Love Sincerely Yours

by Quinn, Meghan

  I sigh, leaning back in my chair, loosening the tie I only wore to impress my investors. It’s shocking blue against my blue shirt with its sleeves rolled and pushed to my elbows.

  Shoving my keyboard to the side, I lean forward, resting my forearms on the wood surface in front of me. Clasp my hands.

  Shoot Hunter an impatient glare.

  “I have no one to replace her with. Have you not been listening? This morning’s meeting was a fucking shitshow. If she leaves, I’m fucked. We’ve been pitching to Outdoor Ecosphere, and I need her for marketing.”

  “But you said the marketing people sucked.”

  “She’s not on the marketing team; she’s been doing all the social media, and she’s good.” I admit this last part begrudgingly, my lip actually curling.

  How would I know? I stalked our online presence the better half of an hour, like a moron, clicking through our website, Instagram, and Twitter. Clean, branded, and timely, her posts are clever and funny—yet professional.

  Just as her personal pages are.

  And I would know, because I scoped those out pretty damn hard, too.

  Shit.

  Shit.

  Shit.

  “So you’re just going to let her stay.” Chew. Swallow.

  Chew.

  The squishy sound of gooey caramel being masticated makes me want to reach across the desk and strangle him.

  “Yes.” I flip a pencil to occupy my hands until it rolls off the desk and falls to the floor.

  “And you have zero interest in banging her.”

  I raise my eyes and glare. “Why are you like this?”

  Hunter O’Rourke shrugs beneath the plaid flannel of his shirt. “Why are you being so bitchy?”

  Hunter and I have history; only he gets away with calling me bitchy, mostly because I’m aware I’m acting like an asshole. I am, in fact, being bitchy.

  It’s no secret that I’m an unrelenting asshole; I don’t like cheerful people. Or being cheerful.

  Or people.

  Yeah—definitely don’t like people.

  But I love O’Rourke like a brother, even though he’s nothing but a giant asshole most of the time.

  We met in middle school when his family moved in next door, a big moving van pulling up to the front of a house that had been empty an entire four months a few weeks before school started.

  He climbed out of the cab with the movers, stood on the curb, shielding his face with his hands, staring at the house. Climbed inside the cab and came back with a baseball mitt.

  He pounded the leather a few times before catching my eye, then he raised it up, shrugging.

  I had a ball and ran to retrieve it.

  Lobbed it at the little bastard hard as I could.

  And when he caught it?

  The rest was history.

  In high school, we both played baseball. Got in trouble for all kinds of shit, ranging from busting our parents’ windows to sneaking out, to getting shitfaced and staying out past curfew.

  In high school, Hunter broke up with my girlfriends for me; in college, I broke up with his. He became the sensitive one—giving an actual shit about people’s feelings. But me?

  Didn’t give a shit at all. Still don’t.

  I worked my ass off in school, carrying a full course load of credits and working one crap job after the next. Saved. Invested.

  I was the levelheaded one.

  I was the stiff collar.

  I was the buzzkill while Hunter partied. Fucked anything with a pulse.

  Business minded, I went on to get my master’s, while he dabbled in random, shitty side jobs. Honestly, I think he was waiting for me to hatch a plan that would put us both into business.

  And I did.

  Roam, Inc.

  A play on my name—O’Rourke’s idea (sometimes he has good ones)—I spent the two years busting ass on my postgrad, restless as shit. Wanted adventure but needed to fucking work. Loved the outdoors. Testing boundaries and limits and seeking an adrenaline high.

  Roam around the world is what I wanted to do.

  Rome.

  I’m synonymous with my brand; it’s who I am. The company is me, and I am the company. That’s why it pissed me off that little Miss Goodie Two Shoes quit without a care. To my fucking face. Who does that?

  “Why am I like what?” Hunter is staring at me, head cocked to the side, fingers steepled in front of his mouth, waiting.

  “Huh?”

