"Of course I do." She scrolls through Netflix. "Now, let's watch hot people make terrible romantic decisions to make ourselves feel better about our own lives."
"Bachelor night?" I ask, already knowing the answer.
"Bachelor night," she confirms. "Nothing like watching desperate women fight over one mediocre man to put your problems in perspective."
I sigh and toss my phone aside, grabbing a handful of popcorn.
"Fuck Alexander Kingsley," Izzy says suddenly, raising her glass.
"Fuck Alexander Kingsley," I echo, clinking my glass against hers, ignoring the treacherous part of my brain that immediately conjures an image of exactly that scenario—his tall frame, those piercing eyes, those hands that looked so capable of?—
I drain my wine in one long gulp.
"Whoa, easy there." Izzy raises an eyebrow. "I meant it metaphorically, not as an actual suggestion."
"Shut up and start the show," I mutter, my cheeks warming.
She does, and as the familiar opening music starts, I try to lose myself in the manufactured drama on screen. But my mind keeps circling back to that conference room, to the weight of those green eyes on me, to the opportunity I squandered in spectacular fashion.
Tomorrow, I tell myself. Tomorrow I'll start fresh. Look for new opportunities. Move on.
But tonight, I'm allowing myself this: wine, junk food, reality TV, and the luxury of complete and utter self-pity.
"I think I'm actually developing feelings for this guy," Izzy announces thirty minutes later, gesturing at the screen.
I grunt noncommittally, only half-watching as I scroll through my Instagram feed with my thumb, double-tapping photos of other designers' work while trying not to spiral into professional jealousy.
My phone buzzes with a new email notification, and I almost ignore it—probably just another promotional message or a newsletter I keep forgetting to unsubscribe from—but the sender's name makes my thumb freeze mid-scroll: Alexander Kingsley.
Not his assistant. Not HR. Alexander Kingsley himself.
"Holy shit," I whisper, bolting upright and sloshing wine onto my sweatpants.
"What?" Izzy asks, eyes still glued to the screen where twenty-five identically-styled women are introducing themselves to a man with suspiciously perfect teeth.
I can't answer. Can't even breathe properly as I tap on the notification with a shaking finger. The email loads, and I blink hard, convinced I'm hallucinating after two days of self-pity.
Ms. Montclair,
After reviewing all candidates, I've decided to offer you the design contract for the Antigua resort property.Your portfolio demonstrates a vision that aligns with the Kingsley brand, and your concepts show promise.
I had planned to inform you earlier, but other projects required my attention longer than anticipated. I depart for Antigua tomorrow at 2 PM. If you wish to accept this position, you will join me on this flight. We'll spend approximately one week on-site for initial assessments before returning to finalize the designs.
My assistant has attached the contract, NDA, and travel details. The compensation is non-negotiable but reflects the project's scope and prestige. Sign and return all documents by 9 am tomorrow if you wish to proceed.
A car will pick you up at 12 pm sharp.
Alexander Kingsley
CEO, Kingsley International
I read it twice. Three times. Run my finger over the screen as if touching the words might confirm they're real.
"Cami? What’s going on?" Izzy waves her hand in front of my face.
"I got it," I whisper, my voice barely audible even to my own ears. "I got the job."
Izzy's eyes widen. "What? Let me see!" She lunges across the couch, snatching the phone from my still-frozen hands. Her eyes scan the screen, growing larger with each line. "Holy shit! Holy. Shit." She looks up at me, jaw hanging open. "You're going to Antigua. Tomorrow. With Mr. Hot Dick Billionaire."
