Into You Series: The Complete Collection

20. Cameron

CHAPTER 20

CAMERON

I f it weren’t for the fact that I knew Grace and I would be hanging out after work, I don’t think I could have handled Monday. But fast forward two new client calls and a meeting to plan even more meetings, and I’m rolling back in the office at seven o’clock, Buddy in tow.

There are only two cars in the parking lot—mine and Grace’s yellow Volkswagen bug.

I round the corner into the designer bullpen and see the familiar light on Grace’s desk lamp. It creates a halo around her red hair, giving her an oddly angelic glow.

Nope, shake it out, Kaufman.

Buddy runs to her, taking Grace away from her work to realize we both walked in.

“About time,” she says.

“So demanding,” I respond.

She gives me a sly smile, reaching both hands up to the ceiling to stretch.

I look on the floor around her desk, trying to find her old dog in hiding. Though, honestly, I’m just trying to avoid looking at her chest while she arches her back.

“So where is the old boy?” I walk down the row of desks and crouch to find Hank resting in a large dog bed placed inconspicuously in the corner of her L-shaped desk where it can be hidden from the rest of the office. “Ah, very smart.”

“Yeah, I figured the hard concrete would hurt him,” she says, spinning in her chair to look at him and smile. “He’s got creaky old man bones, don’tcha, boy?”

“His bed looks comfier than mine at home!”

She shoots me a glare that carries no actual threat when paired with a badly concealed smirk.

“He is old and wise,” she responds, her chin raised in defiance. “If he needs a fancy bed, I’ll get him a fancy bed.”

“Pampered rotten,” I say, pointing a finger at him.

“Oh? And where does Buddy stay when he’s here?” she asks, crossing her arms.

“He likes the couch in my office.”

She laughs and echoes, “Pampered rotten.”

I glance at her desk, noticing her sketches. I lean forward to take a better look.

Her face flushes pink, hiding her freckles in the process.

“It’s just a mock-up,” she says. “But it’s definitely going to be a winner.”

“Have you consulted with the rest of the team?” I ask.

She grins. “Like I need to.”

“Have you learned nothing?” I balk, “Lesson one billion in being a star employee …”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m kidding,” she says. “But lesson two trillion in being a good manager …”

“Hush that mouth, I swear,” I say with a grin.

She curls her lips in and smiles.

I would do anything to cover that mouth of hers with mine and let nothing else come out. She knows which buttons to press, and I’m not sure she even knows she’s doing it.

I look down at her mock-up again.

“So, you’re going for the ’80s look?”

“That’s what they want,” she says matter-of-factly.

“No, that’s what they implied,” I reply. “We take their ideas and make it something new.”

“I beg to differ.”

We’re stuck in the same pattern as usual. My struggle for some form of management power, and her placing her foot in the metaphorical corporate door to stop me. We’re in a classic Western showdown of wits, and I’m not about ready to give up.

She focuses on the work in front of her, but then shifts to my feet hanging off the edge of the desk. After a second of eyeing them, she laughs. And it’s light, yet still hearty and meaningful. There’s no taunting behind it or even condescension.

“Are those Christmas trees?” she asks, pointing to my socks. “It’s not even December, Cameron.”

“I celebrate in the summer.”

“Are you planning on wooing someone with those socks of yours?” she jokes.

Now why would she say that?

I realize I’m taking way too long to answer since she caught me off guard, but I’m too distracted at the sight of her to gather my thoughts. The red hair, the freckles on the bridge of her nose, the little black top she’s wearing under her flannel that looks better than any black top Abby ever wore.

My erection isn’t going anywhere, and I’m both trying to conceal it and will myself not to imagine what we could be doing in this empty office.

“I’ve got ideas,” I say. “I’m sure women are bound to love the Christmas spirit in July.”

“Surely,” she agrees. “Although I bet it works best when you’re only wearing the socks.”

The words leave her mouth, and though it sounded like she said every word with absolute purpose, guilt spreads across my body like someone just cracked an egg on my head and let the yolk run down my neck.

I laugh a bit, trying to play it off as a joke.

“Now what would HR say if she heard this conversation?” I tease.

Grace lets out a single, forced laugh to punctuate the end of our flirting and the guilt continues to roll down onto my shoulders in waves.

What the absolute hell am I doing?

This is irresponsible, stupid, and risky for both of us. I’m being reckless because I haven’t gotten laid in months. That’s got to be the reason.

But I’m her boss.

This is not me. I cannot keep this going.

I change the subject back to the project as if our little detour didn’t even happen. I’m grateful that Grace allows that talk to just slip into the vault of things we may never discuss again. Just our little secret.

At least … I hope she’s the type of girl that can keep a secret.