“Did I say caterpillar? That’s weird, I don’t know why I said that.” Another nervous giggle. She picks up the coffee mug and examines its contents. “You know, I think it’s the coffee. A little too much caffeine on an empty stomach.”
“Oh . . . do you want some of my apple?” I lend my half-eaten apple to her that she eyes only to be followed by her gaze landing on my mouth again.
“No.” She shakes her head. “I’m good. Going to grab a Pop-Tart from the vending machine. Screw the diet today, you know.” She nods and then rests her hands on her hips, looking around. Fuck, she’s flustered . . . and I love it. She had me out of sorts on Friday night, as if I had disrupted her little domain. And now, she’s on the back foot. Not so sassy and confident now. Interesting. “Guess I’ll go do some more social media posts. Can’t like comments enough.”
“If you’re just liking comments, why don’t you come up with some marketing ideas for the women’s campaign?”
She pauses and then whips toward me, the fire I saw the other day in her eyes returning as she’s snapped out of her stupor. And I smile. I can’t help it. Turns out I like Peyton both sassy and contrite. “Care to pay me more to do that?”
“Does it look like I’m about to cut you another check?”
“It would behoove you to do so.”
“Don’t say behoove; you’re not seventy.”
“And you’re my boss for only two more days, so unless you plan on paying me extra, I’m going to sit in my comfy spinny chair, answer emails, and like all the comments I want.” She leans forward. “On your dime.”
With a wink, she walks away, a sway to her nice, dress-covered ass.
* * *
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
I bet by now you want to know what floor I am on at the office, don’t you? **flips hair** Ha ha. You can’t see me and have no idea what I look like. Is it driving you nuts? Trust me—you’d think I’m cute. Maybe. Possibly? Ugh, I don’t know—what’s your type? You tell me yours and I’ll tell you mine. Deal?
LSY
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
My type. Physically? I’m going to assume that’s what you mean, but I’ll dive a little deeper, if only for my own edification. Taller women. Smart, obviously—someone educated. Someone professional who understands that I do not have time for anything other than a quick lay or a one-night stand. She doesn’t want a relationship. I’m attracted to dark features—dark hair and eyes. Quiet.
Can’t stand a woman who has a smart mouth. Know any like that?
RMB
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Do I know any women with smart mouths? **coughs** I might know one or two, ha ha. Won’t admit to whether or not I have one myself.
**taps chin** My type . . . my type. What’s my type . . . I have a few of them. Tall and athletic. Fit. Um . . . Oh! I love tattoos, although I’ve never dated anyone with any. And piercings, which is totally random. Beards get me hot. I follow this amazing account on Instagram of hot dudes with beards and tats, ha ha. But anyway, I digress. My type is handsome and smart and funny. Someone who can make me laugh. But not in a cheesy way, because I can’t stand predictable jokes.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
I’m not funny.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
No, you’re not. Not even a little.
But . . .
There is something about you . . .
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Something about me . . .
Like what?
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Well, let me see if I can put my finger on it; paint you a picture, if you will. When I see you, there’s something about you that makes me stop and watch you. You have this way about you—I don’t even mind your cold glares. They mean something. And you don’t blow smoke up anyone’s ass or sugarcoat anything. Which I know a lot of people resent or take personally, but I know why you do it. I know you work hard and take it seriously and that you care. We can all see it, and I respect you for it. You’re handsome. You’re smart. You’re . . . yes. You’re intimidating, but what man in your position isn’t? And your friendship with Hunter O’Rourke is too damn adorable—yeah, I said it. ADORABLE. I’ve seen you get pissed at him for joking around, and I die every time.
LSY
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
There is nothing adorable about Hunter O’Rourke. He’s a pain in the fucking ass. MY ass. You’d think that as my business partner he’d act like a goddamn professional and why the hell am I telling you this?
Keep in mind that since we’re using the company server, any correspondence between us is private and confidential, and I could sue you for sharing the content of these emails.
