar with way too much haze for my taste, but it seems friendly enough. It will have the drinks I need, anyway.

“So, tell me about work,” she says. “How’s the project coming along? Anything interesting?” I can hear her rummaging through the kitchen, no doubt making some late-night healthy muffins for tomorrow morning or something. I wonder if she’s using avocado again.

I open the door and walk down the rickety bar stairs thinking about projects at work. The only thing that strikes me as interesting, however, is Cameron. I think about how he adjusts his mess of hair, how he bites the tip of his pen while he’s thinking, and how he looks at me with those eyes—the brown and green that strike through to your soul.

“Yeah, a couple things,” I say, smiling to myself without even thinking about it. Compared to my night with Joe, thinking of Cameron actually cheers me up.

God, imagine him cheering me up.

I make my way through the bar, shimmying past people and apologizing as I pass. It’s the opposite of the nice Italian restaurant I just came from, and I soak in all the differences.

The floorboards are sticky. There’s a raised platform where a band might normally play, but tonight it’s vacant. I walk through a hazy layer of smoke, and I already know I’ll have to do laundry tonight just to get the smell of smoke out of my clothes.

It’s not glamorous and I’m very overdressed, but it is exactly what I need right now.

I glance down the bar top and see a man hunched over the counter on the last bar stool at the end. The very man who happens to be on my mind.

What the heck is Cameron Kaufman doing here on a Monday night?

There are a couple empty stools between him and the rest of the bar flies, and it looks like he’s avoiding the world. I have never connected to him more.

Once I get closer, it’s easy to see that he’s a total wreck. He’s wearing a ratty black t-shirt with various holes in on the side and near the hem. His fitted jeans flatter his muscular thighs, and he’s sporting nice leather loafers, but his eyes look heavy and his hair is more disheveled than I’ve ever seen it.

“Mom, I’m gonna have to let you go,” I say.

We exchange “I love you”s before hanging up. I slide my phone into my crossbody purse and walk toward my boss.

He lacks any sign of energy. He’s loosely holding an almost-empty tumbler. He stares at some unknown spot behind the bar, eyes glazed over.

“Cameron?” I ask, tilting my head to the side and trying to get a better look at his face.

He blinks at me as though seeing me for the first time.

“Oh,” he says, “Heeello, Holmes.”

“Mind if I sit?” I ask.

“Be my guest,” he grumbles, patting the seat of the stool next to him. I place myself down, and the full force of his whiskey-scented self passes my way.

Oof, he’s definitely not sober.

“Is everything okay?” I ask.

I don’t expect a long-winded answer from Cameron. So far, he hasn’t exactly been open in this off-kilter relationship of ours. So I’m baffled when he says:

“No. Everything is not okay, Holmes. And I’ll tell you why. My girlfriend … well”—he thinks for a moment and continues—“my ex -girlfriend thinks I’m a pretty big piece of shit. So big, in fact, she thought it would be a good idea to let some other man sit on my couch— naked —and rub his wrinkly balls all over it.”

Welp, didn’t expect that.

“He was … rubbing his balls on your couch?” I ask.

“Probably,” he answers. “With balls like those, I’m sure they flopped around all over the damn couch without him even trying.”

I smile and try to suppress my laughter. The idea of free-flowing balls definitely improves my mood.

“So, what did you do?” I ask.

“I punched the guy,” he deadpans. “He touched my dog.”

“Is … that a … euphemism?”

“No, he was touching my actual dog.”

“Well, then that definitely crosses the line,” I agree, putting my hands on my hips.

He looks me up and down before tipping his drink to me and whispering, “Exactly.”

My back straightens and my face flushes. This dress suddenly feels much too tight. He finishes the rest of his glass in one gulp and taps the counter to alert the bartender—or anyone who’s paying attention—that he needs a refill.

“So, I’m guessing that’s how you got the black eye, huh?” I say, raising two fingers to the bartender to indicate I’ll need one of the same. “The other guy punched you back?”

“No, that was from the lions, remember?” he says, side-eyeing me.

The edge of his lip tips up in a smile.

Wait, is Cameron joking with me again?

