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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The hum of the studio is soothing—a blend of muted chatter, the scratch of pencils on paper, and the faint whirr of a printer in the corner. It smells like sawdust, fresh coffee, and the faint tang of glue—it's oddly comforting to me.
I sit at my drafting desk, the table on a slight incline. The natural light from the tall windows spills in, catching on the sheets of drafting paper and material swatches spread out in front of me.
My laptop sits open, a mess of AutoCAD renderings and mood boards on the screen, while my portfolio binder lies spread open.
I'm perfectly still—I don't even think I'm breathing—as I watch Lea Beauchamp flip through the binder. I don't want to spook her or break her concentration as she hums under her breath—a sound that could mean anything from this is geniusto this is a war crime.
Lea Beauchamp is everything I aspire to be and more. She's my icon, my idol, my Mr. Miyagi, my Jesus Christ.
Tall and poised, she's a total vision in her deep plum turtleneck knit tank, its chunky texture contrasting against her flawless ebony skin. Her presence screams, I'm here to slay your life, fix your lighting plan, and make you cry—but in a good way.
And I love her for it.
Her bald head gleams in the sunlight, emphasizing her sharp cheekbones and warm brown eyes. Pearl earrings are in her ears, and her hands—adorned with chunky silver rings on nearly every finger—are a work of art themselves.
"Okay," she says finally, stopping on a spread of my rooftop garden project. She taps a plum-polished nail against the rendering, her brow furrowing.
Oh god. Is the proportion off? Does the shading suck? Does she hate the color palette?
Fuck. I'm going to have to think of a whole new career.
I'm thinking WaltMart Manager. Gotta aim high plus the blue of the uniforms ain't too bad.
"This," she says, gesturing with a flourish of her hand that was probably taught at some exclusive design school in Paris, "is absolutely beautiful, mon chéri."
My soul practically leaves my body.
"It is gorgeous, Cam," she continues, her thick Louisiana accent stretching the word out until it sounds like gow-jus, dripping with approval.
She leans forward, her elbow on the table and her chin in her palm, as she gestures to the rendering.
"This rooftop garden? Inspired. These lines?" She drags her nail over the curved pathways I've agonized over for hours. "They're soft. Inviting. And that color palette?"
She pauses, gesturing toward the soft neutrals accented with bold pops of emerald and sapphire.
"It's giving money. It's giving luxury. It's giving please let me drink wine and contemplate my life under this trellis."
