Bossy Daddies

Chapter 1

Camille

Igrip the steering wheel, the leather slick beneath my sweaty palms. The GPS announces I'm five minutes away from Kingsley Tower, and my heart skips into double-time.

I glance at my phone propped on the dashboard, Izzy's face filling the screen as she chatters away, her voice the only thing keeping me from pulling a U-turn and speeding home.

"Cami, you're going to crush this interview." Izzy's voice blares through my car speakers. "Like, absolutely demolish it. They won't know what hit them. I'm talking blown minds, jaws on the floor—"

"Girl, please," I cut in, flicking my blinker to change lanes. "I just want to get through it without failing spectacularly."

"You're not going to fail," Izzy says, her tone shifting into something calmer. "You're the most talented designer I know."

"You don't know any other designers."

"Not the point." She waves a dismissive hand. "The point is you're going to walk in there and dazzle Alexander freaking Kingsley with your brilliant designs, and he's going to hire you on the spot."

I snort, the sound ugly and unladylike. "Right. The billionaire who only works with the best of the best is going to be impressed by me. I only got this interview because my dad once did him a favor."

"A favor he obviously appreciated enough to give you a shot," Izzy counters. "But that's just getting your foot in the door. Your portfolio is going to blow him away."

The skyscraper looms ahead, a gleaming spire of glass that seems to pierce the clouds.

My stomach clenches. Inside that building sits one of the most powerful men in the country, a man whose reputation for perfectionism and coldness precedes him.

A man who could change the trajectory of my entire career with a single nod or shake of his head.

"What if he takes one look at my portfolio and realizes I'm a fraud?" The question spills out, voicing my deepest fear.

"Then he'd be wrong," Izzy says firmly. "You're not a fraud. You're just starting out. There's a difference."

I signal again, turning into the underground parking structure. The sunlight disappears, replaced by dim fluorescents that cast everything in an eerie glow. "That’s just another way to say inexperienced. And inexperienced is another word for 'not what Alexander Kingsley is looking for.'"

"Listen to me," Izzy says, and her face on my phone screen leans closer to the camera. "You've been designing spaces since we were eight years old, and you rearranged my entire bedroom."

"Your mom was so mad," I remember, a ghost of a smile tugging at my lips.

"Because you used her good sheets as curtains," Izzy laughs. "But even then, you had vision. You've always had vision. You just need to show him that."

I pull into a parking space but leave the engine running. The air conditioning continues to blast cool air against my face, but it does nothing to calm the heat of anxiety crawling up my neck.

"You know what this job would mean for me," I say. "Designing the interior of a Kingsley resort? That's career-making. That's the kind of project that launches a career."

"Exactly," Izzy nods emphatically. "Which is why you're not going to let the fact that your daddy called in a favor stop you from owning this opportunity."

"It's just—" I pause, trying to organize my scattered thoughts. "I don't want to be seen as the girl who only got a chance because of who her father knows. I want to be taken seriously."

"Then make him take you seriously," Izzy says, as if it's the simplest thing in the world. "Make him forget how you got in the room and focus on why you deserve to stay there."

I check my watch—twenty minutes until the interview. Just enough time to find the right floor, use the bathroom, and have one final panic attack.

"I should go," I say, reaching to end the call.

"Wait!" Izzy shouts. "One more thing."

I pause, finger hovering over the end button. "What?"

Her face splits into a wide grin. "Remember when Mrs. Wilson cried—actually cried—when you showed her the designs for her dream kitchen? Remember when that asshole professor told you your vision was too bold, and then your final project won the department award?"

"I remember," I say quietly.

"Good. Hold onto that. Not the fact that your dad knows a guy who knows a guy. You've earned this shot, Cami. Now go take it."

I nod, swallowing past the lump in my throat. "Thanks, Izz."

"And hey," she adds, her voice taking on that mischievous tone I know so well, "if he's as hot in person as he is on the computer screen, try not to drool on his expensive shoes."

"There will be absolutely no drooling," I say firmly, and tell her I’ll text her later.

