Into You Series: The Complete Collection

18. Grace

CHAPTER 18

GRACE

Ramona: Good morning! Don’t drool too much at work.

Grace: I don’t need your sass this morning.

Ramona: I bet Mr. Cameron Kaufman would want some of your sass.

Ramona: Or that booty.

Ramona: … are you ignoring me?

I flip my phone down on my desk and get back to drafting up some designs. I made the mistake of telling her about mine and Cameron’s “arrangement.” She had the opposite reaction to my mom. Her first words were, “Oh my god, hot .”

“It’s just friendship.”

“With your boss. ”

She then tried to stalk him on social media to gather more info but was unable to find him anywhere.

“I’ve never seen someone be so invisible,” she’d told me, her panic practically tangible over the phone. “I mean, how can I not find him?”

She’s the queen of researching people on the internet. To have not found anything was a difficult feat. But it would be Cameron who eludes her; He eludes me as well.

I get so involved in work that I don’t notice it’s noon until my stomach lets out a loud growl. I look around, hoping nobody heard that, and thankfully the rest of the office is either wearing their headphones or out for lunch just like I should be. I take out my turkey sandwich and unzip the baggie.

Before I can take a bite, I hear someone say, “Grace, do you have an hour for subs?”

When I look up, Cameron’s smiling over at me, a smirk peeking through the scruff of his beard. Behind him towers Ian, hands in his pockets, a smile on his face.

Didn’t he want to maintain professionalism during the day?

But who would I be to deny a lunch out with my boss and the company lawyer?

I zip my sandwich back in its bag, put it away, and grab my purse.

We pile into Ian’s car. It’s a two-door Audi and Cameron has to lean the front seat forward to let me squish myself into the back. I have a small frame, but I’m tall so my legs wind up accordioned to my chest after Cameron crawls in the front. Thankfully, he scoots his chair forward to give me a bit of extra room, but it doesn’t go far. His legs are even longer than mine.

“Nice clown car,” I comment.

“I can still kick you out of it,” Ian says.

I look through the middle console and see a smile tugging at the edge of Cameron’s lips.

The car revs and we’re off. It doesn’t take long before I’m gripping my seatbelt in sheer terror. Ian’s driving is borderline manic. He switches lanes like a bat out of hell. I’m doing everything I can to grip the back of Cameron’s seat and hold on for dear life.

“Nice to see your driving hasn’t changed,” I say. The words are strained. He responds with a cackle.

The sub shop isn’t too far away, so by the time my motion sickness starts to really kick in, we swing into a parking spot. I squeeze myself out of the back seat once more.

“Oh god, that was horrible,” I say, gripping my head and walking toward the restaurant like a dizzy zombie.

All I get in return is a chuckle from Cameron. Ian opens the door and the bell above it dings as we enter.

I walk up and order whatever’s on the top of the menu and find one of the diner-style booths to slide into. By the time Cameron and Ian are done telling the cashier what they want, my vision has stopped being hazy.

“So, Grace,” Ian says as he slides into the seat across from me. “I’ll put it all out there: You’re eating at your desk and it’s sad. Ray would be disappointed.”

“Don’t insult her sad life,” Cameron says, drink in hand, as he sits down in the booth next to me. I breathe in his cologne.

He is not of this world.

“No, she needs to hear it, Cam,” Ian insists. He looks across the table at me with an exaggerated frown. “It is sad, and you’ve got to stop.”

“I like to think I’m being a star employee,” I say, puffing out my chest and flashing a side smile to Cameron, who rolls his eyes with a half-concealed grin.

“Oh, please ,” Cameron drawls.

“What? Maybe some of us want to be,” I tease, making Ian let out a bark of a laugh. “You sure aren’t.”

“There’s a reason I’m a manager,” Cameron argues, giving me a slight shove with his elbow. I can’t tell if he’s flirting or genuinely upset. I guess the shove would have been more deliberate if it were irritation.

“Yeah, because the last guy quit and I’m sure they had nobody else,” I quip. “Who were they going to pick? Gary?”

“Hey now,” Cameron says. “Gary is a very nice man.”

Ian rolls his eyes, shooting a thumb to Cameron. “Gary aside, this guy shouldn’t be a manager. He once tried to outdrink everyone on Beer Friday. Drunk as a skunk all night. He wanted to carry me out to my car on his shoulders.”

“You do remember Grace is my employee, right?” Cameron laughs.

“Aren’t you six-foot-four or something?” I ask Ian.