  “You asked why the hell I’m like this.” He uses air quotes around the words “like this.” “Get your head out of your ass.” The bastard laughs, tipping his head back. “Who the hell is this girl?”

  Girl?

  Hardly.

  Peyton is all woman; a bashful, but somewhat ballsy woman.

  “Why is everything about women and sex with you?”

  “It’s not. I just know you’re not getting any. Maybe we should go out this weekend; get the lead out. Dude, I can see the sperm retention bulging out of the veins on the side of your temples. You need to get laid, man.”

  He’s right. I do.

  But unlike O’Rourke, I’m the discriminating sort. I require someone more polished than the cheap women he picks up at the bar. Someone classy, who won’t demand anything in return but a quick ride on my cock. A one-way orgasm to the front door of my townhouse afterward.

  Someone that not only rolls out of my bed immediately afterward but does it without talking to me.

  Try finding one of those in a town where everyone knows my name.

  My goddamn face is plastered on the side of a city bus with the company’s slogan. Last year, one of the marketing geniuses wanted to capitalize on my good looks, complete with a globe, a heart circling it, and my face. I must have been shit-faced when I signed off on it because, Holy Christ. The women.

  They’ve been relentless.

  I run one of my giant palms down my face, swiveling in my chair, face my best friend, and snort. “Do me a favor and don’t talk about sex at work. It’s unprofessional.”

  “It’s unprofessional,” he mimics, pinching the bridge of his nose so it sounds like he was sucking on helium. “Where is that in the code of conduct, anyway?”

  “Page eight,” I remind him with a straight face.

  “That’s right. You wrote the damn thing.” I’ve never seen a grown man roll his eyes more than he does.

  “No. The legal department did.”

  Hunter’s shoulders rise and fall as he inspects his nails. “Same thing.”

  “Not the same thing,” I grind out. “Why are you arguing with me?”

  He ignores me completely and plows on to a new subject. “When do you want to go out this weekend? Let’s head to Skeeters. I hear they have a band playing.”

  The last thing I want to do is listen to a fucking band play when I have voices screaming inside my head about deadlines. All I want is some damn peace and quiet, and he’s determined to make my fucking life miserable.

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “Think harder.” He pauses. “Better yet, think with your dick.”

  I snort.

  I haven’t let that appendage lead me around in years. Not since college, and only during a phase where I’d take study breaks to drink, party, and slake my sexual appetite.

  Hunter used to deliver willing girls to my dorm room so I wouldn’t have to leave; girls who willingly got down on their knees and blew me off. Efficient. Emotionless.

  “How long has it been?”

  Months.

  Who has the damn time?

  I scoff. “I’m not discussing this with you.”

  Hunter laughs again, and the sound grates on my last nerve. “Months, I bet.”

  He’s relentless.

  Which makes him the perfect business partner.

  Which makes him an aggravating friend.

  My hands go behind my head and I lace my fingers together. “Oh, and you have so much free time you’re getting banged on a
regular basis?”

  His cocky grin falters. “I’ve been getting laid more than you have.”

  True.

  My thoughts drift to Peyton Lévêque and the last photo she posted of herself on her Instagram account. Hair in a messy pile atop her head. Smile wide. Hiking in the woods with a godawful-looking mutt, with a Roam, Inc. signature walking stick.

  I nodded with satisfaction at that small detail. Brand loyalty, I like it.

  “Are we done here?” I’m close to grinding my teeth.

  “Not until you agree to hit the bars with me this weekend. It’s been forever.”

  It has been.

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “I’ll pick you up tomorrow at nine.”

  “Nine?” Do I sound horrified? I’m in bed by then.

  “Jesus Christ, Rome, quit acting like a seventy-year-old.”

  I feel like I am sometimes, as the weight of responsibilities pile up on my broad shoulders.

  “Bro, admit it. You could use a drink.”

  I hate when he’s right, so I argue. “I have beer in the fridge under my desk.”

  “A real drink.”

  My mouth twists at the corners. “Fine.”