RMB
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Wow, you and your non-disclosures and legal mumbo-jumbo, always wanting to sue people. You seriously need to relax, boss. It hadn’t occurred to me to share these emails until YOU MENTIONED IT. Bring it down a notch, Rome. I’m not going to tell anyone your secrets. So feel free to start sharing a few of them . . . ha ha. I’m a very good listener.
LSY
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
What kind of boss would I be if I didn’t point out the obvious? Before we get carried away with . . . whatever this is.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
“Whatever this is.” Did you just admit, in your own weird way, that you’re actually enjoying this back and forth? Do tell . . . bring it to my good ear. **leans in close** Whisper it to me like a confession.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
I’ll admit, I’m entertained and curious. Have you noticed I’ve been walking around the office more? It’s not because I’m trying to be a dutiful boss, it’s because I’m trying to find out who the hell you are. I’m hoping one day I catch you writing back to me. Guard your screen. I’m looking.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
You’ve resulted to creeping on your employees? Come on, Rome, you’re better than that. Instead of hovering behind people trying to read their inboxes, why don’t you conduct a little sleuthing instead?
Ask me some questions, any questions besides the obvious. Let’s see if you’re really smart enough to figure this mystery out.
Chapter Thirteen
PEYTON
“What? Why are you not coming?” Kimberly asks in her whiny tone that grates on my nerves.
“I’m not in the mood to drink, plus you guys have this whole party planned for Friday, so I might as well save all of my liquor tolerance for then.”
“But we’re going to get chicken fingers,” Viv interjects.
I pat her on the shoulder. “And as lovely as that sounds, I think I’m going to enjoy myself a nice little quiche from the corner bakery and head to my apartment where I can lounge in a long T-shirt and that’s it.”
“No bra?” Gen asks.
I shake my head. “No bra.”
She sighs and puts her arms around Viv and Kimberly. “Give it up, ladies, we can’t compete with no bra. We had a chance with quiche as her dinner, but with the extraction of underwire, we’re doomed.”
Knowing Gen’s right, they bow their heads and turn away toward the bar. “You slay us,” Viv says over her shoulder. “Hope your boobs enjoy themselves.”
&n
bsp; I take the subway home, getting bumped and bruised by every other New Yorker trying to make the busy commute. Not in the mood for reading or listening to any podcasts, I hang on to the metal bar next to the door and stare out the window, the tunnels passing by me at a rapid speed.
I hate to admit it, but I’m going to miss this commute. A little. There’s something about stopping by the corner bodega to pick up your favorite bagel and coffee on the way into work, scanning your key card to make it through the doors, and then making your way into an overcrowded elevator to join the hustle and bustle of the city.
But on the other hand, there’s nothing like working in your underwear, on your couch, in your home.
Thankfully my favorite bakery isn’t too busy, so I’m in and out in minutes, warm quiche in hand. I waste no time in slinking out of my dress, slipping off my bra—yes, that feels good—and throwing on my Whitney Houston T-shirt that falls to mid-thigh.
I hop on my couch, pop open a La Croix I got from the bakery, and break open my quiche.
Ahh, this is life.
Did I mention I’m a sucker for playing cribbage? I have an app on my phone, and there is nothing I want more than to kick my legs back and play a few games.
I open the app just as an email sounds off on my phone. An email from Rome.
An email for LSY.
Oooo, someone is working late.
Snuggling in close, quiche plate resting on my knee, I open up the email.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
**Flexes Fingers** I would be nervous if I were you, LSY. Do you know why? Because I’m relentless and the moment you open the floodgate for questions is the moment I figure out who you are, and I’m still partial to firing your sexy little ass.
Are you sure you want to tempt me?
I bite on my finger, reading his message over and over. He’s so playful, that it makes my heart skip a beat and my common sense fly out the window.
I open the company messenger app on my phone and scroll through the executive names, knowing full well I’m about to break a policy. It’s the company’s phone, and the company’s app, and I’m about to use it for personal use. To flirt.
With my boss.
I close my eyes, find his name—next to it is a little, green dot, which means. . .
He’s on the app.
