Cameron Cole has a plan.
After yet another relationship ends because of certain shortcomings-literally-Cameron decides it's time to swear off dating and focus her energy into her junior year at the University of Charlotte. There's an internship up...
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If someone had told me a few months ago that I'd be here—actually happy, in a relationship, and somehow not self-sabotaging—I would've laughed right in their faces and asked if they could share a line of the cocaine they were sniffing.
But here I am. Wes loves me. I haven't run away. And the world hasn't ended. In fact, it's... kind of nice.
Really fucking nice.
Since the fair, things have been steady, which is saying something for me.
Wes isn't just good at showing up; he's somehow turned being thoughtful into a sport.
Coffee? Delivered. Stress meltdown? Talked down. And the man knows how to cook, which is both unfair and a little dangerous because I no longer feel the need to survive on frozen dumplings or starve while I wait for Mommy Scarlett to feed me like a lil baby chick.
And the sex—fuck, the sex.
It seems we're having even more of it than when we were friends with benefits. Not to mention, it's so much fucking better on all levels. I just can't seem to keep my hands and mouth off him.
Sometimes, we can't even wait to get home. We'll find a small private study room somewhere on campus, I'll bend over the table, and Wes will pound into me from behind. Or Wes will lie down on top of the table, and I'll ride him until we're both fucking spent.
Wes doesn't mind at all. He'll see that look in my eye, create a distraction, or whisk me away, and his cock is buried inside me within minutes.
But of course, not everything is sunshine, sprinkles, and intense orgasms.
My portfolio is due in three weeks, and my stress levels are approaching Britney-inspired breakdowns. December 22nd. The day that will either cement my interior design career or make me throw myself off the Whitmore Tower.
Literally no in-between.
So naturally, I find myself in the presence of the one person whose approval could make or break me: Lea Beauchamp, interior design legend, personal idol, and, in my mind, the embodiment of grace, power, and really expensive taste.
Her office is as perfect as she is—streamlined and elegant, with just enough bold choices to remind you she doesn't miss.
The silence is suffocating, but I sit there, pretending my heart isn't pounding and that I'm not actively preparing for death.
I shift in my seat, crossing and uncrossing my legs, adjusting my posture, debating whether or not I should casually fake my own demise. Maybe if I throw myself dramatically out of this chair, I can feign a sudden medical emergency and postpone this feedback session indefinitely.
She is scrolling through my portfolio on her sleek monitor, her expression impossible to read. She hasn't said anything yet—not even her usual hum of approval or her softly delivered critique that always seems to hit harder than if she were just straight-up mean.