  Hunter cackles, finally removing his fucking boots from my walnut desk. “Man, that was easier than I thought.”

  Cocky dickhead.

  “Get the hell out of my office.”

  His loud laugh follows him out, and I catch Lauren hiding her smile as she ducks her head behind a file folder.

  Shit.

  Chapter Three

  PEYTON

  “To the birthday girl!”

  Clink.

  “To being single and ready to mingle!”

  Clink.

  We raise our shot glasses, brimming with a red concoction known as a Swedish Fish. I don’t know what’s in it, but after shot number two, who the hell even cares?

  I wouldn’t mind downing a few more.

  I throw up my finger to the bartender, ordering another round.

  “To Peyton.”

  Clink, clink, clink . . . and down the gullet they go. Smooth. Hot. Burning just enough to make it worth the while.

  My cheeks pucker; my lips smack together. I squeeze my blue eyes shut, the liquid washing down my throat, skin tingling—all inhibitions getting ready to fly.

  This is my night and after the week I’ve had, I’m going to enjoy it.

  The shot glasses hit the tabletop with the resounding glass-on-wood plunk, my little circle of friends grinning back at me as my gaze roams the table.

  Ugh, these girls—I love them so much.

  And . . . okay. So I’m feeling emotional tonight.

  Sentimental even?

  Definitely drunk.

  Drunk as a damn skunk.

  I giggle, watching Gen, Vivian, and Kimberly, three girls I feel like I’ve grown up with at Roam, Inc.

  Not just professionally, but personally.

  In the few short years I’ve been with the company, we’ve become close friends. Fast friends. Even closer confidants.

  God, I love these guys.

  Girls. Guys.

  Guh!

  You know what I mean . . .

  Genevieve and I started at the company at the same time, quickly followed by Viv and Kim, who both work in the marketing department—one of the toughest departments at Roam, Inc. Rome is very demanding about being innovative, thinking outside the box, and being at the forefront of promotion rather than being a follower.

  He’s up their ass constantly.

  Rome’s strict and vigorous demands is one of the reasons we spend our girl nights in the same red-leather booth in the back of Skeeters in SOHO, snacking on their world-famous smoked sea salt popcorn, and sipping our overpriced handcrafted cocktails, high heels piled into a mountain under the table.

  But today is different.

  Today we celebrate my thirtieth birthday. The big three oh.

  God, I wish I had more Os in my life.

  More sex. More banging.

  More orgasms.

  Thank God my loud sigh is drowned out by the noise of the bar. I don’t want to be that girl on my birthday night.

  “Welcome to the dirty-thirty club,” Gen says, snagging a few pieces of popcorn from the center of the table and popping them between her ruby-red lips. “You’re going to love it.”

  The margarita I ordered off the cocktail menu is pinched between my fingers, and as I drink it, cherry rhubarb bitters hit the right spot, filling my flat stomach with a wave of warmth.

  There is a limit when I drink—three shots, one drink—and I’ve definitely exceeded it.

  My limit is a happy place; I can sit back, take in the people who are drunker than me and be entertained. My limit stops me from getting plastered.

  And from making poor choices.

  “I think thirty looks good on me.” I smooth my hands over a tight-fitting black dress, one that turned a few heads at work today. Unfortunately, the one head I wanted to turn never made an appearance on my floor.

  As usual.

  Man, do I have shitty luck.

  Why would he show his face though? He only calls us to his office if he wants to speak to us. Or reprimand us, and in the five years I’ve been at Roam, Inc., I’ve never been called to his office once.

  Maybe I’m a little bitter because I looked freaking good today. Would it have killed him to split from his office and catch a glimpse of me?

  “Thirty is the new twenty-five.” I give my dark hair a flip.

  “Thirty looks really good on you, babe,” Kim agrees, lifting her glass toward me. “So do your boobs, if you don’t mind me saying.”

  My chest pops out.

