by Melissa West
He opened his mouth to say more, then cocked his head, taking me in, and closed it back. “It was nice meeting you, Cameron. I wouldn’t be sorry if I ran into you again sometime.”
Neither would I, I thought, but then immediately pushed that to the back of my mind. I needed this lapse in judgment out of my apartment, so I could focus on readying myself for Monday morning.
“Thanks for…” I waved my hand at the bed, my face burning so bright it could light all of New York. “That.”
He bit his lip, fighting another smile. “Maybe you could give me your number, see if you’d like me better if we started at hello.” He studied me, and though a part of me was tempted, this wasn’t the kind of relationship I wanted. I liked a guy to earn the naked part. This guy had already passed go, won the game, so what would be the point of starting over? At my hesitation, he nodded. “All right, then, I’ll just head on. Hope to see you around, Cameron.” My body buzzed at the way he said my name, at the reminder of him whispering it against my neck last night. Dear God, it was going to take me days to recover from this. Weeks.
As soon as the door closed behind him, I slumped down on my bed and lay back, brief memories of deep laughter and coy smiles and warm kisses against my cheek. The night might have been reckless, but a part of it was also nice. If only we’d met on different terms, in a different place, a different time, I might have gone to coffee with him. But now I’d end up sitting across from him, picturing him while I wondered if he was picturing me, which would lead to more embarrassment. And I’d had my fix, thanks.
Oh well, it didn’t matter. I’d never see him again.
Chapter Three
When Grace called after lunch, suggesting we buy new outfits for our first day, I agreed less because I wanted new clothes and more because I wanted to do something, anything, to get my mind off UT Guy. Hours had passed since he slipped out of my apartment, and yet I still couldn’t get him out of my mind. The way his glasses contrasted so sharply with the perfect lines of his face, detracting from his looks yet somehow adding to them all at the same time. And how he didn’t seem to care in the least.
“How about this?”
I tiptoed out of my fitting room to find Lauren in front of the three-way mirror, wearing a classy black pencil skirt that hit at her calves and a white blouse tucked into it.
Grace stepped out of her fitting room, just as I was preparing to say nice but maybe not you to Lauren, and instead blurted, “You look like a restaurant hostess. No. No, no, no.”
Other ladies in the fitting room all peered over then, curious if she was right, and sadly, Grace was almost always right. Whether or not it was appropriate for her to state her rightness? Entirely different topic.
“What do you think, Cammie?” Lauren’s gaze hit mine, a hint of pleading in her eyes. “I’m a buyer. Well, junior buyer. I need to look the part.”
Releasing a breath, I walked over to her and scanned the outfit. Now that Grace had said the word “hostess” that was all I could see. “You look amazing in anything, including this. It’s just not really you. Let me think.” I cocked my head, searching for some trendy addition that would make the outfit work, but who was I kidding? Fashion wasn’t my thing.
“Um, a belt, maybe?” I asked, causing Grace to toss her hands and sigh loudly.
“Stay there. I’m going to save you both from yourselves.”
She disappeared out of the fitting room and Lauren turned to me. “So, are we going to talk about this morning?”
Lauren had a morning hair appointment, so she didn’t have a chance to grill me on UT Guy, though she knew he’d come back to our place. And while I wanted to talk to my friends about him, I didn’t know what to say. I wondered how I would have felt if I’d given him my number. Would I hope for a call right now? I would. And though I knew I’d made the right decision, I couldn’t help wishing I’d chosen the other path. Exchanged numbers, left the door open for more.
The morning was riddled with all the embarrassment of a classic morning after—messy hair, makeup-streaked face, and awkward conversation. The sun had a way of revealing all the things night hid so beautifully. Yet still…when he turned around and put on his glasses, for a moment I thought it could all work out. My brain did that little fantasy where it worked through the perfect scenario—maybe he was supersmart and had some cool, technical job. Maybe he never hooked up either and somehow we’d fallen into each other’s paths. But that was the romantic Cameron talking, the one who found herself watching her mother and stepdad laugh and wishing she could laugh with someone like that.
