His steely eyes slowly move to my lips. Land there, hesitating a few heartbeats before those giant hands of his get stuffed back inside his pockets. “I should get going.”
“Right. Well. Have a good weekend.”
Instead of going to the counter, like I expect him to, Rome Blackburn walks back out the door.
Completely empty-handed.
And it almost reflects how I feel. After flirting and practically throwing myself at Rome, I’m beginning to see it might be a complete waste of my time. He won’t give in. He won’t give me my one night of passion. In fact, he probably won’t even consider me for future work. All our interactions of late have been . . . rough. Not once has he taken me seriously as a viable resource in marketing. And if I truly want his business, which I know I do, that needs to change. He expects professionalism at all times. And really? He actually deserves it.
So, that’s that I guess. Time to . . . time to what?
Move on?
How the hell do I do that?
Chapter Eleven
PEYTON
To: [email protected]
I stare at the notification in my inbox, confused at what I’m seeing—an email from Rome. From him first, not a reply to something I’ve sent him. I stare, shocked that he’s messaged me.
It would be thrilling if I hadn’t just decided I couldn’t keep this little game up; it could hurt me professionally.
I have to stop.
End whatever this is that I’ve started.
If only it wasn’t so difficult . . . and fun.
Bantering with him is fun, and it turns me on, and I’ve never wanted anyone more in my life than I want him, even when he’s being an asshole.
Curious, I click open my emails, scrolling to the only email I give a shit about. Rome’s.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
I must be bored as hell if I’m sending you a note, or maybe because I have an employee driving me nuts, and I need to expel some energy. You, of all people, whose identity I do not know—and who has caused havoc in the office--tell me that isn’t the most fucked-up thing you’ve heard all week. Why do I keep messaging you? I don’t know you. I don’t know if I can trust you—you’re probably gossiping about this shit and showing all your work friends. Is that what you’re doing? Be honest; I’m the only one here with something to lose.
RMB
Shit.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I bite my bottom lip and sit back in my chair. I shouldn’t engage.
Do NOT engage, Peyton.
You need to be professional with this man. You need to keep him on your good side, because you never know when you might need him.
And yet, I’m almost ninety-five percent positive I’m the unruly employee he’s talking about. There is no doubt in my mind he left the coffee shop Friday only to go back to his fancy apartment and stew over our interaction.
Rome is a sharp and shrewd businessman with an amazing ability to find what’s working and what’s not, but lately, it seems like he’s been having trouble, and me sticking my nose into his new campaign hasn’t helped.
To be fair, he did ask my opinion.
I can see the uncertainty in his eyes and he’s never uncertain. Even though I don’t want to gloat about it, I know he’s finally figured out my departure is having an impact on the campaign, and I almost feel bad. I was mostly joking around Friday night, but now I’ve put all these little clues together: the uneasiness in his demeanor; how he already looked through my profile; the weird random meeting about the campaign; and the initiation of an email.
Let’s face it. The powerful Rome Blackburn has been knocked down a peg.
And I feel bad.
Gah, why do I feel bad?
Maybe because I can see the vulnerability in his eyes and in his words.
You’re probably gossiping about this shit and showing all your work friends. Is that what you’re doing?
I’m sure he doesn’t have many people to talk to other than Hunter. He’s reaching. And damn it, I can’t sit back and not respond. Maybe it’s my kind heart or my inability to let go of this crazy and fun journey, but even though I know I shouldn’t, I write him back.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
No. I promise you, I am not gossiping about you with my friends. They had no idea that I even harbored a crush on you, if that’s what we’re going to call it. Crush. Lust. I let it slip that night I was drinking—and honestly, they tried to talk me out of it. You’re not the most popular guy in the office, even if you are the boss.
What did you do this past weekend? Anything interesting?
LSY
Annnd . . . send.
There. I did it.
It’s out there in the Interweb now, and I can’t take it back.
What’s really strange is that I’ve pretty much confessed to this man about everything I wish I could do to him in his office, from bending over on his desk to getting fucked against his office window and yet, the one thing that is making my stomach break out in a flutter of butterflies is my last question.
What did you do this past weekend?
Seems stupid to be so worried about a simple question, but it’s more personal. It brings these emails to a more intimate level rather than just flirty talk.
That’s terrifying to me because what if he doesn’t answer? What if he thinks—
Ding.
Quickly I look over my back to make sure no one is watching me and open the email.
It’s from Rome and my heart-rate accelerates.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Anything interesting? No. I lay low. For once, I didn’t work this weekend. Bumped into someone from work at the coffee shop where I hang out, which was kind of weird. What about you?
Never in my entire life have I been high. I’m a good girl who has never smoked a thing or even tested out any recreational substances, but this feeling shooting my veins, this feeling of Rome having an ACTUAL conversation with me rather than threats and lectures? This has to be what a high feels like.
