“Just wait here,” Beatrice whispered. “He should be done soon.” I nodded and she touched my arm gently before taking a seat at her desk a few feet away from his door. Within a moment, she was on a call and I was left to stand there idle as I watched the subject of most of my college-aged fantasies.
He didn’t notice me right away—not while he was working—so I stood there admiring him. He was in a traditional black suit, fitted across his shoulders and arms. He’d paired it with a crisp white shirt and a sleek black tie. The soft light from the window hit his cheekbones, accentuating their sharp contours and putting special emphasis on his exquisitely defined jaw. He reached to rub his fingers along his chin, and his eyes narrowed on the sheet of paper on his desk. I wondered what he was studying. So much so, that I dared to take a step closer.
Bad move.
He dropped the drafting pencil and after one excruciatingly long second, his eyes slid up to me. They were so sharp and blue that they pinned me to my spot, and I was caught between taking another step closer and fleeing for my life. Neither of us moved. I felt like I was stuck in the center of a tightrope, hanging over a canyon with nowhere to go but down.
He spoke into the phone with a deep, authoritative tone while keeping his gaze on me.
“Mitch, I’ll have to call you back in a moment. I’ve got one last interview.”
He didn’t wait for Mitch to reply. He dropped his phone onto his desk and indicated for me to enter with a flick of his hand. To him, I was an animal he could beckon forward.
I stared down at my feet and rolled my eyes.
“Take a seat, Cameron.”
God, I hated the way he said my whole name, dragging it out into something formal and ugly. I’d never felt like Cameron; I was Cammie.
He sighed.
“Do you always take this long to process simple instructions?” he asked, obviously annoyed that I hadn’t moved yet.
I stared into his soulless eyes. “You know I’m not intimidated by you.”
What a lie.
The left side of his mouth hitched up, defining a dimple that was usually hidden behind layers of resolve and pompousness. Dimples weren’t meant for CEOs, even young handsome ones.
“Perhaps we should fix that, Ms. Heart. Shut the door.”
The dimple was gone again, replaced with a stern scowl. I huffed and turned to pull the door from its resting place when my eyes locked with Beatrice. My cheeks flushed at the realization that she’d heard my immature outburst, but then she offered me a little thumbs up.
Hmm, maybe I wasn’t the only one in the office who wanted to put Grayson Cole in his place.
Once the heavy door was closed, I turned and made my way to one of two matching chairs in front of Grayson’s desk. They were mid-century modern in design, which meant they were highly impractical for actual use in an office. The metal was too thin to rest my arms on, so I folded my hands in my lap and stared down at the papers on his desk. Familiar symbols jumped out at me and I knew he was working on a residential project—an impressive one at that.
“Should I be concerned about your appearance?” he asked as his eyes fell to my skinned knees and then back to my face. I guess that was as close as he was going to get to “Oh, Cammie, are you okay? Please let me tend to your wounds, my love.”
I shook my head and brushed his concerns aside. The bruising and dried blood were the least of my concerns at that moment.
“Well then, I think we should just cut right to the chase,” he began. “I’ve taken a look at your resume and I’ve seen your projects. You’re a good designer, much better than most of the people that have come into my office today.”
I flicked my gaze up to his face to see if he was being serious. The three lines marring his forehead indicated that he was telling the truth, even if it was a bit painful for him to admit.
“I don’t feel like wasting time with the standard interview questions. I’ve known you for a few years and I think I have a good grasp on what your strengths are, and your weaknesses.”
I had to bite my tongue to resist arguing with him. He didn’t know a thing about me, and he was delusional if he thought he did.
When I didn’t offer a rebuttal, he leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers beneath his chin.
“Out of all of your studies, which building has stood out as your favorite? And don’t limit yourself to just Los Angeles.”
I was taken aback by his question, but I didn’t have to think long. I’d known the answer for years.
“The Eiffel Tower,” I answered with a confident nod.
He arched a dark brow. “Really, Ms. Heart? That answer is almost as trite as listing Frank Lloyd Wright as your favorite architect.”