Sensible Cameron knew better.
“What’s there to talk about? I made a mistake.”
“He didn’t look like a mistake. He looked hot.”
“I know. It’s just I’ve never done this before, and I don’t want to be one of those girls, ya know?”
Lauren jerked back, her hands on her hips. “Hey. I’m one of those girls.”
“I don’t mean it like that. I just like structure. I like to know the person I’m in bed with. I like—”
“Commitment.”
The word hit me square in the chest, bringing me back to how close I’d been to having it all. Serious boyfriend, degree from NYU, and career well on its way, and then he destroyed me with one blow. And what made it all that much worse, Blaine wasn’t a jerk about it. He didn’t cheat on me or dump me via text. He just didn’t love me.
And somehow that pill was harder to swallow than any of the other scenarios. If he’d cheated, I could lean on my hate, rally with my girls, and have an excuse to hook up with random guys. But he didn’t. He kissed my cheek and said goodbye, leaving me with all those feelings of inadequacy. I never realized how badly I wanted a life partner until I no longer had one.
“It doesn’t have to be one or the other, Cammie.” Lauren reached for my hand. “You’re a good person. Having fun doesn’t make you less of a good person.”
“You’re right. Besides, you hook up all the time and you’re still a good person.”
“Ha. Ha. But seriously, was it fun? What was his name, anyway?”
I smiled up at her, knowing what she would say to my next statement even before I said the words. “I have no idea.”
Lauren laughed, clapping her hands together. This was just the kind of thing Lauren wanted for me and had begged of me for years now. Go wild, forget everything else. “Sorry,” she said, after far too much joy at my misery.
“No, you’re not.”
“Okay, I’m not. But you needed this. Whether you can see it or not, you needed it.”
“No, what you need is this.” Grace pushed two dresses into my arms. “Trust me. Don’t look at the tags or you’ll never try them on.”
I started immediately for one of the tags, and Grace swatted my hand. “Try them on.”
“Fine.”
I gave Lauren a fleeting look before stepping back into my fitting room and slipping on the first dress. It was a black button-down sweaterdress. Long-sleeve, knee-length, and sure enough, forever-right Grace was right. The dress was perfect. Absolutely perfect.
Straightening my back, I rose on my toes, appreciating the look once in heels. It was professional, yet trendy. Picturing myself walking into Sanderson-Lowe in this dress, I felt a sense of confidence and pride. But then my gaze dropped to the tag, swaying in the mirror, and I craned my neck to read the price, only to storm out of the fitting room. Grace and Lauren were in front of the mirror with new outfits on.
“Twelve hundred dollars. Are you crazy? I mean, what is it made with, gold stitching or something?”
Grace shook her head. “What? It’s a Derek Lam. And it’s not that much.” She picked at one of her manicured nails. “But maybe don’t try on the other dress.”
“Why? How much is it—two thousand?”
Grace smiled sweetly. “Um, more like four.” She swept in behind me before I could faint over four thousand dollars. For a dress. And placed me squarely in fr
ont of the mirror. “But look at you. It’s so, so perfect, Cammie. Can’t you just splurge? Just once? Your inheritance from your dad is plenty to—”
“No. I don’t touch that money. You know that.”
Guilt crossed her face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring it up. Really, I’m sorry. But I still think you deserve to have something amazing.”
The problem was, she didn’t get it. Lauren understood. Like me, she paid for everything, but Grace had never wanted for anything in her life. And I knew deep down she didn’t understand why I refused to touch my dad’s money. Receiving money for someone dying felt a little like karma trying to buy you off. Here’s some cash for your trouble. I hated having it, hated receiving statements in the mail, hated the idea that something was left to me after he died, when all I wanted was to have him back.
Pushing aside the pain that always came at the thought of my dad, I lifted my gaze to the mirror to find Grace watching me, hesitant. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do. But I can’t spend twelve hundred on a dress. I just can’t. Can we find something in the two hundred range?”
