by Julie Olivia
The website’s cart reads well over a price range I can afford, and the price is bumped even higher when I select two-day shipping. But the spiffy suit just screams, “I have my life together!” so I click “purchase,” ignore the sinking feeling in my gut that knows I spent too much, and scoot myself back into the bar stool.
Mom begs me to “please finish cutting the darn pepper, Grace!” but I just keep smiling while I look at the email. While I may not know much about clothing, budgeting, or helping in the kitchen, I do know one thing: This is my new start.
3. Grace
My hands haven’t stopped shaking since I received that email. They shook when I turned off my alarm clock this morning, they shook when I packed my laptop bag, and they continue to shake while I turn the wheel into an empty parking lot in an effort to get back on the road in the actual direction I’m supposed to go.
“Rerouting… turn left onto State Boulevard—”
“Shut up,” I groan to my phone’s GPS. It’s been trying to direct me to Treasuries, Inc. for nearly thirty minutes in what should have been a ten-minute drive. I thank my lucky stars I had the good sense to leave as early as I did or else this could have been an entirely different day.
“Rerouting… turn right onto State—”
“Stop!” I furiously tap my phone to exit the app and reopen it.
Everyone knows that always solves the problem.
After turning left then right then left again, swerving into grocery store shopping center, and making a quick stop at a gas station to break up the nervous energy (yes, I may have looked in the mirror and said, “You can do this, Grace! You are a super hero!” but we don’t need to talk about that), I’m finally facing the front of a warehouse building with the words “Treasuries, Inc.” displayed in bold, beautiful letters across the garage door entrance. All with ten minutes to spare.
My old-fashioned yellow VW bug normally sticks out in a business car park, but in this lot full of eclectics, it fits in nicely. I spy on some other individuals walking into the building. They’re all wearing blue jeans, casual shoes, band t-shirts, and some women are even wearing those flowy skirts that seem to say, “Sure, I could live in a van and go on meditation retreats.” I look down at my own attire and groan.
I definitely overdressed. What woman in this day and age goes into a new graphic design position with the notion of, “I must dress my best?” Nobody. That’s who. You know what women do now? They go to Anthropologie or, hell, Goodwill and make themselves look “chic.”
Is that the word? Oh, hell.
Tons of unnecessary money I do not have just went right down the drain.
Wait—no! I am a confident woman. I overdressed because I mean business. This shows I’m serious, dang it! I’m taking my life by the balls and squeezing it into submission.
I snatch my phone from its holster on my dashboard, slam the car door shut, and lug my bag right up to the front door. But with confidence. Obviously. Always with confidence. Because I am a suit-wearing female with a plan.
The double doors slide open the second I walk in, and before I can mentally make some snarky comment about whether this is some renovated grocery store, a woman at a beautifully curved front desk raises her eyebrow at me, scans me up and down, and smirks.
She’s just as trendy as everyone else I’ve seen so far. Her platinum blonde hair is perfectly curled and a piercing hugs the curve of her nose as if it’s always belonged there. Dang, she even looks super cool with her choker necklace and collared tee that seems both professional and like it’d be right off the back of a mannequin in Forever 21. But more impressive than the receptionist’s beauty is the building itself.
The interior is already massive, but it appears even larger with its exposed ceiling fifty or so feet off the ground. The desks are gathered in clusters, but it doesn’t feel crowded. There are no cubicles. There is no musty carpet. Just clean, open space. Where there aren’t conference rooms closed off by clear windows, there are walls coated in vibrant colors with designs blended in both graffiti and pop art styles. Painted on the central back wall is a giant treasure chest surrounded by a circle of the repeating statement: Work Hard, Play Hard.
A bit cliché, but I can get behind it.
I had no idea that an office space could look this cool.
The girl behind the counter clears her throat.
“May I help you?” she asks.
She has this weird mix of both irritation and an obligation to sound as nice as she can for her job. No clue how she pulls that off. I think it’s her stunning beauty that gives her an edge.
“Y-yes!” I stammer. Goddamn it, who really stammers? Not confident women. That’s not who stammers. And I am a confident woman with my too-high heels and my too-sharp suit. “My name is Grace Holmes. I’m here to see Cameron Kaufman.”
