Into You Series: The Complete Collection

40. Grace

CHAPTER 40

GRACE

“ S coundrel,” Ramona hisses when I meet her for coffee during lunch the following week. “The damn scoundrel.”

I caved and told her everything. I figure my best friend should know. Plus, her brother knows, so it would make it back to her eventually, and she’d be less than happy that he had a leg up on her.

“He’s not a scoundrel,” I say. “And where are you from? The 1950s?”

“Was killing a man legal at that time?” Ramona asks.

“No.”

“Darn.”

I shake my head and tip the decaf coffee toward my mouth. I’ve been trying not to overdo the amount of caffeine in the afternoons. I’ve been having trouble sleeping.

“Anyway,” I say, “we’re doing what we said we would do, I guess.”

“Pretending like nothing happened?”

“Yep.”

“How is he in meetings?” she asks. “Is it weird?”

I pause and rock my head side to side. “How do I word this … No, not really because we keep it professional, but also yes because we totally roleplayed screwing on the conference room table and now that’s all I think about?”

We’ve been having daily morning meetings with only myself, Cameron, and our new client, Mr. Watts. As Cameron said, this new guy requested me as a design lead, and I could not have been more thrilled. But the moment was soured when I had to shake Cameron’s hand in good faith to keep the promotion on the down-low. It wasn’t a pinky promise, but it still hit a bit too close to home.

We’re biding time before we announce my promotion and new creative lead title. Our team is full of nice people, but I haven’t proven myself nearly as much as maybe someone like Gary, who’s been at Treasuries Inc. for who knows how long. I once found a gummy worm under his chair that looked like it still had the smile design from the early ’00s. But Gary already wished me a quiet congratulations with a small bag of gummies and a smiley Post-it note. Somehow he just knew.

During our morning meetings, Cameron stays behind his desk, scribbling notes on the white board, and I’m on the couch brainstorming with the client. Between Mr. Watts and I, the meetings aren’t half bad. He’s a goofy guy in charge of a skateboarding company and much less formal than Mr. Feldman was. But the second Cameron and I must exchange words, it’s like all the air in the room is sucked up and bottled tight.

Every word is carefully crafted, our movements are tense and jilted, and our expressions are neutral with no room for misinterpretation. I don’t know if Mr. Watts has noticed the tension, but he hasn’t said anything yet.

I wonder that a lot nowadays. Whether people notice us or not, I mean.

We had a rocky relationship and, from the outside, I’m sure it’s giving people whiplash. First, we hate each other, then we’re sort of friends, then we get lunch, then we stay late together, and now? Nothing. Not a single thing. It makes my own head spin just thinking about it.

“It’s like I got a taste of something … real.” I glance at Ramona.

Her eyebrows are furrowed inward, and it’s a look of borderline pity. She reaches out for my hand, and I let her take it. I refuse to cry. I’ve spent a lot of time doing that lately. I watched all the best rom-coms: When Harry Met Sally, The Notebook, You’ve Got Mail … I even watched Love, Actually and it’s not even the holidays, which is pure blasphemy. “Sounds stupid, I know.”

Ramona shakes her head. “No, it doesn’t.”

I laugh but her expression doesn’t change.

“There’s a lot of relationships that felt, and still feel, real,” she says, “But then I go home, and I see Wes smiling back at me with his goofy grin and his dumb one-liners, and I know that he’s the guy. Not just a guy.”

I smile and she winks.

“Maybe Cameron is the guy,” she says. “But maybe he’s not. Maybe he’s just a guy that will drift into your past and disappear. And that’s okay. But that doesn’t mean what you guys had wasn’t real.”

I want to smile at Ramona and say ‘Thanks, that made me feel better’ but, my chest feels heavier and my nerves feel like a ticking time bomb. I’m going to be sick.

“No, he’s that guy, Ray.”

I grab my coffee for Wednesday’s regularly scheduled meeting and make my way to Cameron’s office with my tablet under my arm and my pen behind my ear.

The door is cracked when I arrive, so I shove it open with my shoulder to find nobody sitting in Mr. Watt’s usual spot on the couch. There’s only Cameron, hunched over his desk with his head in his hands, running them through his hair. It’s like they’re on mess-up double duty today.

“Cameron?” I ask.

It’s not often that Cameron wears a suit, but when he does, it fits him better than any suit could on another man—I’m convinced of it. It’s tailored, so the shoulder stitching lands right where it should. The shirt beneath his jacket is crisp and the tie is completed in a perfect double Windsor. It’s unlike him, while also accentuating everything that makes him wonderful.

“Grace,” he says as if he’s been expecting me—and not in a ‘we have a regularly scheduled meeting’ kind of way. He seems exasperated and nervous. “Please shut the door.”