TO: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Why was it weird that you bumped into someone from work?
And he’s totally talking about me. I knew there was an off chance I made a lasting weekend impression on him. I just need to make sure it was a good one and not a bad one.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Did I say weird? I meant fucking awkward. This woman is someone I clash with on a regular basis, so it was a shock to see her in “my spot” sitting at “my” table, in my damn neighborhood.
Eh, okay.
There goes that good impression.
Awkward? I didn’t think it was awkward, more . . . entertaining. Well, it was entertaining for me, maybe not for him as much since I was the one pressuring him when he was looking for help . . .
No! I will not feel bad about that. If he wants my expertise, then he can hire me for what he wants. There.
And what was he doing at MY coffee place to begin with? I’m practically married to the damn shop. Our invites are on backorder right now, so there is no way he’s been there before.
TO: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
And you’ve never seen her there before? How is that possible?
I cross my arms over my chest and rock in my chair. Yes, how is that possible?
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Yeah, I was thinking about that too. In all honesty, I haven’t been there much lately. Too busy working. Thought I’d go and sit and enjoy the evening—but that didn’t happen. She was sitting there, working, and the whole thing threw me off. I walked out without g
etting my coffee—felt like such a fucking idiot. But whatever. Think I should find a new coffee shop?
Felt like an idiot?
Don’t feel bad for him, Peyton. DON’T YOU DARE feel bad for him.
Okay.
I might feel a little bad for him.
I threw him off, made him feel awkward, and then sent him on his way when he just wanted to enjoy a nice cup of Joe.
I giggle to myself, recounting our interaction. I was in rare form. Confidence oozed from me, and I shouldn’t be ashamed of that.
The only thing I should be ashamed of is letting my coffee get lukewarm while talking to him.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
You LIVE in that area where she was hanging out? What neighborhood was it?
Time to get a little more personal. Not that I’m going to stalk him or anything . . .
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
I’d rather not say. I live in the same building I lived in when I graduated from college. Granted, I own the building now, but still. Where did you think I lived? No—don’t tell me. Some snotty complex in Manhattan or Tribeca? Maybe a brownstone in Gramercy? Are you stereotyping me? Because I own my own company and I’m young? Tsk, tsk, shame on you.
RMB
P.S.: Your email handle makes me fucking laugh every time I type it in. Hands roming my body. So fucking ridiculous.
I take a deep breath as another wave of butterflies erupt in the hollow of my stomach.
He’s joking with me.
He’s interacting with me.
He’s opening up to me.
This might be too much to take in one day. In the matter of half an hour, Rome has morphed into an entirely different man behind the screen. He’s no longer the angry tyrant.
No, he’s become the hot guy with a sensitive heart. I am totally screwed. It was one thing to fantasize about fucking him, and another completely to consider emailing him back and forth with ridiculous banter. And chemistry. Don’t get me started on the idea of having to continue working with him. But now, the idea of being more? Of possibly being his friend? It’s scaring me shitless. Would Rome actually let someone like me in? Could he consider me a friend, or am I setting myself up for an even bigger drop when this is over?
Chapter Twelve
ROME
I have a goddamn smile on my face.
It’s spread from ear to ear, and for the life of me, I can’t wipe it away. I try to relax my cheeks, I try to pinch my eyes together, I even try to pout my lip like a child, but I can’t get rid of this smile.
I have clearly lost it.
Fucking lost my mind.
This is what happens when you work too hard, when you spend hours upon hours hovering over the blue screen of your computer trying to make your company the best in the world. There is a breaking point.
There is always a breaking point, and I think this is mine.
I’m smiling about a goddamn email chain that I shouldn’t be partaking in.
I should have deleted this ridiculousness the minute it started.
But I didn’t.
I only added to the problem by responding and making this girl’s ass the center of my computer screen.
Fuck, it’s such a nice ass.
I sit back in my chair, cross my ankle over my knee, and click on the email’s that are somehow lighting up my entire damn day, and this dreary and cold office.
TO: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
I’m not stereotyping you. Well, not exactly—maybe just a little. **holds fingers an inch apart to display the teeniest, tiniest bit of judgment** I mean, do you blame me? You stalk into the office and sit behind a huge desk, behind a glass wall. It’s . . . intimidating. So yes, I would have assumed you’d live somewhere posh. Posh, LOL, what a very British thing to say. Fun Fact: I spent a semester in London when I was in college, and it’s my favorite city in the whole wide world, not including NYC.
Can I ask you a question? If you own an outdoor adventure company . . . why are you based in New York, and not somewhere like Colorado? I’ve always wondered that.
