Into You Series: The Complete Collection

16. Cameron

CHAPTER 16

CAMERON

I an’s ticking wall clock is like a bomb counting down to my head exploding.

Who puts a ticking clock in their office anyway? He may as well have a tall grandfather clock in here. I don’t know which would be louder.

“You went drinking without me?”

“Voice lower, please,” I beg, bringing my fingers up to my temples and rubbing as hard as I can to make the buzzing go away. “On a scale of one to ten, my hangover is a solid fifty.”

It’s been a little over six hours since I made a show of pounding drinks in that bar, and I’m no spring chicken anymore. This type of hangover should have been reserved for weekends when I can lay on the floor groaning in a pit of misery all day—not for Tuesday mornings at work.

“No, you do not deserve my sympathy,” Ian shoots back. I cringe at the vibrations in my head. “You got drunk. You, a man that has never gotten blackout drunk, got blackout drunk and can’t remember a thing.”

“Geez, Ian, it’s a burden I must bear.”

That is a lie I told him for my own sake. The truth is that I’ve never been blackout drunk, and this time is no exception.

The burden does not lie with not remembering anything, but instead with being able to recall every morbid detail. I know every single word I said to Grace, and I have spent my morning reliving it over and over until I forced myself to take a small nap in my office so I could try not to think about it.

The most exhausting thing was the dreams I had last night. It’s like I couldn’t escape her. At one point, she was in my bedroom doorway, leaning against the frame with her foxy red hair falling over her naked chest. In another dream, she was wearing a crop top with the bottom of her breasts slightly exposed, but not enough to see it all. My imagination made Grace a tease.

“I thought you didn’t want to go out drinking,” Ian says, and I’m jolted out of my reverie.

“I didn’t. But, you know, Abby called.”

“Again?”

“Again.”

Abby’s call is the least of my worries, though. I can only think of Grace and her naked body, and I realize it would be very risky to stand up at this point with the way my erection is pressing into my zipper.

“Well, do you feel better, Cam?” Ian asks. He lifts himself to sit on the corner of his desk even though his feet still touch the ground. “You did the whole depression breakup thing, right? Time to move on.”

I close my eyes. Ian’s giving me tough love and I hate it, but it’s definitely what I need. So, I decide he’s right and I need to do the only thing I truly know how to do: distract myself with work. “Mr. Feldman needs designs by Friday. I’ll just focus on that.”

He rolls his eyes and I’m willing to bet he wasn’t surprised to hear that answer.

“More work? I’m honestly not even surprised.”

Called it.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I mumble.

“Well, hop to it then,” he says. “I’m actually busy for once.”

I laugh a little, but it hurts my head. “And I was starting to think your job was just hanging out in my office.”

I brush my pants, finally able to stand without embarrassing myself, and roll my neck before opening the door and walking down the hall back to my office.

I haven’t seen Grace this morning. I don’t know how long she stayed at my house last night, but I remember waking up for a short moment of lucidity and seeing her on the floor curled up with Buddy. It was the cutest thing I’d ever seen.

At the time, I’d wondered what life could be like with that kind of sight every morning—except she wouldn’t be on the floor, obviously. But seeing her with Buddy put a spark in my heart I haven’t had in a long time. I never once saw Abby cuddle with Buddy like Grace did last night.

As fate, or whatever otherworldly being, would have it, I round the corner and knock over someone connected to a tangle of red hair.

Fantastic.

“Wow, way to go, boss.” Grace says with a joking smirk. She crouches down to start picking up her papers, and I’m given a clear line of sight down her shirt. She’s wearing a black bra and, in the center, right between her cleavage, is a tiny, red bow.

“I’m sorry,” I say, bending down to help her pick up the dropped papers. But then my body yields to the hangover once more, and I clutch my head in my hand, hoping to hold myself together. I almost forgot that my brain is in hell.

“Don’t worry, I got it,” she says with a small laugh.

“No, it was my fault,” I say, pulling myself together just enough to pick up a couple papers. But this is mostly in an effort to avert my eyes from her neckline.

We both stand up and I hand her back whatever sheets I could grab. She shuffles them in her hands and hugs them to her chest.

“How are you feeling?”

“Stellar,” I lie, my hand instinctively going to my head again.

She laughs a bit, and I feel like it’s a knowing laugh. A mocking laugh. A laugh that makes my stomach churn. I’m honestly unsure if it’s the hangover or the dread of knowing what transpired.

I told her about Abby. I called Grace beautiful. And I touched her. A lot. Her hands, arms, her shoulders, her waist … it’s all so blurry and yet so clear in my mind. I can barely picture how she looked, but the feel of it all under my fingertips … I shove my hands in my pockets to hide my growing erection.

Good lord, I’m like a teenager again.

I know that we need to talk about it. This isn’t the first uncomfortable conversation I’ve had in my life, and it sure won’t be the last.

“Do you want to meet for lunch today?” I ask.

A slow smile spreads over Grace’s full, pink lips.

She is beautiful.

