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 interior design studio smells like sawdust, glue, and the unmistakable tang of pure exhaustion.
Honestly, if I could bottle this smell, I'd call it Desperation No. 5 and sell it to all those stressed-out overachievers out there because the government knows we'd be too powerful if we had serotonin.
I've been here all weekend—Saturday, Sunday, and now the better part of Monday.
The long wooden drafting tables, with their battle scars of pencil marks and knife nicks, have become my second home, and the industrial fluorescent lights above have started to feel like the sun I never get to see anymore. It's only coffee and glitter gel pen running through these veins, and the bags under my eyes are so bad they're basically suitcases at this point.
But somehow, I'm not drowning anymore. Not entirely, at least.
After Friday's epic failure of a meeting with Lea—where she yanked the floor out from under me while still looking like a Pinterest board come to life—I've been in survival mode.
I know she believes in me. That's the part that stings the most. She expects me to reach that potential. Hell, she wants me to. And she's not wrong. I've been distracted. I've been coasting. I've been... not myself.
And it's not just the portfolio stuff. It's not just the fear of not measuring up or the crushing pressure of knowing only two internships are up for grabs in our entire program.
It's Wes.
I want to blame him. It'd be easier that way. But the truth? It's not his fault. Not even a little.
It's me. I've let him distract me. I've wanted him to distract me. I've let his ridiculous smile and his southern charm worm their way under my skin, and then I've turned around and blamed him when I fell behind. How's that fair?
So, I've made a decision. I'm fixing this. Alone.
No more distractions. No more spiraling. No more thinking about Wes Reed, with his stupid jawline and his big, stupid hands and the way he looks at me like I'm the only person in the world who matters. Nope. No more of that.
I've gone without it for the past twenty years. I can do it for another.
Or maybe like five. Two.
Let's just settle for six months.
I've been in this studio for the better part of three days now, slowly digging myself out of the hole I've fallen into. And for the first time in weeks, it feels like I can breathe again.
The model is done. The renderings are polished. My material board—although still a little rough—is starting to come together. Progress. Actual, tangible progress.
And yet, Wes is still there.
Still living rent-free.
Although not front and center exactly, he's been relocated to the garden shed of my brain like some sort of emotional squatter.