LSY
* * *
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Why am I in New York? Well, I went to school here, and my parents are in Buffalo, so it made sense. I don’t see them often, but we are close. Plus, my grandmother is at an assisted living facility about half an hour out of the city and WHY AM I TELLING YOU THIS? It’s none of your business. LOL. But since we’re on the subject—yeah, I wouldn’t stay if it weren’t for them. Maybe someday I’ll pull the plug and move the company to a city that makes more sense. But for now, I’d like to remain close to family.
And as far as my neighborhood—I fucking love it. I love that everyone minds their own business and no one puts on pretenses. That’s the bullshit I can’t stand and why I’m so close to my best friend.
I adjust the sleeves of my white shirt and twist my lips to the side. Maybe it’s time to grab some coffee, peruse the cubicles . . .
That’s a good fucking idea, procrastination at its finest. I should be going over Hunter’s numbers, but I’m too distracted to even consider going through his jungle of numbers typed and put together in the worst way possible.
I stand from my desk, shuck the jacket, loosen my tie over my head, and undo a few buttons of my white dress shirt. Carefully, I roll up the sleeves and run my fingers through my hair for good measure—and not because somewhere out there is a woman who likes to see my hair tussled.
Nope. It’s just a hot day, that’s all. I don’t even need a jacket.
Time to get some coffee.
The glass doors to my office close behind me just as Lauren’s head picks up from the eReader in her lap. She thinks she’s so clever, but I know what she’s doing.
“Mr. Blackburn, can I get you anything?”
“I’m good. Just make sure you have those accounting reports on my desk by the end of the day.” I press the down button to the elevator, and I’m pleased when the doors open right away.
“Yes, of course,” she answers as the elevator doors close.
Hands in pockets, I make my way around the marketing and advertising floor once the elevator doors open. Everyone seems to be hard at work . . . for the most part. There are a few people sitting in each other’s cubicles, talking and laughing, but the minute they lay eyes on me, they duck their heads and walk away.
I smirk to myself.
Looks like LSY is right. I am known as a tyrant. I haven’t even said anything to anyone, but the floor quickly silences, the sounds of keyboards clacking lifts into the air.
I walk past George, who is eating a muffin, napkin stuffed in the V of his shirt, and licking his fingers. When he looks up from his pastry, he waves frantically, so excited to see me on the floor. I nod back and continue to walk to the break room where I find Peyton pouring herself a cup of coffee.
Sneaking up, I say, “Do you plan on making another cup?”
She startles, spilling coffee on the floor, her bottom half backed away from her hands to avoid any coffee burns.
“Christ.” She sets down the coffeepot and shakes her hand, ridding it of the brown liquid. “You can’t just walk up on people like that.”
From above the sink, I rip off a rectangle of paper towel for her and hand it over. “Here.”
Giving me a look, she snags the paper towel from me and starts cleaning up. “What brings you down here?”
I lean against the countertop, arms folded, eyes trained on Peyton, who is wearing a tight-fitting red dress that wraps around her waist and ties around the side. Her tits look fucking fantastic on prominent display like that.
Shit, I shouldn’t be looking at her tits.
But hell, could her dress be any more low-cut?
I clear my throat and look
at my feet. “Thought I would spend a little more time walking around, seeing if anyone needs anything from me.”
She’s mid-wipe of her hands when she looks at me from the side, her head tilted, her eyes pinched together in confusion.
“You decided to walk around to see if anyone needs anything from you?”
“Yeah.” I shrug nonchalantly while snagging an apple from a bowl behind me and taking a bite out of it.
Bite. Chew. Chew.
Her eyes narrow in on my mouth, watching intently as I work the apple around.
Chew. Chew. Bite.
Her eyes stay fixed on my lips, longer than they should, longer than what’s appropriate for a workplace. I count the seconds that go by.
One.
Two.
Three.
Blinking rapidly, she pulls her eyes away and crumples the wet paper towel in her hand only to toss it in the trash in front of her.
Clearing her throat, she rests her hands on the counter and looks around frantically as she says, “Uh, do you want coffee?”
Chew. Bite. Chew. “This apple is actually working for me.” I tilt my head and say, “Are you okay, Peyton? You’re looking a little flushed.”
She pats her cheeks, eyes widening. “Do I? Oh, must be the temperature in here. It’s called air conditioning, Rome. Try turning it on.”
“It’s a constant, cool sixty-eight degrees in the office at all times. Maybe . . . it’s you.”
Bite. Chew.
Nervously, she laughs and flips her hair over her shoulder. “Oh no, I put my deodorant on this morning, so I’m good.” Eyes widening, a horrified look crosses her features as she bites down on her bottom lip, shaking her head as if trying to shake the last few seconds form her memory. “I mean, I’m not going through menopause. Still a young caterpillar over here.”
“Caterpillar?” I lift my brow in her direction.
Love Sincerely Yours Page 10
