"That's the third person who's acted like I'm personally ruining their life by rescheduling," I grumble, scrolling through my week. "Mrs. Bellamy actually gasped when I told her I had to postpone our tile selection meeting. Like I'd killed her dog or something."
"To be fair, you are abandoning them for a Caribbean vacation with a hot asshole." Izzy sorts through my underwear drawer with alarming enthusiasm. "Speaking of which, you need better underwear. Everything in here screams 'I haven't had sex in eighteen months.'"
"You know it's not a vacation—it's work," I correct her, ignoring the underwear comment. "And don't call him hot. It's already going to be awkward enough without me thinking about—that."
"About his face? His bod? Or just his general... hotness?" Izzy grins wickedly. "Or about the fact that your hand has beendown there?"
I throw a balled-up pair of socks at her head. "You're not helping."
"I'm absolutely helping. Someone has to make sure you don't show up in Antigua with a suitcase full of granny panties."
I return to my phone, firing off emails to other clients and my part-time assistant, explaining my sudden absence. With each message, a mix of guilt and irritation bubbles up. "Who does this, though?" I ask, tossing my phone aside to start folding clothes. "Who offers someone a job and then expects them to be on-site the next day?"
"We've established this," Izzy says patiently. "Rich people. Especially rich people who are used to everyone saying 'how high?' when they say 'jump.'"
"It's unprofessional," I mutter. But the truth is, I'd have rearranged heaven and earth for this opportunity. A little schedule chaos is a small price to pay.
"Less complaining, more packing," Izzy commands, pulling a suitcase from the top of my closet. "You've got less than four hours before Mr. Tall, Dark, and Loaded sends his car."
The mention of the timeline sends me into another spiral of activity. I dump the contents of my toiletry bag onto the bathroom counter, sorting through half-empty bottles and expired products.
"Do I need bug spray? Will there be bugs?" I grab some insect repellent just in case, tossing it into the new pile. "And whatabout work stuff? Should I bring my full-sized portfolio or just my iPad? Should I bring fabric swatches? My color decks?"
"Breathe," Izzy instructs, appearing in the bathroom doorway. "One thing at a time.”
I nod, grateful for her calm rationality. "You're right. You're right." I look at my reflection in the mirror—eyes wide with a mix of panic and excitement, hair escaping its ponytail in frizzy tendrils. "Oh god, I look like I've been electrocuted. I need to deep condition. And do a face mask. And figure out how to look professional in ninety-degree heat without sweating through everything I own."
"You'll be fine," Izzy assures me, steering me back to the bedroom. "Caribbean resorts have air conditioning. And Alexander Kingsley knows that you probably sweat."
The mention of his name brings a fresh wave of anxiety. "What if this is all an elaborate prank? What if he just wants me there so he can humiliate me in person?”
Izzy snorts. "That would be the most expensive, elaborate rejection in history." She holds up a sundress against me, evaluating. "Besides, men like that don't play games. They're too self-important."
I take a deep breath, trying to center myself. She's right. This is about my work, my designs. I’ve got this…
I move to my desk, gathering my professional materials—iPad, stylus, sketchbooks, pencils, my portable color reference. These, at least, I know how to handle. These make sense to me in a way that Alexander Kingsley and his last-minute summons don't.
"What if I mess it up?" I ask quietly, running my fingers over the edge of my sketchbook. "What if I get there and freeze up or say something stupid or completely misread what he wants for the resort?"
"Then you'll figure it out," Izzy says, her voice gentler now. "That's what you do. You adapt. You solve problems. It's why you're good at your job."
I look around my bedroom, at the half-packed suitcase, the clothes strewn everywhere, the stack of design materials. “God, what am I doing?”
"Listen to me, Cami… you're going to crush this."
I close my eyes for a moment, letting myself feel the full weight of it—the terror, yes, but also the thrill. The pure, electric excitement of having my designs realized on such a scale, with essentially unlimited resources. Of creating spaces that people will experience, remember and return to.
When I open my eyes, the panic has receded, replaced by something else. Determination, maybe.
"Okay," I say, reaching for my laptop. "Let me check the weather forecast again, make sure I'm packing the right things."
"That's my girl." Izzy grins, tossing a pair of sandals into the suitcase. "Now, about those granny panties..."
"My underwear is fine."
"Your underwear is sad. What if there's an emergency evacuation at the hotel and Alexander Kingsley sees you in those dingy white abominations?"
"Then he'll know I prioritize comfort over impressing billionaires with my lingerie choices," I retort, but I'm holding back a laugh.