“The call you got yesterday,” I continue. “Was that your ex?” I hope I’m not crossing a line, but he’s already mentioned wrinkly balls, so I’m not too worried.

“Bingo,” he says, exhaling once more.

The bartender places the glasses in front of us. I mouth a quick: “Thank you.”

“Wait, you’re ordering whiskey?” Cameron asks.

“I figured I’d jump in the party,” I say, lifting my glass to him. “Seems like you have the right idea.”

He raises his glass as well. I notice his hand swaying. The drink sloshes around, and a drop falls over the side. “What are we toasting to?”

I think for a second then clink my glass to his. “Bad relationships.”

He nods back and yells, “To bad relationships!”

I look around to see if anyone notices.

A wide smile spreads on his face as he clinks my glass again and raises the drink to his mouth. But, he doesn’t take a sip before placing it back down on the counter.

“Wait.” He closes his eyes.

I’m sure his brain is moving too fast for his reflexes to catch up. It’s kind of cute and it gives me some extra time to scan over his body while he isn’t looking. It’s only a quick glance, but it’s hard not to notice that, even though his shirt has at least three holes in it, his torso fills it well. His large arms pull the sleeves taut. I’ve never seen him in a t-shirt long enough to notice, but I could live with seeing Cameron Kaufman in more black t-shirts.

“Wait, so …” He gathers his thoughts—slowly but surely. “Bad relationship … are you? Did you …? How is that going for you?”

I laugh. “I just had dinner with my ex.”

He stares at me for a couple seconds before spitting out, “Why?”

Why did I want dinner with Joe? Was it to talk about our potential future? Did I expect him to compliment the way I dressed, or give me some chaste kiss at the end of the night?

“He wanted to talk about our house,” I say. It’s a truth, but maybe not the whole truth. “He’s going to sell it.”

“Were you married?” Cameron asks, taking a sip of his drink but not breaking eye contact with me.

My stomach drops. No. No, we weren’t.

I feel almost dumb for even considering that tonight could have gone better.

“No,” I say. “He said marriage wasn’t for him.”

Cameron is quiet for a moment. He narrows his eyes at me, as if trying to decipher what to say next. Or maybe he’s expecting me to keep talking. After a few seconds, I continue.

“It was fine,” I lie. “Eventually, we just drifted apart, I guess. Found our own hobbies, stopped hanging out, and now I’m twenty-seven and living the apartment life just like I did in college.”

“Woah, don’t diss the apartment life!” he says, hands in the air with palms out in front of him. “Pump the breaks on that kind of talk! I like mine.”

I smile and take another drink. “Well, that makes one of us.”

We both stare at our glasses, and I glance over at the bartender to gesture for one more drink. Cameron raises his hand to signal for one as well, but I touch his arm and lower it down. The bartender’s mouth twitches up in a sly smile.

“I have a question,” Cameron says, moving his glass on the counter, letting the condensation glide it from side to side. “You’re twenty-seven, and you just started at the company as a junior designer. Why is that? That’s an entry level position.”

“I was working in collections,” I admit with a small shrug. “I never wanted to work in a corporate environment. I went to art school, but I didn’t feel like I was talented enough to pursue art, so there I was: At a desk, in a cubicle, calling people all day about bills they didn’t want to pay.”

“You didn’t think you were talented?” he asks.

I clear my throat in embarrassment.

College years weren’t my best years. My dad passed. My mom struggled. And, in turn, so did I. Art was the only relief I had. But, if you’ve ever been to art school, you know that wearing your heart on your sleeve will be your biggest downfall.

“I had a lot of work to do on the whole ‘confidence’ thing,” I murmur.

“Don’t have a problem with that now,” he slurs with a small smirk. “So, the ex …?”

“Oh, well, when Joe and I—the ex, I mean—broke up, I realized I wasn’t happy. I wasn’t doing anything I loved anymore. I went to work, then yoga, and spent the rest of the night having my so-called boyfriend sit on his phone and avoid me. Found out later he was browsing dating apps, so that’s a fun tidbit.” Cameron cringes for me and I appreciate the gesture. “In short, ‘college Grace’ would be really disappointed in the ‘present Grace.’ So, I decided to make a change. And here I am.”

