"And hey," she adds, her voice taking on that mischievous tone I know so well, "if he's as hot in person as he is on the computer screen, try not to drool on his expensive shoes."
"There will be absolutely no drooling," I say firmly, and tell her I’ll text her later.
I sit in silence for a moment, just breathing. In, out. In, out. Then I check my reflection in the rearview mirror one last time. My eyes are wide with fear, but there's something else there too. A spark of determination, maybe. Or possibly just desperation.
Either way, it'll have to do.
I kill the engine, grab my portfolio and laptop bag, and step out into the dim light of the parking garage. My heels click against the concrete as I walk toward the elevator, each step taking me closer to the man who might just change my life—if I can convince him I'm worth the chance.
The receptionist deposits me in the conference room, which is all sleek lines and polished surfaces. I arrange my portfolio on the glass table for the third time, fidgeting with corners that are already perfectly aligned.
My reflection stares back at me from the black screen of the presentation monitor—cheeks flushed, eyes wide, a strand of hair already escaping my carefully crafted bun. I tuck it behind my ear just as the door swings open, and Alexander Kingsley walks in.
And, damn, the photos didn't do him justice. Not even close.
He's tall—impossibly tall—his presence filling the room in a way that makes the air feel suddenly thinner. Dark hair with just a touch of silver at the temples frames a face that's all sharp angles and perfect proportions. But it's his eyes that stop my breath in my lungs—olive green and penetrating, like he's already cataloging my every flaw.
My pulse skips and then pounds. Damn it. The man looks like sin wrapped in a very expensive Italian suit.
I stand too quickly, my thigh banging against the edge of the table. "Mr. Kingsley, hello. I'm?—"
"Camille Montclair," he finishes, his voice a low baritone. "Edward's daughter."
Not "the interior designer I'm interviewing" or "the candidate." Edward’s daughter. I swallow hard, forcing a smile that makes my entire face feel tight.
"Yes, that's right." I extend my hand, praying it isn't as clammy as it feels.
His grip is firm, his hand engulfing mine completely. He's not smiling—not even close—but there's a brief nod of acknowledgment before he releases my hand and gestures toward the table.
“Let’s see what you’ve brought me, Ms. Montclair,” he says, his tone smooth but with an edge that makes me wonder if he’s talking about my portfolio… or me.
What am I thinking? Or course he’s not talking about me.
There's no warmth in his tone, just cool efficiency. He sits at the head of the table, one long finger tapping against the polished surface. The movement is hypnotic, drawing my eye to hands that look capable of?—
I blink hard. Focus, Camille.
"Of course." I fumble with my laptop bag, nearly dropping it before managing to pull out my computer. The silence is oppressive as I connect to the room's display system, punctuated only by the soft tap-tap-tap of his finger against the glass. Why the hell didn’t I get all this set up before he came in?
As I stretch across the table to reach the cable, his scent hits me—dark and expensive, with an undertone that’s purely male. My fingers tremble, and I pray he doesn’t notice.
I can feel his gaze on me like a physical weight, assessing every movement. My hands tremble even more as I navigate to my downloads folder, looking for the presentation file I worked on until 3 a.m.
"I've put together some preliminary concepts based on the brief your assistant sent," I say, clicking on what I think ismy presentation file. "I wanted to focus on bringing organic elements into the?—"
The screen flickers to life behind me, and his tap-tap-tapping stops abruptly. Something's wrong. I turn slowly, dread pooling in my stomach.
And there they are. Not my elegant mood boards and carefully rendered sketches, but a webpage splashed with vibrant images of dildos, vibrators, and other sex toys in every imaginable color and size. A banner across the top cheerfully announces "20% OFF ALL DILDOS!"
Time stops. My heart drops. Possibly the earth stops spinning.
"I—" The word comes out as a strangled squeak. "That's not?—"
A noise comes from Alex's direction—something between a cough and a choke. One corner of his mouth twitches, a flicker of something wicked before his expression smooths into perfect neutrality.
“That’s an… unusual design choice, Ms. Montclair.”
I slap at my keyboard, frantically trying to close the window, but somehow manage to click on a product instead, enlarging an especially anatomically detailed purple monstrosity across the entire screen.
