"This isn't my presentation!" I blurt, my voice pitched embarrassingly high. "It's—my friend is getting married! Izzy—she's having a bachelorette party, and I'm in charge of... of party supplies. For the party. The bachelorette party. Which is why I was looking at... those. But not for me! For her! For Izzy!"
Every word makes it worse. I'm digging a hole straight to the center of the earth, and I can't seem to stop.
Fantastic. My dream job interview, and I’ve just given Alexander Kingsley a front-row seat to my browser history of battery-operated boyfriends.
"Take your time, Ms. Montclair," Alex says, his voice smooth and controlled.
I finally manage to close the window and find my actual presentation, my cheeks burning so hot I'm surprised my makeup isn't melting off. By some miracle, my hands stop shaking enough to navigate through my carefully prepared slides.
I launch into my pitch, the words coming out in a rush at first, then gradually steadying as I focus on the work rather than the catastrophic start. Design is my safe place, the one area where I actually know what I'm talking about, and despite the hellish beginning of this meeting, I find my rhythm.
Alex remains largely silent throughout, occasionally asking pointed questions that suggest he's actually paying attention rather than mentally composing a story about the disaster interview he's enduring. His questions are sharp, probing at potential weaknesses in my concepts, but I have answers for all of them.
I'm just starting to think I might have salvaged something from this wreckage when he interrupts my explanation of the resort's color palette.
"If I select you for this project, you'll need to accompany me to the Caribbean site. We leave tomorrow."
I've just taken a sip of coffee from the cup that's been sitting untouched beside me, and his words cause me to inhale sharply mid-swallow. Coffee sprays from my mouth in a fine mist, splattering across the table and—to my absolute horror—across the pristine white of his obviously custom-tailored shirt.
"Tomorrow?" I choke out, frantically dabbing at the coffee on his shirt with a tissue from my purse. "As in... the day after today?"
He looks down at the brown stains on his shirt with the mild interest of someone observing an unusual insect. "Is that goingto be a problem?" His voice is perfectly even, betraying neither irritation nor amusement.
My hand continues to skim over hard muscle beneath the shirt fabric, and for a heartbeat, neither of us moves. His chest rises, slow and deliberate, and when my gaze flicks up, his eyes are on me.
"No! I mean—" I stop myself, my hand frozen mid-dab, suddenly aware that I'm essentially pawing at his chest. I snatch my hand back. "Sorry. I'm so sorry about your shirt. And no, tomorrow isn't a problem. I can... I can make that work."
"Good." He stands, signaling the end of our meeting, and I scramble to gather my things, shoving my laptop into its bag without even shutting it down properly.
"Thank you for your time, Mr. Kingsley," I say, extending my hand again in a desperate attempt at professionalism. "I appreciate the opportunity to?—"
My heel catches on the strap of my bag, which has somehow wrapped itself around my ankle. I pitch forward with a startled yelp, directly into his solid frame. My hands shoot out instinctively to catch myself—one landing square on his chest, the other...
The other lands directly on his crotch.
There's a moment of perfect, horrified silence.
"I am so sorry," I whisper, snatching my hands back as if burned.
“Careful, Camille,” he murmurs. “Some lines, once crossed, can’t be uncrossed.”
His stare pins me in place, hot and cold all at once, like he’s daring me to look away. I don’t. I can’t.
"My assistant will be in touch," he finally says.
I back away, clutching my bag to my chest like a shield, mumbling another apology as I turn and flee toward the door. I yank it open and nearly barrel straight into a tall, immaculatelydressed woman with a sleek blonde bob and perfectly applied makeup.
Fiona Astor—my professional nemesis and the last person on earth I want to see right now—arches a perfectly sculpted eyebrow at my flustered state, her gaze sliding past me to Alex, then back to me with calculating interest.
"Camille," she says, her voice silky with false warmth. "How... unexpected to see you here."
I open my mouth, but no words come out. I manage a strangled noise that might be a greeting, then sidestep her and hurry down the hallway, the weight of twin stares burning into my back.
Chapter 2
Camille
I'm sprawled across my couch, one arm flung over my eyes, the other dangling to the floor where my fingers absently comb through the fraying edge of my ancient area rug. Two days since The Interview From Hell, and I still can't think about it without my mind imploding. I've replayed each mortifying moment so many times that the memories have developed their own memories.
