In His Eyes (Into You Book 2) Page 2

  I officially now have four problems: my car is sitting in my driveway like a heaping pile of hot summer garbage, I have a red dress in my hand that is begging for some form of cleavage I cannot provide, my impatience has reached an all-time high, and I’m face to face with my worst enemy: Ian Chambers.

  2

  Nia

  Nine years ago

  New girl.

  That’s what the IT team has resorted to calling me during my first month at Treasuries Inc. The problem with a startup-style company, and with me being their first human resources employee, is that they have yet to understand my role and what will result in a lawsuit—which is exactly why, on top of hiring me, they are also recruiting for an in-house lawyer.

  The owner has interviewed about a million candidates. All have been either perfect for the company culture but unqualified or, alternatively, completely qualified yet a “corporate stiff,” as most of the team would put it. I’ve insisted on sitting in on the interviews as a second opinion, but, once again, when it’s your first time with an HR professional on staff, it’s hard to relinquish control and actually listen to HR’s opinion—even if that was the point of hiring said professional in the first place.

  Instead, I’m tasked with being the “face” of the organization. I greet the candidate and escort them back to the conference room reserved for the interview. I had to force my way even into this position, but at least it’s a baby step toward something bigger—toward the career I enjoy.

  It’s almost nine o’clock and I’m minutes away from welcoming this morning’s interviewee. I haven’t had my coffee yet and walking is a struggle. I can see how those people in Wall-E ended up where they’re at. I bet it was the lack of coffee beans. Even so, all of my coffee lust is halted, put in a grinder, and slow dripped down into my stomach when I see the candidate at the door.

  He’s well over six feet tall, gorgeous, and wearing a suit that probably cost an arm and a leg to tailor as perfectly as it has been. He looks like a model, and I wonder if maybe that’s exactly what he does for a living and he just stumbled into the wrong building.

  “Ian Chambers?” I ask, looking down at his resume in my hands. He turns to me and ice blue eyes stare back into mine. Paired with his black hair, he could be a human husky. Bow wow.

  “Hello,” he says, holding out his hand and flashing straight, white teeth. We shake and he gives a firm grip. I almost swoon—or maybe I actually do. All I know is I try to give him a solid handshake as well. He doesn’t need to know I’m slowly melting in his presence.

  “Hi, I’m Nia Smith. It’s nice to meet you.” Understatement. “We’ll be interviewing you in the back, so you can just follow me.” Once I’m turned in the opposite direction, my jaw drops discreetly into a silent “Oh my god” because, seriously, coffee couldn’t have woken me up as much as this man just did.

  Back to professionalism, Nia. “So, how was your drive?” I ask, turning back around to make eye contact once more. Big mistake. Those blues are like daggers into my brain.

  “Good,” he says. “I’m a bit far away, but thankfully I drive like I’m in the Daytona 500.” He laughs. His tone is deep but still boyish and jovial, like there’s some inside joke only he’s in on.

  “It’s easy now, but just watch when school starts back in,” I say conversationally. I’ve never been good at small talk, and when I turn to see his eyebrow lifted, I realize I am not rising to the occasion this time either.

  We get to the conference room and the company owner isn’t here yet. I pull out my phone and check my emails. There’s a one-liner stating he’ll be a bit late.

  Not a problem—I’ll just interview him myself! It couldn’t be more perfect. This is how the company learns that HR is an important resource anyway, by us just doing. I belong in this conference room, and I will claim my spot here if need be.

  “Looks like your interviewer is caught in a meeting, but he’ll be out soon,” I say, pocketing my phone into my slacks. “Make yourself comfortable. Do you need any coffee or…?”

  “No thanks,” he says, flashing another daring, cocky smile. Does he know he could lead the world with that smile, know armies might follow him? At least armies of women?

  “Alright, perfect,” I say. “Well, we can go ahead and get started if you want to take a seat over there.”

  I wave my hand over to show him across the table. When he passes me, his scent wafts by and its unmistakably man. I’m fairly sure if Brad Pitt and Ryan Reynolds were together in one room, this would be the smell in the air.