He smiles. It’s not an arrogant smirk, but a genuine smile. I can see the indention in his cheek where his deep dimples might show were they not covered by the beard.

“Sounds to me like the breakup really only did you a favor,” he says.

“Yeah,” I smile, “Yeah, I guess it did.”

“And what do you think of Treasuries?” he asks, slinging his tumbler around. “Is it everything you thought it would be?”

“Sort of,” I laugh. “I have a boss that is absolutely off-putting so there’s that.”

“Sounds like a nightmare,” he says, his eyebrow cinched in as if apologizing. At least I think he might be. I notice he’s drifting closer to the bar, having a hard time holding himself up. The more his head dips down, the closer his elbow gets to mine.

“Actually, you know, I don’t think he’s too bad,” I say, tilting my head to admire him. Even at his current state, he’s still weirdly adorable.

His forehead rests on the counter and yep, folks, he’s out for the count.

But then Cameron’s head rolls over to the side and he gets a good look at me. He stares into my eyes, not moving an inch, as if taking me in. My face gets warm, and my muscles tighten.

“You think we could be friends?” he asks. “I don’t really have a lot of those.”

The words stop me.

Friends?

Cameron Kaufman just wants a friend ?

I’m almost wondering if this is a trap. Is he just gonna pull out some finger guns and shoot them in my direction yelling, “Gotcha?!”

I look at him, sitting there staring at me with puppy dog eyes. I’ve never seen him like this, so desperate for a response. What would we even do as friends? Not to mention, this would not just be friendship with a man. This would be a friendship with my boss—intimate friends where we talk about exes, vent about work, and I sit next to him while he’s drunk.

Well, I guess we’re doing that anyway, aren’t we?

And who can deny those eyes?

“Sure, Cameron,” I say. “I don’t see why not.”

He smiles at me with a dazed look, and it’s like I’m a genie granting him a wish.

“Good,” he says, slapping his leg as if it were a gavel and we just declared this friendship law.

Yep, he’s had enough to drink.

“My first act of friendship is cutting you off,” I say.

I touch the top part of the glass he isn’t holding and try to take it from him. He loosens his grip and whether that’s from a current lack of sober strength or if he’s conceding, I’m not sure.

“But I’m still your boss,” he says, almost as if it’s a warning, shaking his finger in my direction. Not like I needed the warning, but I think both of us—even him in his drunken state—know this is not a solid foundation.

“Of course you are,” I say. “Nobody needs to know you don’t entirely hate me.”

“Good,” he says again, a quick nod following as he looks down at his hand. “Now where’s my drink?”

I lift up his stolen glass in my hand and toast to him. “I got you covered, friend.”

He squints. “You know what, Holmes? I like you.”

I laugh, but it’s more of an uncomfortable laugh. I like this nice Cameron, but I’m also a bit afraid of where this may go. I’ve been around drunk people and they say the darndest things.

“You’re drunk,” I tease, grinning.

“Hell yeah I am,” he says, his speech getting slower and less deliberate. “But I still like you."

“That’s very nice, Cameron,” I say, trying not to let myself get overwhelmed by the amount of eye contact he’s sharing with me. He won’t look away, and I feel like he’s that snake from Jungle Book just pulling me into his entrancing gaze.

It’s working.

“How are you planning on getting home?” I ask, changing the subject.

He wiggles his eyebrows at me.

“Why?” he growls. “Are you coming with me?”

Oh good lord, I’ve died. I’m reeling into heaven with my wings flapping because I am dead. Or maybe I’m diving deep into hell with little horns because I want nothing more than to say, ‘You bet your ass I’m coming home with you.’

It’s hard not to picture us in his house. I bet he lives in a nice, modern home with stylish furniture and sleek countertops. I can imagine him lifting me on top of them, his hands traveling all over my body, my stomach, my breasts. He would take my nipples between his fingers while his hand travels down to …

Shake it off, Grace.

“Cameron, let’s both forget you said that,” I say. “You’ll thank me in the morning.”

His eyes glaze over and focus on a spot over my shoulder. He probably won’t remember any of this which is good.

I ask for his credit card, which he hands over. I call the bartender over, telling him it’s probably best if we leave soon, and thankfully he’s quick to process the bill. I make sure to tip him well.