I sit in silence for a moment, just breathing. In, out. In, out. Then I check my reflection in the rearview mirror one last time. My eyes are wide with fear, but there's something else there too. A spark of determination, maybe. Or possibly just desperation.

Either way, it'll have to do.

I kill the engine, grab my portfolio and laptop bag, and step out into the dim light of the parking garage. My heels click against the concrete as I walk toward the elevator, each step taking me closer to the man who might just change my life—if I can convince him I'm worth the chance.

The receptionist deposits me in the conference room, which is all sleek lines and polished surfaces. I arrange my portfolio on the glass table for the third time, fidgeting with corners that are already perfectly aligned.

My reflection stares back at me from the black screen of the presentation monitor—cheeks flushed, eyes wide, a strand of hair already escaping my carefully crafted bun. I tuck it behind my ear just as the door swings open, and Alexander Kingsley walks in.

And, damn, the photos didn't do him justice. Not even close.

He's tall—impossibly tall—his presence filling the room in a way that makes the air feel suddenly thinner.

Dark hair with just a touch of silver at the temples frames a face that's all sharp angles and perfect proportions.

But it's his eyes that stop my breath in my lungs—olive green and penetrating, like he's already cataloging my every flaw.

My pulse skips and then pounds. Damn it. The man looks like sin wrapped in a very expensive Italian suit.

I stand too quickly, my thigh banging against the edge of the table. "Mr. Kingsley, hello. I'm—"

"Camille Montclair," he finishes, his voice a low baritone. "Edward's daughter."

Not "the interior designer I'm interviewing" or "the candidate." Edward’s daughter. I swallow hard, forcing a smile that makes my entire face feel tight.

"Yes, that's right." I extend my hand, praying it isn't as clammy as it feels.

His grip is firm, his hand engulfing mine completely. He's not smiling—not even close—but there's a brief nod of acknowledgment before he releases my hand and gestures toward the table.

“Let’s see what you’ve brought me, Ms. Montclair,” he says, his tone smooth but with an edge that makes me wonder if he’s talking about my portfolio… or me.

What am I thinking? Or course he’s not talking about me.

There's no warmth in his tone, just cool efficiency. He sits at the head of the table, one long finger tapping against the polished surface. The movement is hypnotic, drawing my eye to hands that look capable of—

I blink hard. Focus, Camille.

"Of course." I fumble with my laptop bag, nearly dropping it before managing to pull out my computer.

The silence is oppressive as I connect to the room's display system, punctuated only by the soft tap-tap-tap of his finger against the glass. Why the hell didn’t I get all this set up before he came in?

As I stretch across the table to reach the cable, his scent hits me—dark and expensive, with an undertone that’s purely male. My fingers tremble, and I pray he doesn’t notice.

I can feel his gaze on me like a physical weight, assessing every movement. My hands tremble even more as I navigate to my downloads folder, looking for the presentation file I worked on until 3 a.m.

"I've put together some preliminary concepts based on the brief your assistant sent," I say, clicking on what I think is my presentation file. "I wanted to focus on bringing organic elements into the—"

The screen flickers to life behind me, and his tap-tap-tapping stops abruptly. Something's wrong. I turn slowly, dread pooling in my stomach.

And there they are. Not my elegant mood boards and carefully rendered sketches, but a webpage splashed with vibrant images of dildos, vibrators, and other sex toys in every imaginable color and size. A banner across the top cheerfully announces "20% OFF ALL DILDOS!"

Time stops. My heart drops. Possibly the earth stops spinning.

"I—" The word comes out as a strangled squeak. "That's not—"

A noise comes from Alex's direction—something between a cough and a choke. One corner of his mouth twitches, a flicker of something wicked before his expression smooths into perfect neutrality.

“That’s an… unusual design choice, Ms. Montclair.”

I slap at my keyboard, frantically trying to close the window, but somehow manage to click on a product instead, enlarging an especially anatomically detailed purple monstrosity across the entire screen.