Lauren nodded to Grace, who looked like I’d just asked her to find me a dress at Target—which, honestly, would be a better option for me—but then she smoothed out her horror and left the fitting room, mumbling to herself as she went.
“She’s just trying to help,” Lauren said once she was gone. “And she’s never had to care about money. She doesn’t do it on purpose.”
“I know.” I glanced in the mirror again. “And it’s a fantastic dress. Just twelve hundred dollars? That’s not me.”
She ran her hands down her own dress, avoiding looking at me. “Kind of like last night.”
“You mean UT Guy.”
“UT Guy?”
“He was wearing a UT hat.”
“Ah. Do you know anything about him? Where he works? Last name? Anything?”
I pulled my hair back into a ponytail. “Yeah, because I didn’t catch his first name, but somehow the last name stuck?”
“Good point.”
“I have no idea. For all I know, he doesn’t have a job, just floats from bar to bar, tempting girls with his perfect hair and glasses.”
She grinned. “Glasses?”
“Don’t ask.” I studied the dress in the mirror, my nerves getting the better of me. “I can’t believe we start our jobs tomorrow.”
“I know. Ready or not, world, here we come!”
Chapter Four
Standing on the subway platform on a Monday morning in the city was a little like preparing for the start of a race. The yellow line stretched out, telling us to stand behind it, to be courteous and wait our turns, but as soon as the silver train appeared, we all crowded the line, eager to make it on before the car filled up and we had no choice but to miss the train and risk being late. Which wasn’t an option. Not today.
The train appeared and the doors opened, but I was a pro now and made my way inside, standing close to a pole and out of the way, then began running through the people at work I’d see today, seeing faces and trying (and often failing) to remember their names.
I knew from the moment I chose NYU that I wanted to work in advertising, and there was no advertising firm better than Sanderson-Lowe. A part of me still couldn’t believe they’d hired me.
I pushed off the subway, eager to get to the office. I’d been this way my entire life. Most saw something new as stressful, dreading and delaying it as long as possible. Lauren had spent all morning in that very mood—talking too fast and switching clothes and generally acting like a crazy version of herself.
But for me, new gave way to possibility. Plus, I was too much of a planner to ever go in unprepared, which was why I’d spent most of the night on my laptop, researching for my morning meeting. My boss, Gayle Litchen, had landed a new client. A power drink company named Blast Water, and the meeting would be to discuss campaign ideas. So far I had five that could work, but I was torn between jumping in or getting acclimated first. Initial appearances were everything in business, and I didn’t want to come across as too strong or too meek. There had to be a balance.
I reached Sanderson-Lowe’s building, excitement growing in my chest. So what if I was just an account manager. Soon, I would prove my worth and move up the ranks.
Slipping through the revolving door, my eyes scanned the main level—the ivory marble floors and ornate area rugs and mahogany wooden benches. It was a beautiful building. The Starbucks, just inside and to the left, already had an impressive line, and I made a note to arrive early on paydays so I could grab my favorite vanilla latte. I couldn’t afford Starbucks every day, but once every two weeks seemed fair enough.
My phone read eight fifteen as I stepped into the elevator. I wanted to be seated at the meeting by eight twenty-five, which just gave me enough time to grab coffee upstairs, put down my things at my cube, and make it to the meeting, where I decided to listen with my mouth shut, smiling and nodding along appropriately. Then after a few days of this, I’d strike. They’d be wowed and my career would soar from there. All right, maybe a stretch, but a girl could hope.
The thought made me smile, but then the doors to the elevator closed, and my chest tightened as I began to sing silently. Mary had a little lamb, little lamb, little lamb… I continued my silent song, fighting the urge to close my eyes, to suck in a sharp breath, to panic. The space closed in all around me, the elevator packed with people. If this elevator got stuck, I’d—
No.