“Let’s go, Holmes!” Cameron exclaims, getting a surge of energy and pocketing his wallet. “To the streets! I’ll be your Watson! We can solve mysteries like the classic mystery duo we are!”

I let out a laugh, trying to cover it with my hand. “Well, I walked here, so we may have to call you a ride.”

“Not a problem,” he slurs, lifting his arm and placing it around my shoulders. My breathing hitches until I realize he’s just doing it to help himself off the stool. I let it stay once he’s up. I tell myself he probably needs the support anyway. “I can walk home, too. It’s only a few minutes.”

Knowing he lives close enough to walk as well makes my heart jump to my throat. But that’s nothing compared to the actual walk.

He spends the entire time trying to gain footing, tripping over his own legs, and gripping my shoulder every time he almost falls. His hand on my arm sends shivers down my spine. They’re large and slightly rough on the inside of his thumb and index finger from what I imagine are countless hours of gripping drafting pencils.

He directs me toward his home, and we travel the same way to his place as we would to mine, taking the same sidewalks and passing the same empty parking lots and scattered trees. It’s beginning to get eerie, and I start to consider … Do we live in the same complex?

No, that’s silly. Of course not.

What would be the odds?

But once we stop in front of the iron gate to my apartment complex and he mumbles, “This is me,” I realize the odds are pretty good.

Crap.

Cameron Kaufman, my hot boss, lives in my complex. He is mere steps away from me at all times. Is the universe playing some practical joke? Because this is the least funny prank I’ve ever seen.

“You’re gonna have to be more specific than that, Cameron,” I say.

Not the second floor on the right. Not the second floor on the right.

“Left … I think.”

Whew.

“Okay, I can work with that,” I say, more to myself than him.

He’s beginning to groan, and I can tell if I don’t drop him off soon, he’ll be leaning over the bushes having a horrible time. I have sick empathy too, so let’s not even go there. We don’t need a vomit party going on.

“Third floor,” he mumbles. “316?”

Is it a question or an answer? I genuinely don’t know, but I have no other leads to determine if he’s correct so apartment 316 it is.

“All right, let’s get moving.” He leans on me a bit more, and I find it difficult to hold his weight. He’s at least fifty pounds heavier and all muscle.

We move up the path and my shoulders start to hurt, but if we can just make it to the stairs, maybe I’ll have better luck at maneuvering him around.

How naive of me.

The second we make it to the stairs, he walks up one, maybe two, steps and then lays down on the third. His head rests on the step above and he curls into a fetal position. I’m admittedly a bit amazed at his efforts to sleep anywhere.

“Cameron, you have to get up, okay?” I say, putting on my sweet voice that I only reserve for Hank when he’s begging for food he can’t have.

You ever tried to deny a dog chocolate? If it wouldn’t kill the poor guy, I would have caved years ago.

Cameron groans, lifting himself off the stairs in a single push-up ( oh my god ) and takes them one step at a time. I jog up a few steps ahead of him and reach out my hand for support should he choose to fall again. He instead grabs the railing and hoists himself up the stairs on his own. Only a tiny bit of disappointment washes over me as I am denied my chance at feeling his rough hands once again.

We climb two more flights of stairs with a bit more ease when he finally discovers the human power of lifting his feet. By the time we’re on the third floor, he knows exactly where his apartment is—thank you, heavens above—and he pulls out his key to turn the lock.

Once the door pulls open, I’m bombarded by his dog. It’s a golden retriever just like Hank, but with noticeably less white and gray fur. He’s as golden as this breed can get and wild .

“Oh, hi there!” I say, bending down to pet him. He’s feverishly licking my hands and arms. Definitely a friendly boy. I’m not used to such an excited dog, as Hank mellowed out years ago. But I will take all the precious dog love I get.

“Buddy, no,” Cameron groans, barely getting out the words. He’s clearly unable to control the happy beast, so I assist by grabbing the dog’s collar and taking wide steps to corral him back into the apartment.

“He’s all right,” I say between laughs as Buddy’s tail whacks Cameron while he tries to side-step through the narrow foyer. “I like dogs.”

Once we’re in and the doors are closed, I look around and realize my expectations for his nice apartment were very different from the reality of it.