“Sure,” she says. “Whatever works for you.”

It feels sensual, but I’m honestly too overwhelmed by my imminent nausea and pounding headache to think about it too much. If I do, it will only make me sicker.

“I’ll meet you out front at noon,” I say.

“Absolutely.”

She nods and walks past me.

We can take lunch to talk through things and maybe clear up some misunderstandings. There’s no reason our relationship can’t return to normal. Maybe we’ll even go back to hating each other if I’m lucky. It would probably be for the best.

I count a few seconds then turn around and spend a bit too much time admiring the way her dark jeans fit her butt.

But then her own head turns to look at me and I snap my gaze back to the front.

Caught red handed.

Thankfully, by the time noon rolls around, I have a lot of my appetite back and I’ve popped enough Ibuprofen to be at around seventy-percent functioning capacity. For lunch, we decide on a quick taco joint within walking distance of the building. Even though we don’t address any events from last night during our walk, I think it’s heavily implied this lunch time is for a not-work-appropriate discussion away from the office.

I pick a high top for us to sit at after we order. She hops up on the stool and rests her chin between both hands. She’s giving me some goofy smile. I know what she wants, so I take a deep breath and jump in.

“I’m sorry,” I say, exhaling.

She raises an eyebrow in mock confusion. “About what?”

“Don’t make me say it,” I say, both annoyed and entertained by her cockiness. “I’m not proud of it.”

“You remember?” she asks, letting her elbows slide forward on the table.

“I’ve never been one to blackout,” I grumble. “Unfortunately.”

She giggles. “Oh no, I’m definitely feeling like this is a fortunate circumstance.”

“And why is that?” I ask.

She’s absolutely loving this. She loves being in control of me for once—holding me hostage. It’d be cute if I weren’t embarrassed.

“I think we have some kind of connection now,” she says, straightening her posture and holding her head higher, almost haughty. “We’re on the same level, aren’t we?”

The heat rises in my face. “That’s funny, because I’m under the impression I’m your boss .”

“And yet, you want to be my friend.”

My chest sinks as the air rushes out.

“Oh god, I said that.”

“Yes, you did,” she responds with a laugh.

I feel my heart beating fast, my veins pumping in my arms. Her expression doesn’t falter.

“Let’s not talk about it,” I say.

“Why not?”

She leans back with her arms crossed. A smirk tugs at the edge of her lips and crinkles her nose. It’s adorable, but I try to wipe the thought from my mind.

“Okay, fine,” she says after some silence. “Then let’s talk about your apartment instead.”

“Okayyy,” I concede, dragging out the word and narrowing my eyes at her. “What about it?”

What did she notice? I can’t remember if my apartment was clean or messy. Were my clothes hanging around the laundry, dishes piled in the sink? It’s a crapshoot most weeks and, given that Abby decided to call me out of the blue yesterday, I could’ve easily let the apartment look like a dumpster real fast.

“Your desk,” she says. “There was a lot of architecture type stuff. It looked really good.”

Oh, right. The drafting table. It’s not exactly a sore subject, but trying to tell someone that you tried at something and failed isn’t exactly a fun conversation to have over lunch.

“Thanks. I majored in architecture in college. I liked it, but it just wasn’t my thing,” I lie. It was my thing, but I let that thing go.

“Hey, I majored in art and ended up getting back into it. Maybe you can go back to architecture.”

I grimace.

No, I can’t. It’s too late.

“It’s just a hobby.” I say with a shrug.

“I’m sure design was at one point too,” she says. “Now look at you!”

Yes, look at me: I’m thirty-three and have the word ‘director’ in my title at a very successful marketing firm. I would be an idiot to upend my life right now and pursue something else.

Most people my age are getting married, having kids, or have already accomplished both by now and are looking forward to retirement. I’m not stumbling into a bigger life altering mess than the one I’m already in. A breakup and moving back to apartment life? I need to keep at least some of my stability intact. My career path is not changing.

“Let’s talk about something else, huh?” I suggest.

“Fine. Well, what else do friends talk about, Mr. Kaufman?” she asks.

My muscles tense at the formality of hearing Grace call me by my surname. It brings something in the forefront of my mind, and it sure isn’t friendship.

“Work. Because we’re boss and employee—not friends,” I emphasize, lifting an eyebrow.

She arches hers in return.

“Friends help friends home when they’re almost blackout drunk.”

“I didn’t black out.”

“Friends spend the night at each other’s houses to make sure they don’t die in their sleep.”

“I could have handled myself.”

“And friends go out to lunch together, have some tacos, and share intimate stories about their true passions. Like architecture.”

I want to argue. I want to tell her that my true passion isn’t architecture but that would be a lie. I want to tell her that this conversation is inappropriate—that our little adventure was unacceptable.

She is my employee—an employee with an amazing ass—but my employee nevertheless.

But then she looks out the window right as the sun shines in. The light illuminates her nose freckles and her bright blue eyes and … oh god, I’m lost.

It’s ridiculous.