“Why?” I ask, unmoving.

“Grace,” he says with an edge to his voice, almost like a warning.

I cross my arms.

“Where’s Watts?” I ask.

“Will you shut the door?”

“And why are you wearing a suit?”

Cameron huffs out air and grips the edge of his desk, knuckles whitening.

“Will you please close the door?” he asks again. He’s trying to be polite, but I can tell his patience is wearing thin.

“If you’re trying for this whole ‘I’m a brooding, hot boss in a suit’ vibe, then you’re failing,” I say.

He’s not, but maybe it will bring him down a peg.

He laughs and I turn around to do as I’m told, but only because I refuse to give him the satisfaction of having us joke around again. Plus, I don’t need him seeing just how much I’m drooling at the sight of him.

I shut the door behind me and then we’re alone. I used to have fantasies about being alone with Cameron in his office. He’d push me against the door; my hands would find their way under his shirt to run along his abs; I would hop on his desk just because he said so. It’s a dream that can never be, yet here we are, alone with the blinds closed and just the distance from the door to the desk between us.

“We need to talk,” he says.

“Where’s Watts?” I ask again, ignoring his request.

“I told him we had to cancel.”

“And why would you say that?”

“Because I need to talk to you ,” he says, standing and making his way around the desk. At the arch of one of my eyebrows, he raises his hands in innocence and leans back against the front to keep the unspoken requested space between us.

“Then talk to me and stop talking about talking to me.”

He laughs at this, looking down at the floor and messing up his hair again.

Stop being so sexy.

“All right then,” He inhales and exhales like he’s trying to find the words but there’s something stopping him. “I … want you.” He slaps his hands on his knees. “Yep. That’s … all I got. I want you. I miss you. God, I miss you so much, Grace.”

He says it like the words physically pain him.

My knees buckle, and I’m trying to keep on my feet. This is everything I want to hear and yet everything I can’t.

“What do you want from me?” I ask, sighing and tossing my tablet onto the couch. I walk closer to him. “Do you want me to lose my job? Is that what you want?”

“No,” he exhales. “No, just let me finish.”

“I don’t know what else you can say.”

“Holmes.” He reaches out and grabs my arm, and I jerk it away.

“Don’t call me that.”

On his desk, I see his phone start to buzz. I don’t mean to look but when I do, it’s the last thing I would want to see: The incoming call is from Abby.

I look at him and he glances from the phone, back to me, then double takes once more. His expression drops. I can’t process anything happening right now. Why is he getting a call from his ex?

He’s just like Joe.

“What game are you playing at, Cameron?” I demand, probably a bit louder than I should, but the heat is rising in my face and to my temples, giving me a shooting pain through my head. It’s too early for this. “You say you want me, but you’re talking to your ex?”

“Damn it, just listen.” His voice is demanding. My temper rises.

“I don’t want to listen,” I spit out, sounding like some petulant child but feeling none-the-worse about it.

“It’s not what it looks like.”

“I’ve heard that before.”

We both pause, staring at each other, our chests heaving. He walks closer to me, as slow as he can as if scared that any sudden movement will set me off. The tears threatening to fall from my eyes are pushed back with the bite of my lip as I let him approach. I should push him away. I pushed Joe when I saw the dating app on his phone. But when Cameron touches my shoulders and pulls me in for a hug, I close my eyes and let his warmth wash over me. My hands stay by my side, limp and unable to reciprocate. But his embrace is enough.

Then there’s a blam! And a tall man busts through the door. From the corner of my eye, I see it’s Ian, which wouldn’t normally be an issue, but my heart sinks when I notice a much shorter woman behind him.

Nia.

Her mouth is gaping open, eyes darting between the two of us. We’re stunned into holding the hug.

“Nia,” Ian is saying, “It’s too cold in this building and Cameron says so too. He?—”

I want to repeat the same sentiment Cameron just gave me. ‘It’s not what it looks like’ would seem to do the trick. But that would be a lie and we all know it.

Ian, still holding the door handle with his own expression of disbelief, shuts his eyes.

“Oh no.”

I can’t tell if Nia is livid or disappointed. Her expression is a horrible mix of pursed lips, wide eyes, and eyebrows pulled so tightly in the middle of her forehead that they may as well be touching.

I think the last time I saw a look like this was when my mom found me making out with my first boyfriend in ninth grade to the sounds of Boyz 2 Men’s “I’ll Make Love to You.” He was going through a weird phase and the album just so happened to land on the worst track it could at that moment.

Weirdly enough, this moment instills more terror in me than that memory does.

Nia nods as if she’s finished assessing this HR nightmare. Once it appears like her brain has processed the appropriate course of action, she speaks.

“Would you like to discuss this in here or in my office?”