A lone bean bag chair is the centerpiece of the apartment and, from the way it’s displayed, seems almost like it could be some Indiana Jones booby trap. A few steps away is a giant dog bed that is noticeably nicer than the Temple of Doom beanbag. And then there’s a desk in the corner. This seems to have much more activity surrounding it.

Pencils, papers, and a small stack of books adorn the top. The laptop computer is cracked open, and the wireless mouse is drifting a bit too close to the edge for my tastes. It looks as if it had been pushed aside in a hurry.

But the items that stick out the most are the blueprints push-pinned to the wall above the desk. They look like a layout of a home, maybe a restaurant, or even a lobby to a hotel. The lines are crisp and artfully crafted like pure love was poured into each one. Surrounding each draft is a heavy dose of sticky notes with Cameron’s handwriting scrawled across each of them.

“Did you do these?” I ask in awe, walking over and running my hands across the papers, feeling the indentions of the lines.

“Oh, yeah.” He sounds less than enthused. “But they’re just … drafts. Just messes.”

Messes? They’re beautiful.

“I need to lay down,” he says, taking a seat in the bean bag chair. It depresses under his weight and instantly, his dog is next to him, sitting straight as a statue with only his tail giving away the excitement he’s trying to hold back.

“I didn’t know you loved architecture,” I say.

“It’s nothing,” he groans.

I turn to find his head in his hands.

Oh right, we’ve got a drunk person to take care of.

“What can I get you?” I ask. “Water? Something for a headache?”

He shakes his head.

“No, but you’re great,” he says. I can tell it’s a struggle to get the words out. I’ve been there before where any drunken, slurred word could potentially cause your stomach to churn. But despite his pained response, I feel something resembling butterflies run through my chest. Not moths like with Joe. Straight up butterflies.

I go into his kitchen and grab a glass of water for him anyway.

“I will say this: You sure hit the jackpot with friendships, boss,” I joke.

He looks over to me, staring for a second before saying, “God, you’re beautiful.”

My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. My tongue is dry, and my throat feels like it’s constricting.

I down the glass of water myself and refill a new one for him.

“And your ideas are good, you know,” Cameron continues. “You’re damn pushy, but you’re smart.”

I can’t help but smile. “You’re just drunk.”

“Nah,” he says, waving his hand in mock dismissal, but a smile creeps up the side of his face.

I laugh. “Let’s get you into bed.”

His smile deepens enough to show his dimples, and I throw my hand out to cover his mouth before he can say anything else. His eyebrows waggle up and down suggestively, and I shake my head.

“No more compliments, Cameron. I don’t think I can handle you being so nice.”

“ You’re so nice,” he mumbles under my hand, and I roll my eyes.

“Bed, now,” I demand.

I set the glass down on the floor and reach my hands out for him to take. Together, we lift him off the beanbag chair. I escort him to his bedroom and let him flop down.

I return to the living room to get the glass of water. When I return to the bedroom, Cameron is already passed out. A light snore exits his mouth and it’s almost like watching a puppy breathe heavily in its sleep. It’s endearing.

I go back to the living room and grab the beanbag chair to drag it into his bedroom. I’ll stay for just a bit. There’s no point in leaving a drunk man by himself. I even roll him on his side just in case. I’m too paranoid to let a drunk person lay on their back. I’ve heard too many horror stories.

His dog follows my every movement before finally placing the toy by my side. I throw it for his pleasure, and we spend a while playing fetch with him increasingly covering the toy in drool.

I whip out my phone between toy tosses and scroll through my texts. I have quite a few from Joe, but I don’t open them.

I don’t want to hear what he has to say. I’m tired of his games. I’m tired of feeling like I need him. I’m tired of feeling vulnerable.

Even babysitting my stubborn, drunk boss has been more enjoyable than whenever Joe would get drunk. Joe never called me beautiful. He only got whiny and irritated.

Cameron’s dog barks, and he shifts around a bit but doesn’t wake. His head lolls over the side of the bed and I see every etching in his face, the slight remnants of the bruise under his eye, and his soft lips parting as he snoozes.

Yeah, I’ve definitely had bad nights with drunk people, but this is not one of them.