28. Inspiration Granted
Chapter twenty-eight
Inspiration Granted
Cameron
The first person to make me cry for Valentine’s Day is Carter Larkspur.
Which feels unfair.
It is also February thirteenth.
So technically he is early.
“You’re looking at the wrong number,” he says through my laptop.
I blink at the spreadsheet on my second monitor. “I’m looking at all the numbers.”
“No. You’re looking at follower growth.”
“Because follower growth is good.”
“It is good.”
Alexis leans closer to the camera beside him. “She’s waiting for the but.”
“I can see the but coming.”
Carter points somewhere below his camera, presumably at the same report I have open. “But follower growth is the least interesting part.”
I curl my hands around my coffee mug.
This meeting has been on my calendar for three days.
Not because anything is wrong—Alexis told me repeatedly that nothing is wrong.
Which obviously meant my brain spent nine days trying to determine all the possible ways something could secretly be wrong.
Apparently imposter syndrome does not care that I have been doing some version of this work for years.
Freelance clients are different.
Freelance clients are usually one person telling me whether they liked the thing I made.
Laugherty has departments.
Reports.
Actual marketing people.
Carter fucking Larkspur.
And Alexis, who does this for a living at a level that makes my little creator business feel like selling friendship bracelets at recess.
Carter keeps going. “Organic reach is up significantly without a matching increase in posting volume.”
Okay.
“That’s what we wanted,” he adds.
“I know.”
“More importantly, your saves and shares are up. The content is traveling farther without us paying to push it.”
Alexis smiles. “And you correctly identified which posts were getting attention versus which ones were actually moving people off-platform.”
I look back at the report. “We changed the second half of the calendar around that.”
“Exactly,” she says. “And it worked.”
Something warm and uncomfortable crawls up my chest.
Praise is weird.
I like it.
I also immediately want to argue with it.
Carter leans back in his chair. “You didn’t just make content people engaged with. You figured out what kind of organic content was doing a job for us and adjusted before the campaign ended.”
My throat tightens.
Alexis’s smile gets softer.
“What?”
“You look like you want to crawl under your desk because somebody told you you’re good at something,” she answers.
“I do not.” I sip my coffee mostly so I have something to do with my mouth. “So… you’re happy?”
Carter looks at Alexis.
Alexis looks at Carter.
Then both of them look back at me.
I narrow my eyes.
Carter folds his arms. “We want to use you again.”
The mug stops halfway to my mouth. “For another campaign?”
“For more than one campaign.”
Oh.
Alexis jumps in before my brain can leave my body entirely. “We’re not handing you my job tomorrow.”
“Good. I have plans tomorrow.”
She laughs. “But this is what I wanted to know before I started talking seriously about you covering more for me someday.”
Someday.
I know what she means.
Not now.
Not pregnancy announcement hidden inside a marketing meeting.
Eventually.
Alexis has been very clear that she wants kids and very clear that she is not currently pregnant or trying to get pregnant.
“When I eventually take maternity leave,” she says, “I need someone I trust who can understand the strategy and not just keep a content calendar from catching fire.”
Carter lifts one finger. “Although avoiding fire is also preferred.”
I laugh.
Alexis ignores him. “You’d need more exposure to the rest of what I do before then. More campaigns. More internal meetings. Probably some smaller strategy ownership.”
My heart starts beating faster.
“But yes. After this?” She nods. “I can absolutely see you being part of that plan.”
I stare at her.
Then Carter.
Then the report.
This is different from a client saying they loved a Reel.
Different from somebody buying a content package because they like my Instagram.
Different even from Alexis telling me over lunch that I was undercharging.
This is someone giving me work and really watching what I do with it.
And then asking for more because it worked.
Finally I manage to speak. “Sorry. I’m processing.”
Alexis grins. “Take your time.”
Carter glances at his watch. “Not too much time.”
She elbows him.
He catches her hand and kisses her knuckles.
“We do actually need to wrap,” Alexis says. “Apparently there are plans.”
“You agreed to plans,” Carter says.
“I was promised vacations.”
“You were promised honeymoons.”
“I already had one.”
“With Holden.” Carter looks directly at the camera. “Do you see what I live with?”
“Four other men?” I offer.
“Exactly.”
Alexis laughs.
Alexis points at me through the screen. “Enjoy Valentine’s Day.”
“You too.”
“And Cami?”
“Yeah?”
Her expression shifts.
Professional again.
“You did really good work.”
No teasing.
No friend voice.
Just sincerity.
I swallow. “Thank you.”
Carter nods once. “We’ll have the next scope sent over when we’re back.”
Then the call ends.
I sit there staring at my own reflection in the black video window for maybe ten seconds.
Then I scream.
Not loud.
More like an aggressive squeak.
My bedroom door opens a minute later.
Ronan looks in. “What happened?”