"This isn't my presentation!" I blurt, my voice pitched embarrassingly high.

"It's—my friend is getting married! Izzy—she's having a bachelorette party, and I'm in charge of.

.. of party supplies. For the party. The bachelorette party.

Which is why I was looking at... those. But not for me! For her! For Izzy!"

Every word makes it worse. I'm digging a hole straight to the center of the earth, and I can't seem to stop.

Fantastic. My dream job interview, and I’ve just given Alexander Kingsley a front-row seat to my browser history of battery-operated boyfriends.

"Take your time, Ms. Montclair," Alex says, his voice smooth and controlled.

I finally manage to close the window and find my actual presentation, my cheeks burning so hot I'm surprised my makeup isn't melting off. By some miracle, my hands stop shaking enough to navigate through my carefully prepared slides.

I launch into my pitch, the words coming out in a rush at first, then gradually steadying as I focus on the work rather than the catastrophic start.

Design is my safe place, the one area where I actually know what I'm talking about, and despite the hellish beginning of this meeting, I find my rhythm.

Alex remains largely silent throughout, occasionally asking pointed questions that suggest he's actually paying attention rather than mentally composing a story about the disaster interview he's enduring.

His questions are sharp, probing at potential weaknesses in my concepts, but I have answers for all of them.

I'm just starting to think I might have salvaged something from this wreckage when he interrupts my explanation of the resort's color palette.

"If I select you for this project, you'll need to accompany me to the Caribbean site. We leave tomorrow."

I've just taken a sip of coffee from the cup that's been sitting untouched beside me, and his words cause me to inhale sharply mid-swallow.

Coffee sprays from my mouth in a fine mist, splattering across the table and—to my absolute horror—across the pristine white of his obviously custom-tailored shirt.

"Tomorrow?" I choke out, frantically dabbing at the coffee on his shirt with a tissue from my purse. "As in... the day after today?"

He looks down at the brown stains on his shirt with the mild interest of someone observing an unusual insect. "Is that going to be a problem?" His voice is perfectly even, betraying neither irritation nor amusement.

My hand continues to skim over hard muscle beneath the shirt fabric, and for a heartbeat, neither of us moves. His chest rises, slow and deliberate, and when my gaze flicks up, his eyes are on me.

"No! I mean—" I stop myself, my hand frozen mid-dab, suddenly aware that I'm essentially pawing at his chest. I snatch my hand back. "Sorry. I'm so sorry about your shirt. And no, tomorrow isn't a problem. I can... I can make that work."

"Good." He stands, signaling the end of our meeting, and I scramble to gather my things, shoving my laptop into its bag without even shutting it down properly.

"Thank you for your time, Mr. Kingsley," I say, extending my hand again in a desperate attempt at professionalism. "I appreciate the opportunity to—"

My heel catches on the strap of my bag, which has somehow wrapped itself around my ankle. I pitch forward with a startled yelp, directly into his solid frame. My hands shoot out instinctively to catch myself—one landing square on his chest, the other...

The other lands directly on his crotch.

There's a moment of perfect, horrified silence.

"I am so sorry," I whisper, snatching my hands back as if burned.

“Careful, Camille,” he murmurs. “Some lines, once crossed, can’t be uncrossed.”

His stare pins me in place, hot and cold all at once, like he’s daring me to look away. I don’t. I can’t.

"My assistant will be in touch," he finally says.

I back away, clutching my bag to my chest like a shield, mumbling another apology as I turn and flee toward the door. I yank it open and nearly barrel straight into a tall, immaculately dressed woman with a sleek blonde bob and perfectly applied makeup.

Fiona Astor—my professional nemesis and the last person on earth I want to see right now—arches a perfectly sculpted eyebrow at my flustered state, her gaze sliding past me to Alex, then back to me with calculating interest.

"Camille," she says, her voice silky with false warmth. "How... unexpected to see you here."

I open my mouth, but no words come out. I manage a strangled noise that might be a greeting, then sidestep her and hurry down the hallway, the weight of twin stares burning into my back.