“Try six-foot-six, thanks,” Ian corrects. “He didn’t have a chance.”

“Good lord, why did you try to carry Ian the monster?” I ask, amazed but also not entirely surprised. I’ve seen Cameron drunk, and it is a spectacle.

“I wanted to be king of the world,” Cameron laughs. At least he can find humor in his prior drunk escapades. At least more humor than the last one I witnessed.

“You said you were Leonardo DaVinci,” Ian grins.

“Don’t you mean DiCaprio?” I correct with hesitation.

Cameron shakes his head, “Nope. Definitely DaVinci. I wanted to be an artist on a boat. Or a ninja turtle. I actually couldn’t decide.”

“You still can’t,” Ian says, leaning back with a smirk.

“Hey, if I could fight crimes in sewers, I would.”

“What’s holding you back?” I ask, letting my arm fall over the side of the booth as I turn to him.

“Turtle power,” he says with disappointment, slowly raising his fist and then lowering it and letting his head sag. “Damn turtle power.”

The conversation continues to wind down the path of hypotheticals.

“If you could be a TV character who would you be?”

“Gordon Ramsay,” I spout out, taking a large bite of my sandwich.

“That's not a character, Holmes,” Cameron protests through bites. “That’s a real person.”

“Says who?” I ask, swallowing my piece and putting down my sandwich.

“Says the definition of a human being in the dictionary. ‘Fictional character’ would not have a picture of the master chef next to it.”

“I disagree.”

“Fine.” Cameron stands up and walks back to the counter. An employee approaches and asks Cameron how he can help him.

Cameron asks loudly, “Is Gordon Ramsay a fictional character?”

The employee smiles and answers, but it’s too low and far away.

“Say it a bit louder for the audience to hear!” Cameron yells, pointing to our booth. Ian waves to the employee who laughs in response and cups her hands over her mouth.

“No, he’s a person!” she yells back.

Cameron turns and shakes her hand before coming back to the table with a winning look and a quick, “Yeah, you’re wrong.”

With our subs finished, we head back to the office. I make sure to keep my eyes closed the entire time while mumbling expletives under my breath as Ian revs the engine and slams the breaks with every chance he can get. Once we’re back, they retreat into Cameron’s office and I can hear their laughter continue while I trudge back to my corner desk, secretly wishing I was in there with them.

I look up at the clock on the wall. It’s well past quittin’ time, and yet here I sit. It’s a habit I’m starting to develop, but one that I’m comfortable with—especially since a couple hours past five o’clock always promises Cameron’s arrival.

It’s not like I stay just to be around him. I’m genuinely enjoying the work. But seeing that man waltz in with his Ray Ban sunglasses and a “I’m definitely the man your mother warned you about” vibe gives me shivers.

Not to mention that my mother actually did warn me about him.

He appears from around the corner and spots me.

“Staying late again?” he asks, his dimples deepening.

“Isn’t that the sign of a good employee?”

“I never said you weren’t a good employee,” he says. “I just said you’ve got an attitude—which clearly hasn’t improved.”

“Oddly enough, neither has your management,” I observe. “Funny how that works out.”

He brushes it off and instead lowers his voice. It would be a whisper if his tone weren’t so low and wonderfully sultry.

“Ready for more bad management mischief then?” he asks, looking across the office to ensure nobody else is there. The rest of the department left hours ago.

Yes, I absolutely want anything that involves mischief with Cameron.

He lets out a low whistle and in barrels a familiar golden retriever, bounding down the aisle and jumping on me. Memories of having to wrangle this hyper creature come back to me and I try my best to both pet him with one hand and steady him with the other so the happy drool pouring out of his mouth doesn’t start to dribble on to me.

“Hey, Buddy! Long time no see!” I scratch behind his ear as he twists his head to keep licking any part of my arm his tongue can find. “Are we even allowed to have dogs here?”

“No,” Cameron says, shrugging and making his way down the aisle to me. “But I trust you well enough.”

My chest beats like a bull behind closed gates. Cameron is so interesting. By day, he’s “working Cameron” with a sourpuss attitude and by night, he’s a dreamboat with a cute dog.

Cameron hops onto the desk across from me to take a seat, and I wonder if Gary is aware that his boss’s fine ass graces his desk almost every night. Cameron puts his hands beside him and leans back. The motion lifts his pants a bit above his ankle and exposes brightly colored toucans on his socks. I recall the corgi-patterned socks the first day I met him and smile.

“Do you always wear ridiculous socks?” I tease.