  “So, tell me about yourself,” I start, sitting across from him.

  “Well, I’m Ian. Born and raised in Atlanta. Studied law, passed the bar, and now I’m ready for the next adventure.”

  “Short but sweet,” I say, grinning back at him. “And what got you interested in law?”

  “Once I figured out that any game worth playing can be cheated at or outsmarted, I knew law was for me.”

  Wait—what?

  I clear my throat. “Excuse me?”

  “I think any good lawyer should like to win. Isn’t that point?”

  I try to conceal my shock, but I still let out a mix between a scoff and a laugh. He’s bold. He takes what he wants. I can’t tell if the room’s thermostat is high or if he’s making me too hot.

  “And how long did you study law?”

  “Four years. Then I took two off, which I do feel I need to address. There was no bad work history or anything.” For the first time, his posture slackens, he averts his eyes, and his grin gets bigger as if compensating for the awkward nature of this conversation.

  It’s cute. Maybe even adorable. Who is this guy?

  “Personal issues,” he says. “You know how life is. But, that’s not common for me.”

  There’s an awkward silence for a moment, and I’m struggling to fill it. Admittedly, that isn’t my strong point. I want to ask more, but there’s a line in interviewing that, if crossed, could potentially carry this conversation into illegal territory. I can’t ask things like What happened?, Are you okay?, or even Are you in a relationship? Definitely inappropriate.

  “So, do you have any pointers to give me before my interview?” he asks after a moment. I shake my head before realizing I may have been ogling him. I hope I wasn’t. He leans back in his chair, slinging one arm over the rolling chair next to him, causing it to shift. He jerks his arm away and gives me a sheepish smile. How is it that I’ve known this man for less than ten minutes and he’s already ridiculously entrancing?

  “Maybe tone down the sarcasm,” I say, giving a side smile and raising an eyebrow in a challenge. It comes off more seductive than I intended. Shit.

  His eyebrows shoot up at my answer, as if surprised. He should be. I don’t do this. I don’t entertain taboo work relationships—especially with someone who doesn’t even work here yet. He slowly nods and then his short-lived expression of surprise slowly gives way to yet another smirk.

  “Noted.”

  Good god.

  The door swings open and the man I know as Treasuries Inc.’s sole owner waltzes in with his usual swagger, the kind that can only come from someone who sports a backward baseball cap and Pollos Hermanos tee to work.

  “Ian!” he bellows, stretching out an arm.

  Ian stands and shakes his hand. “Nice to meet you, sir.”

  I’ve seen this same exchange with every candidate so far, but Ian’s interaction is much more natural. His hand swings wide and shakes with a noticeably strong grip. I’m willing to bet he didn’t need our warm welcome. He’s provided his own.

  “It was nice to meet you,” I say, grasping his resume and making my way to the door.

  “Hopefully I see you around,” he calls to me.

  I both want and very much do not need that burden in my life.

  When I get back to my desk, I file his resume for record-keeping purposes. Maybe I’ll look at the phone number on it? No. Unprofessional. I’ll chalk up the whole
experience to a one-and-done, at least I got to see some eye candy today type of deal.

  Imagine my surprise when, that afternoon, I receive an email with specifications for an offer letter to be sent out ASAP to a Mr. Ian Chambers.

  Fantastic.

  3

  Ian

  Present day

  Do you ever wake up smiling?

  That makes me sound like a weird guy, but honestly, just between us weirdos, do you?

  When I wake up this morning, I know it will be a great day. I lie awake, staring up at my ceiling fan, and I can’t help but smile. If anyone were to see me, I’m sure they would think I’m enamored with the thing. Truth is, I am enamored, but not with my fan.

  Let’s count the ways this week will be great. Number one, I am the best man at my pal’s wedding. Number two, I get to spend an entire week at the beach, and number three, I get to spend one whole week with Nia fucking Smith.

  Could life get any better?