The girl peers behind her cat-eye turquoise-tinted glasses (God, can she get any cooler?) and swishes her eyes over to her laptop screen, rapidly clicking on the keyboard.
“He’s not in yet,” she says, her tapping fingers settling. “But take a seat over there. He should be in shortly.”
She points to a set of very stiff beanbag chairs in varying colors of orange, and I choose the one that will expose the least amount of thigh when I plop down into it. But I was mistaken. They may look stiff, but the bag swallows me whole the second my butt hits the seat. So much for not having my skirt ride up too much.
After I’ve sufficiently taken in the remaining scenery and the couches where employees casually complete work while wearing massive headphones over their heads, I start to feel like a significant amount of time has passed.
Am I in the right place? Of course I am. This is Treasuries Inc., and by golly, I’ve made it here. I work here!
But I look at my watch and, yes, time surely has passed.
9:20.
Yikes. Is this guy kidding? I’d pictured this Cameron Kaufman guy as a prompt man: He arrived at 7:00 in the morning, on the dot—maybe earlier. He wears suits sharper than mine and way less comfortable, if that’s even an option. But so far, I see no promptness and no sharp suit. Zero for two, Mr. Kaufman.
I glance over at the sliding glass door and watch as more employees trickle in. There’s a blonde man with a bag slung over his shoulder bobbing his head back and forth under his headphones, a young Asian woman wearing a t-shirt dress and popping gum to the beat of every third step, and finally an older man that comes in, waves to the trendy receptionist, and keeps walking.
Was that Mr. Kaufman? He walked right past me. Would the girl have told him I was sitting here? I’m honestly not sure, given her attitude.
I look down at my watch again.
9:30.
More happy employees walk in, with me wishing I was one of them instead of my current role as the lone dope chilling on the beanbag I’m slowly sinking into.
This beanbag is my destiny, and my soul is the uncomfortable sewn edge now making a mark into the side of my thigh where the skirt has rolled up.
While I’m focused on making sure my skirt returns to an appropriate length, footsteps squeak across the laminated concrete, and if this weren’t my first day on the job and I wasn’t trying to maintain my professionalism, my jaw might have hit the floor when I see the man approaching.
I’m pretty sure it’s absolutely unfair to be that good looking.
His jawline can probably cut glass, but it’s lightly covered by a layer of stubble that softens his features just enough that I can imagine running my hands over his chin. His hair is shaved closer on the sides, but it’s thick and mussed up at the top with just the slightest bit of gel—or maybe it’s still wet from the shower.
His denim shirt is tucked into cream-colored chinos, and he wears dark leather oxfords, which add just a bit of business sense to the otherwise casual look. But unlike other employees, his clothes are slightly more well-fitted, as if he’s gotten them tailored. Or maybe he’s just built exactly how the designers imagined a p
erfect man to look.
He stops at the front desk and the girl directs him over to the prison of beanbags where I’m sitting. She looks equally as distracted as I am by his presence. As he approaches the corner I have thus begun to claim as my own desk area, I find myself starting to sweat and I pray to the good lord above that my black suit won’t reveal armpit stains.
He sits in the beanbag next to me, crossing his ankle over his other leg. His pants come up just enough to reveal corgi-patterned socks peeking out.
Be still my heart.
This body connected to a jawline turns to me, as if he’s going to speak, but I nervously blurt out, “Is this your first day, too?” before he even has the chance to get any sound out.
Wow, dummy. What are the odds? But I’d rather have the first word in this conversation where I know I have only an eighty-percent chance of looking like a fool rather than my usual one hundred percent chance of looking like a complete moron.
He stares at me for a second, squints a bit as if considering, then smiles. Boy oh boy, if I wasn’t dead yet, those dimples would have just done me in.
“Uh, no, I’m here for”—he pauses, glancing at his watch—“an interview, actually. How long have you been waiting?” His voice is deep, but it’s equally smooth and calming.
A voice that feels familiar; like he’s the boy next door you’ve been swooning after your whole life. Unattainable, but welcoming.
I break my gaze away to glance down at my own watch.
“Thirty minutes,” I say, and then I shrug. “Which if you ask me is a bit too long.”
Great job, Grace. You really can’t filter your thoughts right now? Seriously? I’m kicking myself knowing that I’m completely incapable of hiding the frustration at how long I’ve had to wait.