Dipping my head, I resumed my song, telling myself to breathe easily, to sing and forget. I sang whatever nursery rhyme first came to mind the moment I stepped foot into an elevator, all so I could handle the doors closing, the delay before it moved, the panic that rose in my chest when I realized I was on a slow elevator instead of the fast ones I preferred.
I knew the very moment I’d become so claustrophobic. It was just after my dad died, and I kept feeling like the walls were closing in all around me. I couldn’t breathe in my room. Couldn’t breathe in the bathroom. The outdoors became my refuge, the open air around me, nothing closing in. Eventually, it became easier to handle, and now the only issues I had were elevators and airplanes, and I had coping mechanisms with both. Nursery rhymes on elevators and heavy antianxiety pills when I flew. It wasn’t a perfect system, but it worked for me.
The elevator rose to the second floor, third, fourth, and then finally I drew a breath and released it slowly as the doors slid open to the fifth floor. I stepped off the elevator like it was no big deal, even though my heart raced and my palms were clammy. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. Everything was fine.
I relaxed more with each step and peered around, remembering the first time I visited the Sanderson-Lowe floor. The reception area of Sanderson-Lowe was modern in every way—bright yellow triangular chairs, abstract paintings. When I toured the office on my second interview, they pointed out the lounge room—complete with Ping-Pong table and widescreen TV—the nap room, the soundproof thinking room. I had interviewed with five different agencies, but none of them seemed to care as much about quality of life as Sanderson-Lowe. Or maybe it was just that they expected us to live at the office.
The receptionist, a redhead around my age, smiled wide when she saw me. She had long, slender limbs, high cheekbones, shiny, perfectly styled hair. She reminded me of Grace in that put-together way only money could buy.
“Hi, I’m Cameron Lawson. A new account manager.” I tried not to grin as I said the title, but failed miserably. I was employed, a real adult. I could hardly contain myself. Dad would be so proud.
“Welcome to Sanderson-Lowe,” she said, her voice kind. “I’m Alexa. You can meet the others in conference room 1A, just down the hall there.” She pointed to her left, and I paused, staring down the long hallway, my nerves kicking up. Should I speak in the meeting or keep quiet? Should I bring in a notepad and pen or just my phone? Did people still use notepads and pens when there were things like smartphon
es and iPads?
Alexa smiled like she could read my thoughts. “Why don’t you grab coffee first? It helps to go in carrying something. The lounge is through there.” She motioned to her right this time, and I nodded appreciatively.
“Thanks, it’s just a little…intimidating.”
“Oh, I know. I’ve been here for five months and I still get nervous every time Aidan Truitt walks by.”
Aidan Truitt—aka the chief creative director. He was Gayle’s boss, so I’d assumed I’d have little interaction with him. Now I felt my nervousness spiking again. I’d researched Sanderson-Lowe and then Gayle before my interview, knowing she would be my boss should they offer me the job. It never occurred to me to research others in the company, but maybe I should have prepared better. Checked out the top-tier executives and everyone in her division, only I didn’t really know my division yet and—
“Are you okay?” Alexa asked. I didn’t realize that I was staring at the lounge door, likely with a look of horror on my face. “Don’t worry, I’ll go in with you.” She stepped around her desk and pushed through the door, holding it open for me to slip inside.
There was no one else in there, so I took the opportunity to question Alexa on my new boss—well, my boss’s boss. “Yeah, I didn’t get to meet him when I interviewed. Is he scary?”
Immediately she spun around, a to-go coffee cup with Sanderson-Lowe’s logo printed on it in hand. “You haven’t met Aidan?”
I shook my head as I took the cup and began making my coffee. “No. Though Gayle made him sound intense.”
“Yeah, intensely hot.”
I did a double take. “He’s what?” Did she say hot? I pictured an older man, graying, with a slight hunch. Then again, maybe Alexa was into sixty-year-olds with back problems.
She peered over at the closed door and then leaned in closer. “You have no idea. Rumor has it he’s the reason for the no-fraternizing policy.”
“No fraternizing…you mean he’s…?”
