Into You Series: The Complete Collection

22. Cameron

CHAPTER 22

CAMERON

I tend to keep my office blinds open so I can peer out into the designer’s bullpen. It’s definitely not to look at Grace when, as usual, she’s the only designer left.

She sits in her secluded corner with just the glow of her lamp and a small sliver of Hank’s tail poking out from under her desk. I don’t know when she left to get him and bring him back. I’ve been too focused on work.

It’s the first night we haven’t hung out, which is probably for the best. I’m loaded down with papers, and I can tell she’s feeling the pressure, too. Her nose is practically touching the screen of her tablet as she swoops the pen across it.

I take a look at my watch.

8:00 p.m.

Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to take a small break.

Buddy and I stroll out of my office (okay, Buddy bolts over to Hank) and down the aisle of desks toward Grace. She looks up, her eyebrows contracted in the middle, exhaustion showing on her face.

“You’re going to ruin your vision if you get any closer to that screen,” I say.

“I like to think I’m paying attention to detail,” she says.

Ever the rebel.

“Socks?” she asks, glancing down at my feet.

I prop myself against Gary’s desk and lift my pant legs up a bit to reveal my sock of choice: White anchors on plain navy blue.

“Boring,” she yawns, exaggerating the movement by placing her hand over her mouth and stretching.

“You’re getting very judgy on my sock choice,” I say.

She smirks. “I expect only perfection from the boss.”

“I could say the same from the designer who thinks she’s the best. Let me see what you’ve got so far.”

I make my way around her desk and lean over the back of her chair, breathing in the sweet aroma of her perfume. It smells like flowers and fresh laundry, and I can’t help but breathe a little deeper.

She straightens her posture as I lean in to see her sketches. This is the closest we’ve ever been.

“Could use some work,” I joke. She juts her elbow back and hits me in the side. When I chuckle, she leans back in her chair and the nape of her neck rubs up against my hand. But she doesn’t shy away from it. She stays right where she is.

I’m doing everything in my power not to move an inch. I cherish the feel of her smooth skin, and I’m resisting every urge to stroke her neckline.

“Let’s practice some Management 101,” she says. I can’t see her expression, but I feel like she’s grinning. “Give me some actual pointers instead of insulting me.”

“You first.”

She huffs out a breath, then pinches both fingers in to zoom to a different detail of the logo on her tablet.

I move my free hand that isn’t frozen to her neck and place it on the desk beside her, my chest hovering just over her shoulder. We’re separated by merely inches; my blood pressure is rising. Well, maybe falling … down to where I don’t want her to notice.

“This looks messy,” she says with irritation. “Pointers?”

I have no clue what she’s trying to show me because I don’t care about a single thing except my fingertips against her skin and feeling every single motion she makes.

“You could make it … lighter?” I suggest.

My finger ghosts along the nape of her neck.

She stiffens, clicking through the layers of the documents.

I’ve never noticed her hands. They’re small, dainty, and I’d kill to see them wrapped around something other than her tablet pen.

“More saturated, maybe?” she asks.

Her words are shaky, but then her hand drifts over to where mine rests on the desk. Her pinky grazes mine.

What. In the world. Am I doing?

I straighten myself up, move a step back and say, “Yeah, go with that. Sounds good.”

She swivels around in her chair with a look of both confusion and tension in her eyes. Her chest moves up and down, as if she’s controlling every breath. I realize I’m doing the same.

“That’s it?” she asks.

I don’t know if she’s referring to my advice or that I didn’t touch her more.

“Yeah, looks good,” I respond. I exhale, crack my knuckles, and walk away. “I have a lot to do, Holmes. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I don’t even turn around to wave goodbye because I know if I try to meet her eye, I’d feel some type of regret about the smartest decision I’ve probably ever made.

Buddy follows me back in my office and when I close the door, I have to fight every urge in my body to not go home and give myself some form of release. The smell of her still lingers on my clothes.

I look out the blinds, but she’s packing her stuff up. She nods to Hank, who follows her out.

I’m left sitting in my chair, staring into blank space, and wondering how awkward tomorrow will be.