Chapter 2 #2
"You told me to consider a career designing sex toys," I remind her, but I'm laughing now, giddy disbelief bubbling up through my chest.
"Details." She waves dismissively. "The point is, Alexander Kingsley recognized your talent despite your... unconventional presentation tactics."
I pull back, sudden anxiety cutting through my euphoria. "Oh god. I have to work with him. Closely. For a week. After I showed him dildos and grabbed his—"
"Massive cock?" Izzy adds helpfully.
"How am I supposed to face him?" I groan, dropping my head into my hands. "He probably thinks I'm some kind of sex-crazed lunatic."
"Or he thinks you're a talented designer who had a really bad day." Izzy shrugs.
"And we’re leaving tomorrow? That's insane. Who gives someone less than twenty-four hours notice for an international trip?"
"Rich people," Izzy says matter-of-factly. "They live in a different reality where everyone else's schedules bend around theirs." She takes a sip of her wine. "But hey, at least he's sending a car. Very Pretty Woman. Minus the prostitution. Unless there's a clause in that contract I missed."
"Izzy!" I swat at her with a throw pillow, but I'm laughing again.
I open the attached contract, scanning the details. It's all there—the scope of work, the timeline, the compensation that makes my eyes widen. And at the bottom, Alexander Kingsley's signature, bold and decisive.
"I need to pack," I say suddenly. "What do I even bring to the Caribbean? What's the dress code? Do I need formal clothes? Beachwear? Will there be time for swimming? Do I have sunscreen that’s not expired? Do I need a new bikini? My favorite one has that weird stretched-out spot in the—"
"Breathe," Izzy interrupts, grabbing my shoulders. "One thing at a time. First, sign the contract before he changes his mind."
"Right. Yes." I tap on the signature field, scrawling my name with my finger—not the most elegant solution, but it's late and I'm not about to hunt for a printer and scanner.
"Now," Izzy continues, switching into efficiency mode, "tropical business trip essentials. Professional clothes that work in heat—linen, light cotton. At least one nice outfit for fancy dinners. Swimsuit, because hello, Caribbean. Sunscreen, bug spray, medications..."
She continues listing items while I nod, only half-listening as I reread the email. Tomorrow. I'm flying to Antigua tomorrow with Alexander Kingsley.
"What if it's a mistake?" I interrupt Izzy's packing monologue. "What if he meant to send this to someone else?"
"Camille." Izzy gives me a look. "Your name is literally in the first line. He's not going to mix up 'Camille Montclair' with 'Jane Whatever.'"
"But—"
"No buts." She stands, pulling me up from the couch. "You got this job because you're talented, not because of a clerical error. Now, let's get you packed for your Caribbean adventure with Mr. Sexy CEO."
I allow myself to be tugged toward my bedroom, a giddy, nervous energy replacing the dejection of the past two days. Whatever happens in Antigua—however awkward it might be to face Alexander Kingsley again—this is my chance. My opportunity to prove myself.
The next morning I’m yanking clothes from hangers and tossing them onto the growing pile on my bed.
"I'm so sorry for the short notice, but I need to reschedule," I say into my phone, which is pinched between my ear and shoulder.
"I know we've had this appointment for three weeks.
However, I had a family emergency come up.
" I pause, listening to the client's complaints while simultaneously holding up two different blouses for Izzy's assessment.
She points to the blue one, and I nod, adding it to the 'yes' pile.
"I completely understand your frustration," I continue, trying to sound professionally apologetic while silently mouthing 'kill me now' to Izzy. "How about next Friday instead?"
The client finally agrees, and I hang up, immediately pulling up my calendar to see what other appointments I need to cancel or reschedule.
"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 been down 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 what about 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.
We continue packing, and with each item that goes into the suitcase, my annoyance at the short notice fades a little more, replaced by anticipation. Whatever happens in Antigua—however it plays out with Alexander Kingsley—this is my shot. My chance to prove what I can do.
And I'm going to make damn sure I don't waste it.