I decide to bite on the hook. She would find a way to reel me in anyway.

“Tell me what you think friends talk about,” I say.

“They could talk about why they’re such an asshole to their junior designer.”

Fair.

“Who, Gary?” I joke. She throws a small piece of lettuce my way, dragging a laugh out of me.

“No—me,” she clarifies, joking but with a hint of a seriousness to her voice as well. “Why me, Cameron?”

“Because you’re just such a pain in my ass,” I say, letting a smirk pass across my face.

I can’t help it. It’s the way she’s simultaneously glaring at me and letting her tongue trace the inside of her lips that drives me wild and makes it impossible to think straight. Like she’s been presented with a challenge she’s trying to figure out. Does she even know she’s doing it?

Then I notice a small thing on her purse. A pin in the shape of a golden retriever. On its fur are the words “Life is Golden”.

“Oh, do you like dogs?” I ask.

“Yeah,” she says with a smile. It’s soft, as if she’s recalling a close sibling or a child. “My dog is a golden.”

Of course she would love dogs and have a golden retriever.

I clear my throat.

“You’ve got great ideas, Grace, I’ll give you that,” I say, and it kills me to admit that while sober. “But you’re adamant about them. You push and push without considering the team first.”

“Doesn’t the client want good ideas?” she asks.

“Yes, but they want good ideas from Treasuries—not just Grace Holmes.”

“Well, that’s harsh. I mean, you’re not exactly a team player either,” she says, almost as if it’s a ‘if you’re snitching, I’m snitching’ kind of thing.

“How so?” I ask.

The gumption of this woman continues to surprise me.

“You shoot down everything I suggest, you don’t accept criticism well, and you’ve never just walked around and seen what everyone is actually working on.”

“I’m not going to micromanage,” I say.

“Well, you could at least try to manage at all and stop being so … so huffy!”

Her comment hits me in the gut. I didn’t realize this was what I had become. I used to speak to everyone. I was the social guy—the guy that shared all my ideas and brainstormed with the team. Now all I do is sit in my office and review paperwork, pass along the team’s ideas, and veto any that don’t meet my personal standards.

“I’m sorry,” she says after we’re both quiet for a moment.

“Don’t be,” I say. “ I’m sorry.”

Well, aren’t we just a couple of cute kids.

She narrows her eyes at me. Is she still judging me, or is she thinking about something?

“Fine.” Her voice is sharp and to the point. “Fine then. I have an idea, mister boss man.”

“Shoot.”

“You’ll teach me to toe the line, but in exchange, you’ll pay attention to what I have to say.”

“That seems one-sided,” I say. “And who says I don’t pay attention already?”

“I do,” she laughs. “You purposefully ignore me.”

The last thing I do is ignore her. It’s impossible not to notice her. The curve of her hips, the fierce red of her hair, the way the tip of her freckled nose tips slightly up. Plus, there’s that incredibly annoying fact that her design ideas are good. She understands design principles and knows how to bend the rules to her will. I definitely don’t ignore her, but maybe I’m a bit dismissive.

Geez, what do I truly know about this whole management thing? I was promoted because I’d been here the longest. The crusty guy before me was retiring, and I was charismatic.

I’m not suited for this.

“How about instead of bending to your every whim,” I start, and she can’t help but give a satisfied smirk. “I’ll teach you to toe the line, and you teach me how to be a decent manager.”

If I’m going to succeed at this job—which is literally the only thing I have going for me right now—then maybe I need to employ the help of someone who isn’t afraid to tell me like it is.

“All of that, plus you consider my ideas,” she says. “And you need to be nice to me.”

“No,” I deadpan.

“Not even some of the time?”

“Absolutely not.”

“What was that whole thing about friendship?” she says, tapping her chin. “Didn’t you say you wanted that?”

She gives me this look that looks like she’s internally celebrating her victory. Dang, she’s manipulative. I can’t tell if I like it or hate it.

“Are you blackmailing me with my drunk words?” I ask.

“No, I’m simply using the leverage I have.”

“That’s exactly what blackmail is.”

“Then maybe that’s what I’m doing,” she says. “Be nice to me for two months.”

I dislike her and yet I also think I could love this woman on some level.

“Two weeks,” I say.

“Month and a half.”

“Three weeks.”

“Done.” Satisfied, she backs away.

I hadn’t realized how close we’d gotten while talking. I already miss the smell of her flowery shampoo.

She holds out her hand with a pinky straight out.

“What are you doing?” I ask, but I know full well what she’s doing.

It’s cute, sure, but ridiculous.

“It’s a pinky swear for our deal,” she says. “This is what you do.”

“Is that a rule?”

“It’s a rule,” she insists.

It’s not a business handshake like I’m used to with clients, but it is still a way we can agree. And that’s saying something.

With both our arms on the table, we wrap our pinkies around each other and seal the deal.

Three weeks of her teaching me how to manage. Three weeks of me teaching her how to be a team player. And three freaking weeks of us being nice to each other.

Let’s see how long this actually lasts.