I spin around in my chair.
“They want to use me again.”
He pauses. “For Laugherty.”
“Yes.”
“Because the first campaign performed well.”
“Yes.”
His shoulders settle. “Good.”
I stare at him. “Good?”
He frowns. “Would you prefer an inaccurate response?”
“No. I would prefer enthusiasm.”
“You are aware that I already expected this outcome.”
“That is not enthusiasm.”
“It is confidence.”
Okay.
Fuck him.
My eyes sting.
Ronan notices instantly and his expression changes. “Cami.”
“You’re annoying.”
“I know.”
I start to move across the room.
His arms open before I reach him.
I wrap mine around his waist.
He settles one hand between my shoulder blades.
“I’m proud of you,” he says quietly.
Better asshole.
I press my face into his chest. “Thank you.”
“You did the work.”
“I know.”
“Alexis gave you an opportunity. She did not create the result.”
My grip tightens. “Are you trying to make me cry?”
“No.”
His hand moves slowly up my back.
After a second, he adds, “Congratulations.”
I smile into his shirt. “Better.”
Griffin gets Valentine’s Day on the thirteenth.
Not officially.
Nobody has assigned him custody of February thirteenth.
But his shift starts early tomorrow morning, and apparently being off for both Christmas and New Year’s Eve means the EMS scheduling gods have decided he has experienced enough joy.
So when he comes home with Thai food, a grocery-store bouquet, and a little paper bag from the bakery I like, I know exactly what he’s doing.
“You know it isn’t Valentine’s Day yet,” I tease.
He sets the food on the counter. “It is for me.”
The flowers are tulips.
Not roses.
I like tulips better.
The bakery bag contains two cheesecake slices because Griffin knows I will insist we split one and then steal most of his.
Before anything else, I kiss him softly.
We eat on the couch, and he listens while I tell him about Laugherty and asks enough questions that I know he's actually following.
He gives me the look when I minimize what I did—the husband look.
Apparently I have accumulated several men who refuse to let me downplay my own accomplishments.
Which is very inconvenient.
Later, when the house gets quieter, he takes me upstairs to my room, and everything he does is soft.
It is familiar and warm and easy.
My husband kissing me slowly because he has to leave before sunrise.
Me tracing the lines of his shoulders.
His face tucked into my neck afterward.
No complicated geometry.
No negotiations beyond the ones that live between us already.
Just Griffin and me.
Before he falls asleep, he says, “We'll go out next week.”
“Makeup Valentine’s Day?”
“A date.” His hand slides over my hip. “And you’re not planning it.”
I gasp. “Controlling.”
“You’ll survive.”
“Probably.”
At six-thirty the next morning, Griffin kisses me goodbye in the dark.
At seven-fifteen, I discover Dex has lost his fucking mind.
There are flowers on the kitchen counter.
Multiple flowers.
A box of chocolates.
A bag of gummy candy.
Three coffee drinks.
A plate of heart-shaped pancakes.
A stuffed axolotl holding a heart.
Two small gift bags.
A large gift bag.
A balloon that says I CHOOSE YOU in glitter.
Another balloon that says YOU’RE DINO-MITE beside a cartoon T. rex.
And one deeply unfortunate heart-shaped pillow with arms.
I stop in the doorway.
Dex is standing at the stove.
Micah is sitting at the island.
Ronan is staring at the balloon.
“What happened?” I ask carefully.
Dex looks around.
His expression changes.
Micah takes a sip of coffee.
Dex gestures vaguely at the kitchen.
“I may have overcommitted.”
“You think?”
“It didn't look like this in individual transactions.”
I start laughing. “That is the most Dex explanation possible.”
“I bought things over several days.”
Ronan reaches up and bats the dinosaur balloon away from his face. “It is visually hostile.”
“You have no whimsy.”
“I have an appropriate amount of whimsy.”
“Zero is not an amount.”
“It mathematically is.”
Micah pushes one of the coffee drinks toward me. “Yours.”
It’s the correct order—of course it is.
Dex points at the pancakes. “Also yours.”
“Are any of these for other people?”
“Yes.”
He looks offended. “I am equitable.”
Ronan makes a quiet sound.
Dex turns. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“No. You made a judgment noise.”
“I did not.”
“You absolutely did.”
Ronan reaches for the pour-over kettle. “I merely find your interpretation of equity fascinating.”
Dex plants both hands on the counter. “Oh, do you?”
“Yes.”
“Interesting.”
Micah closes his eyes.
I take my coffee and retreat one step.
I know that tone.
Dex is loading a cannon.
Then he begins his explosion. “You've slept with Cami.”
Ronan freezes.
I choke on coffee.
Micah's eyes open as he shakes his head.
Dex continues, “You've slept with Micah.”
Ronan sets the kettle down very carefully. “Yes.”