  Popcorn kernels fly every which way when Viv gestures toward my breasts—she doesn’t hold her liquor well—her sassy grin staring holes into the front of my chest.

  I raise my brows expectantly; waiting.

  Vivian’s next words do not disappoint as she slurs out loud, “Now we just have to get you laid for your birthday.”

  “Our gift to you.”

  Their gift to me . . . Oh shit, no.

  My already hot face burns. “You did not hire me an escort.”

  I’m hissing, leaning over the table so they can hear me, horrified.

  They are talking so loud, and now I am, too.

  “Shh, relax.” Vivian’s inebriated hands wave me off. “God, no—I don’t have the money for that—”

  “But if we did have the monies, we totally would have,” Gen adds.

  A wobbly nod. “Totally would have.”

  “We’re going to find you a man in here to bang.”

  Viv claps her hands, hopping on the seat of the booth, making the whole bench bounce. “Yes, yes. We love that idea.” She pops her head up over the booth, determined to assess the pool of men flooding the overcrowded bar. “Let’s see, there’s a guy over there with some heavy-duty sideburns that could be promising.”

  “Sideburns are for werewolves,” Kim announces, sitting on her knees so she can get a better view of the perimeter. “What about Mr. Sunshine State there with the blond hair and sunglasses? He looks fuckable.”

  Oh. My. God. “Would you keep it down?”

  “Relax.” Viv pats my hand. “No one can hear us.”

  “Sunglasses in a bar?” Genevieve scoffs, watching the guy wearing a pink polo and shades. “He’s either a total douchebag or he’s high as a kite and doesn’t want people to know. Next.”

  Vivian’s shrewd eyes hit the bar . . . move toward the pool tables . . . scan the tables along the back of the room. Then she raises her hand and makes an “ooo, ooo” sound like she’s waiting to be called on in class.

  Deadpanning, Gen says, “Yes, Viv, can we help you?”

  “What about that guy? The one in the dark suit?”

  She points; I push down her arm.

  “There are twenty guys here wearing dark suits, you’re going to have to be more specific.”
Kimberly takes a sip of her drink, rolling her eyes.

  “You guys . . .” I begin weakly, defenseless against them.

  See, the thing is: I don’t like hooking up with random strangers—that’s Vivian’s gig, not mine. Another thing? I’m stupidly holding out for one passionate night from a certain someone who didn’t know I even existed until yesterday when I quit, despite the many times we’ve been in the same room together, no fraternizing policy or not.

  I glumly recite the rules from the Employee Handbook in my head:

  “No employee of Roam, Inc. may date another employee who is separated by more than one level in the heirarchy. This includes an employee who reports to their boss’s counterpart in another department.”

  And it got better, via an addendum memo send round only thirty days ago:

  “No employee of Roam, Inc. may date an employee who reports to their boss’s counterpart in another department.”

  I’ve read these rules no less than one hundred times.

  Wishful thinking.

  Daydreaming.

  “Employees of Roam, Inc. who disregard this policy will be subject to disciplinary actions, up to and including immediate termination.”

  Termination: that was slightly sobering.

  I drink from the glass in front of me, disregarding my limit, and then shake my head when Vivian elbows me in the rib cage, knocking me out of my stupor.

  “Huh?”

  “That one.” Her tone is stalwart. Absolute. “The one with the tailor-made suit jacket, messy hair. Drop-dead gorgeous jaw—”

  “Holy—”

  “Shit.”

  It’s a collective gasp from my friends. Collective cursing.

  Collective covering.

  All three of my friends fly back on their asses and duck for cover.

  “What the ever loving . . . What the hell is he doing here?” Kimberly breathes, putting a napkin in front of her face. To mask it?

  “The nerve of him.” Viv ducks under her cardigan like it’s a cloak of invisibility. “This is our drinking hole, not his.”

  Gen’s eyes are narrowed into dangerous slits as she stares at me, hiding behind the bowl of popcorn. “Cover your face, or he’ll see you.”