  And I don’t mean that with any sarcasm intended. Nia Smith is a witty, intelligent force to be reckoned with. I have spent nine years—nine years—hanging out with her, playing the role of good co-worker, never making moves. I respect work-life balance enough to not cross that line; it’s a recipe for disaster.

  But is there room for disaster now? Not so much, friends. Well, maybe a little. I can’t forget about the fact that, for some bewildering reason, Nia Smith has absolutely loathed me for the past two years.

  Disaster pending, I suppose. We shall see.

  My phone’s ringtone goes off in my ear. I still have yet to buy a bedside table, so for years my sleeping buddy has been the buzzing phone resting on the pillow beside me. I pull it closer and look at the caller ID. It’s my sister, Ramona. I answer.

  “When are you getting here?” she asks before I can even voice any form of greeting.

  “Well, I just woke up, so…”

  “You’re planning the bachelor party, right?”

  “Are we going to stay on one subject?” My sister isn’t one for staying on track. It’s a wonder she focused long enough in school to be a psychologist of her caliber. Then again, both of us Chambers kids could be poster children for the lessening attention span in America.

  “I need to know what you’re doing because I’m planning the bachelorette party and there are only two strip clubs in town—not nearly enough.”

  “Sure.” I lift my arms above my head, giving a big stretch and groaning.

  “And the third bridesmaid: Nia.” My heart jumps at the mention of her name. “I still haven’t met her. What’s she like?” Ramona pouts on the other end of the line. She likes being in the know, and missing out on meeting a bridesmaid is probably killing her.

  “Didn’t she go to bridal whatever stuff?” I ask.

  “Grace didn’t tell me she was a bridesmaid until a month ago,” she says. I can practically hear the eye roll. “What was I supposed to do?”

  “She’s nice once you get to know her,” I say with a chuckle.

  “Good. So, okay, checking off the list…oh! You’ll be the designated driver most of the time, right…?”

  It’s a silly question and she knows it; I can tell by the way the last word fades out like a sentence begging to be wiped from memory. I’ll give Ramona the benefit of the doubt. It’s been ten years since the car accident. We don’t talk about it much in our family, but it’s like a constantly healing wound. The second it’s mentioned, the stitches are loosened that much more, though I, for one, do not insist on viewing it as some taboo subject. It’s mostly their stitches that get tugged apart; mine are forced closed with glue.

  “Drink to your heart’s content,” I say. “My baggage is your treasure. Is that the saying?”

  “I think it’s trash,” she mumbles.

  “Yeah, well, take advantage of my misfortune, and stop sounding uncomfortable. Of course I’m driving.” I try to lighten the mood as best I can. Sheesh, if I ever want to silence family or friends, bringing up the reason I stay sober on nights out is the sure-fire way to do it.

  My phone buzzes and I hold it away from my ear. Cameron.

  “Hey, it’s the groom calling,” I say, thankful for the reprieve from this discussion. “I’ll talk to you later.”

  “Do you think penis lollipops would be too much for a bachelorette party?” She gets the sentence out as one final light-hearted jab, and I switch over calls before I have to respond.

  “Yell-o?” I answer, hitting the speaker button and laying the phone next to me.

  “Ian, we have to leave in one hour,” Cameron says. It’s matter of fact, borderline demanding, and filled with exhaustion. “Can you make it on time?”

  “That’s a bit last minute,” I joke with a grin only I can see.

  Cameron pauses before letting out a heavy exhalation. I know I’ve pressed the wrong button. It’s definitely not the morning, day, or week for this. It’s his wedding week and, yes, I do mean wedding week. Everyone in the bridal party is receiving a complimentary one-week stay at the resort booked for their wedding, and we leave this morning.

  Apparently in one hour.

  “Why are you so difficult? Aren’t weddings supposed to be fun?” he asks.

  “Have you ever been to a wedding?” I chuckle.

  “No,” he says, slowly and skeptically.

  “Exactly. Are you thinking, Well, mine will be different?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Yeah, they all think that.” I exhale, hopping out of bed and walking into the bathroom. “I’ll see you soon.”