He looks down and grins. “Keeps me sane.”

I can feel my body molding into my seat by the sheer weight of his gaze against me. I would probably become the chair itself if I wasn’t nudged back into reality by Buddy’s wet nose.

“So, five o’clock friends only, huh?” I ask. I’m not sure what compels me to say it, but I’m suddenly not scared to be a broken record.

His eyebrows raise and he looks to the floor, considering his answer before glancing back up at me. “It’s just business.”

“So, what do you want from me?” I ask.

He exhales and moves to rest his elbows on his knees, getting closer.

“I guess I just want you,” he smiles devilishly. “As a five o’clock friend, of course.”

Excuse me while I pass out.

I know he means it in a purely platonic way. I know the tone in his voice, though low and slightly seductive, wasn’t intended to be taken how I want it to be. But boy if that sentence wasn’t enough to make me squeeze my legs a bit closer together.

“Then what should we talk about, friend?” I ask.

“Let’s have a real conversation,” he says. “Friend to friend.”

“Okay,” I say, putting my hand on my chin. “What’s your favorite color?”

“Ooh, getting real deep.” He looks me up and down. I’m not sure he even expected me to see it, but afterward he stares at my hair then says, “Red.”

Oh, you cheeky man.

“Favorite animal?” he asks back.

“Giraffe,” I say. “Hands down.”

“All right, very quick on the draw.”

“Morning person or night person?” I ask.

His answer is immediate. “Definitely morning.”

I await his next question, but he seems to be considering me. I shift under the weight of his stare until he asks, “Why didn’t you get into the art field earlier?”

My heart drops and an awkward, surprised laugh pops out. Why? Because I felt untalented. I felt dumb. I felt like success wasn’t for me.

“I didn’t think I was good enough,” I admit.

He nods, taking in my answer, and then smiles. “Wouldn’t know it by looking at you.”

My face gets warm, and I can’t help but bite my lower lip to stop from blushing even more.

“And what about you?” I ask. “Why not architecture?”

“Same deal,” he says with no elaboration. This feels very one-sided and I’m not above pressing further.

“It’s not really the ‘same deal’ because you’re still here not doing architecture,” I say.

“Yeah, well, it’s just for me, I guess. A side hobby. A passion. I think about buildings often, and the different ways things could be arranged. Better ways, really.” He scoffs as if offended at the idea of horribly designed buildings.

“You could do it.”

“Maybe,” he says, but there’s no conviction in his tone. “Yeah, maybe … So”—he takes in a deep breath and exhales—“what changed for you? Why’d you finally take the leap and apply here?”

“I figured it was about time I took hold of my life. I was just going through the motions with a guy who didn’t even like me, and it’s like I woke up and it hit me: I’m getting close to thirty and I haven’t accomplished a thing.”

He smiles. “Hey, no jokes about thirty.”

I return the smile, but then a feeling of unrest washes over me. I want more from Cameron. I want to know what makes him tick. And I want to see just how far I can push him.

“What happened with your ex?” I ask. If he wants a real conversation, I’m putting all the chips in. “Aside from wrinkly dude balls of course.”

Cameron lets out a laugh, then looks up in thought. Buddy rubs his nose against his hand, prompting him to pet his head. It’s like the dog knows this isn’t a fun conversation and assistance is needed.

“I didn’t want marriage,” he says. “Didn’t want kids. None of the future she imagined.”

My stomach clenches and I roll my eyes.

His head rocks back in offense.

“What was that look?” he asks.

“What is it with guys not wanting marriage?” I shake my head. “Is this some universal guy thing? Wanting to be free and single?”

“It’s not about being single or not.” He squints in thought. “Just … well, why would I want to eliminate a choice in my life?”

I want to be angry, but I’m trying not to. I want to lump him in with Joe and every other guy that claims marriage isn’t ‘for them.’ It’s infuriating.

“Who doesn’t want the companionship of marriage?” I ask. “Whatever happened to the promise that no matter how bad things get, you’ll always have that one constant in your life? Your rock?”

“Maybe I’m fine without a rock.”

“Everyone needs a rock.”

“Not me.”

“Well,” I say, “Maybe you’re just a total weirdo, mister ninja turtle.”

I expect Cameron to balk at me or tell me to leave, but he just chuckles. The chuckle turns into a full belly laugh so deep he doubles over and clutches his stomach.

I start laughing too.

He wipes his eye.

“I wish we could be friends before five o’clock, Holmes.”

I wish that, too.