But come on! Half an hour? On my first day? What is this, the DMV?
His eyes widen in surprise and he laughs. “Won’t be a secret if you say it much louder.”
I smirk in a knowing glance, even arching my eyebrow as if testing him.
“So, thirty minutes, huh?” he asks. “Who are you waiting on? Some hot shot exec, I bet.”
As he talks, his eyes slip down to the part of the beanbag that’s tugging on a corner of my pencil skirt and exposing an immodest amount of thigh. I awkwardly adjust and he averts his gaze.
“Cameron Kaufman,” I say.
He cringes. “Does this guy know he’s incredibly late? Did he remember it’s your first day?”
“Well, that’d be irresponsible if he didn’t, wouldn’t it?”
“Very. You know,” he says, leaning in a bit closer and lowering his voice, “if that’s how they act around here, then I sure as hell don’t think I want to interview.”
I can’t help but let his scent of body wash waft over me. Is that some type of artificial campfire? Maybe mahogany? Whatever it is, I’m pretty sure I have a candle with that scent.
I can tell he’s joking by the way he smiles wider, and I find myself attracted, rather than off-put that he was willing to walk out here and talk to me on a whim. Maybe it’s the risk of it all; a man taking risks isn’t the worst thing that’s happened in the world.
He looks down at his watch again and shakes his head. “9:45. They’re really pushing their luck with you.”
“Thankfully I’m fairly patient,” I say.
He looks down at my bouncing leg that I was unaware of until just now and laughs, “Clearly.”
I cave. “Okay, so sure, I’ve got a bit of a patience issue, but forty-five minutes? Get real.” I’m not trying to trash this Cameron guy, but I’m totally trashing this Cameron guy, despite the fact that part of me knows I should be thanking my lucky stars I’m even here to begin with. That calms me down a bit.
“Well, you’ve convinced me.” He stands up, clapping his hands as if announcing his imminent departure, and I instantly long for him to stay. He’s so wildly impulsive.
No, don’t abandon me with these lonely beanbag chairs, Mr. Gorgeous Man.
He holds out his hand to me. “It was nice to meet you, Miss…?”
“Grace. Grace Holmes.” I shake his hand.
“Are you related to Sherlock Holmes?” he asks with a grin.
Not the first time I’ve heard that, but he’s just so damn good looking that I’ll give it to him.
“Distant cousin.” I smile. “Always second best. But hey, I try.”
He nods. “Well it’s nice to meet you, Grace.”
I refuse to let this man leave without getting a name, a number, an address, a hand on those forearms…
“I’m sorry—what did you say your name was?” I ask.
“I didn’t. I’m Cameron Kaufman.” The most shit-eating grin flashes across his face and my heart sinks. “But most people just call me Cam.”
Shit.
In Too Deep is now available on Amazon and Kindle Unlimited HERE!
Acknowledgments
Thank you, thank you, thank YOU, reader! This book would just be gathering dust were it not for you awesome people wanting to read it!
Thank you to my dad because I honestly don’t think I should ever write an acknowledgements page without having you in it. The discipline to keep writing even on the hard days is a direct result of your parenting. Thanks for being the best role model.
To my “evil stepmother” who I firmly believe is a real life angel. I am constantly humbled by how much you love promoting my little ol’ books. Thanks for being my final reader before I send the book out into the wild.
Thank you to my editor, C. Marie! This would all just sound like a jumble of words without you!
Massive thank you to my beta readers Kolin, Erica, Jenny, Aaron, Brett, and Viorelia. When enough people say “he’s not really for me, but maybe some person will like him!” you know you need to make some changes the main protagonist. Hopefully Ian is a darling again.
Finally, to my real life Ian Chambers. Thank you for being so funny that I can’t help but snag one-liners from you. Thank you for telling me whenever characters sweat too much or when they get an expression wrong because I don’t even know how the saying goes. But, most of all, thank you for encouraging me when I doubt myself. You’re my biggest cheerleader—without the skirt.
About the Author
Julie Olivia loves spicy stories with even spicier banter, so she decided to write them. Julie lives in Atlanta with her fiancé and their very vocal cat. She appreciates a good pair of boots and fresh lemon-filled donuts. She is easily bribed with either.
Sign up for release updates: julieoliviaauthor.com/newsletter