  “And what is ‘soon’?”

  “An hour.”

  I hang up and take a quick shower, throw on my Friday best, and load up my bags. With the garment bag holding my suit slung over my shoulder and the strap of my duffel over my other arm, I switch off the lights. The chandelier in my foyer takes a second to fade out like some dramatic curtain closing on the stage of my barren townhome.

  I zip through the city, but even with all my special maneuvering, I’m still late when I arrive.

  Damn. Cameron is gonna kill me.

  I’ve lived here my whole life and I love the city with a burning passion, but I still have trouble anticipating Atlanta traffic. Early mornings haven’t been part of my routine in months since I started working from home, living that self-employed life filled with web conferences in boxers and lots of delivered food to the house.

  I anticipate Cameron’s wrath when I pull in, but I don’t have time to process anything he may want to say because—holy shit is that Nia?!

  Standing on the opposite end of the driveway is the petite woman I’ve been anticipating seeing for months. Being caught off guard like this, I could not be less prepared. I expected maybe some cool interaction at the resort where I pull up laughing with Cameron and Grace. We’re having a good time! See? I can be chill!

  Instead I’m running late and looking like a complete asshole, and she is absolutely stunning and out of my league.

  Her white-blonde hair is a mess on the top of her head, her smooth arms still lifted up in the process of tying it. She’s wearing a very conservative blue collared tank top and thigh-length Bermuda shorts that cover way too much of her beautiful, slender legs. Her knees are already pink from the sun, and her cream-colored sneakers are just one shade darker than the tint of her pure, porcelain skin.

  This day could only get better if I were devouring her right here and now.

  “Well isn’t this a nice surprise,” I say, lowering my sunglasses and raising them again. I pop my trunk and retrieve my bag to throw in the back of Cameron’s Jeep, gingerly laying my suit down over it.

  “Oh,” is the only response I get from Nia.

  “I bet if you knew I was tagging along, you would have walked to Florida,” I say, giving a good-natured laugh. This only elicits a lifted eyebrow and a turn on her heel toward the rear driver’s side of the car.

  “Right,” I say, letting out an exhalation. I was supposed to be coo
l, damn it!

  Cameron grins back at me from the front seat. “Heyyy man,” he says, dragging out the first word as if this is some really awesome coincidence that I met him here.

  I nod my head. “Congratulations on marriage. Or, well, to-be marriage.” I’m flustered. I just got here and I’m fucking flustered. I grip the car’s top cage and easily swing my way in. My long legs easily scale this car’s height while Nia, on the other hand, struggles to make her way in. I hold out my hand to assist, but she grips the side handle harder and pulls herself in with a determined, neutral stare. Her face is either pink from hatred of me or because she’s already burning from the sun.

  “Polly, you’re already looking like a lobster,” I say, laughing. She throws me look. It’s not exactly a glare, but it still sends shivers down my spine. It’s both terrifying and enticing all at once.

  “Hopefully I’ll grow claws too so I can pinch you,” Nia says through pursed lips.

  “So crabby,” I tease.

  Grace forces out a sarcastic, bored laugh while Cameron’s laugh from behind the wheel is genuine. “Ha ha,” Grace says. “You guys are so hilarious. What good fun.” I’m willing to bet the last thing Nia is thinking is how much “fun” this week will be. I plan to prove her wrong.

  “I believe this will be a week for the ages,” I say with a grin. Nia’s eyebrow is lifted once more, as if analyzing any hidden meaning behind my sentence. She has this eternal look to her, like she’s waiting for me to present my ulterior motives out in the open—like I’m out to get her or something.

  “Sure it will,” she says in a flat tone.

  Grace huffs and I turn to see her pointing between the two of us accusingly as she walks to the passenger side, hopping in. “Now listen to me: I don’t want to deal with you two bickering the whole way down.” Her finger stops in front of me. “So, control yourself, Ian.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, she’s talking about you,” Nia says, buckling her seatbelt.