"I can’t believe that—" I start, then shake my head.
Izzy scrolls through the attachments. "Jesus, look at this contract. The compensation is... Cami. That’s a shit-ton of money."
My stomach flips. I haven't even looked at the contract yet, too stunned by the email itself. "He can't be serious. He can't actually want me after that disaster of an interview."
"Apparently, he can and does." Izzy hands my phone back. "Maybe he was impressed by your, uh, hands-on approach."
"Not funny." But I'm starting to smile, the reality slowly sinking in. I got the job. The dream job. The career-making job. "Oh my god, I got the job."
"You got the job!" Izzy squeals, throwing her arms around me. "I knew it! I told you!"
"You told me to consider a career designing sex toys," I remind her, but I'm laughing now, giddy disbelief bubbling up through my chest.
"Details." She waves dismissively. "The point is, Alexander Kingsley recognized your talent despite your... unconventional presentation tactics."
I pull back, sudden anxiety cutting through my euphoria. "Oh god. I have to work with him. Closely. For a week. After I showed him dildos and grabbed his?—"
"Massive cock?" Izzy adds helpfully.
"How am I supposed to face him?" I groan, dropping my head into my hands. "He probably thinks I'm some kind of sex-crazed lunatic."
"Or he thinks you're a talented designer who had a really bad day." Izzy shrugs.
"And we’re leaving tomorrow? That's insane. Who gives someone less than twenty-four hours notice for an international trip?"
"Rich people," Izzy says matter-of-factly. "They live in a different reality where everyone else's schedules bend around theirs." She takes a sip of her wine. "But hey, at least he's sending a car. Very Pretty Woman. Minus the prostitution. Unless there's a clause in that contract I missed."
"Izzy!" I swat at her with a throw pillow, but I'm laughing again.
I open the attached contract, scanning the details. It's all there—the scope of work, the timeline, the compensation that makes my eyes widen. And at the bottom, Alexander Kingsley's signature, bold and decisive.
"I need to pack," I say suddenly. "What do I even bring to the Caribbean? What's the dress code? Do I need formal clothes? Beachwear? Will there be time for swimming? Do I have sunscreen that’s not expired? Do I need a new bikini? My favorite one has that weird stretched-out spot in the?—"
"Breathe," Izzy interrupts, grabbing my shoulders. "One thing at a time. First, sign the contract before he changes his mind."
"Right. Yes." I tap on the signature field, scrawling my name with my finger—not the most elegant solution, but it's late and I'm not about to hunt for a printer and scanner.
"Now," Izzy continues, switching into efficiency mode, "tropical business trip essentials. Professional clothes that work in heat—linen, light cotton. At least one nice outfit for fancy dinners. Swimsuit, because hello, Caribbean. Sunscreen, bug spray, medications..."
She continues listing items while I nod, only half-listening as I reread the email. Tomorrow. I'm flying to Antigua tomorrow with Alexander Kingsley.
"What if it's a mistake?" I interrupt Izzy's packing monologue. "What if he meant to send this to someone else?"
"Camille." Izzy gives me a look. "Your name is literally in the first line. He's not going to mix up 'Camille Montclair' with 'Jane Whatever.'"
"But—"
"No buts." She stands, pulling me up from the couch. "You got this job because you're talented, not because of a clericalerror. Now, let's get you packed for your Caribbean adventure with Mr. Sexy CEO."
I allow myself to be tugged toward my bedroom, a giddy, nervous energy replacing the dejection of the past two days. Whatever happens in Antigua—however awkward it might be to face Alexander Kingsley again—this is my chance. My opportunity to prove myself.
The next morning I’m yanking clothes from hangers and tossing them onto the growing pile on my bed.
"I'm so sorry for the short notice, but I need to reschedule," I say into my phone, which is pinched between my ear and shoulder. "I know we've had this appointment for three weeks. However, I had a family emergency come up." I pause, listening to the client's complaints while simultaneously holding up two different blouses for Izzy's assessment. She points to the blue one, and I nod, adding it to the 'yes' pile.
"I completely understand your frustration," I continue, trying to sound professionally apologetic while silently mouthing 'kill me now' to Izzy. "How about next Friday instead?"
The client finally agrees, and I hang up, immediately pulling up my calendar to see what other appointments I need to cancel or reschedule.