I’ve never talked to him live before so this is a huge step, but then again, it might be more fun to get his initial reactions to my comments.
Debating it for all but two seconds, I type out a message to him, making sure I’m signed on under my LSY persona.
HandsRomingMyBody: Hey you.
My text turns into a new message on the app and I wait on bated breath to see if he will respond. Nerves prickle up my spine, my fingers feeling numb, my mind playing mutiny with my heart just as little dots appear letting me know he’s typing.
Oh God, I don’t think I’ve been more excited.
I stuff a giant bite of quiche in my mouth as his message comes across the screen.
God, I am so giddy seeing his name pop up, it does all kinds of things to my body.
RomeBlackburn: Christ, messenger box pop-up scared the shit out of me when it dinged.
I laugh out loud and hunker down to message him back.
HandsRomingMyBody: Concentrating a little too hard?
RomeBlackburn: Hunter O’Rourke’s fucking reports (pardon my French) are going to be the death of me. Why are you still working late? If I go to each floor, will I find you hunkered down in your cubicle?
HandsRomingMyBody: Don’t get too excited. I’m home. Just checking my work emails like a good employee would. **pats self on the back**
RomeBlackburn: Yeah? And what kind of work emails are you answering?
HandsRomingMyBody: Yours. If you want a break, I’m free to answer any questions you might have.
RomeBlackburn: Why don’t you call me? That will be more fun.
There is no way in hell I’m going to let him call me—he would totally recognize my voice.
HandsRomingMyBody: Nice try. It’s either questions here or no questions at all.
RomeBlackburn: It’s almost like you want to get caught.
HandsRomingMyBody: Maybe I do . . .
RomeBlackburn: Fine. What’s your name?
HandsRomingMyBody: Don’t be dense. You know I’m not answering that. Come on, be creative, Rome. I know you have it in you. Drop the CEO title for a second and be a guy who’s just talking to a pretty girl.
RomeBlackburn: Way to hit me in a soft spot.
HandsRomingMyBody: Well . . .
RomeBlackburn: What are you wearing?
HandsRomingMyBody: Typical guy question. **rolls eyes** But if you must know, a vintage Whitney Houston shirt that touches me mid-thigh and panties. It may or not have a few holes.
RomeBlackburn: I’m going to need proof.
I inwardly roll my eyes and think about it for a long, hard second. Should I send him a picture?
If I lay back a little bit more, I probably could get a good shot of my legs barely covered by my shirt.
Just enough to drive Rome Blackburn crazy.
I mean—who doesn’t love vintage Whitney? This shirt is a classic.
Setting my dinner to the side, I lean back on my couch, position my legs to make them look as sexy as possible, and point my toes in the air, giving them a wiggle even though he’s not getting a video. Blue, sparkly polish. Cute dainty toes.
I’m adorable. And braless.
Who could resist this?
I snap a few pictures, pick the sexiest before hitting send, a secretive smile tugging at my lips the entire time.
HandsRomingMyBody: There is your “proof.”
He takes a second to answer, but when he does, pure female satisfaction courses through me.
RomeBlackburn: Fuck. Don’t send me any more pictures.
HandsRomingMyBody: Are you going to make that your wallpaper now?
RomeBlackburn: Maybe.
HandsRomingMyBody: It’s the legs, isn’t it?
I have really great legs; they’re my favorite body part.
RomeBlackburn: It’s the legs. And the toes. And the legs. God, it’s making me hungry . . .
HandsRomingMyBody: I’m nibbling on the best quiche; should really try it. It’s from this little shop around the corner from where I live—Edith’s Treats. You’d never know how fantastic everything was until you step foot inside. It’s so freaking good.
RomeBlackburn: I know where that place is. What’s in this magical quiche you’re panting over?
HandsRomingMyBody: Spinach, roasted peppers, and broccoli. **Kisses fingers** magnifique.
RomeBlackburn: I have a package of Saltine crackers in my desk. That’s my dinner, so I guess your quiche is better than what I’m having.
HandsRomingMyBody: Saltine crackers? Those are for sick people. Are you sick? Why the hell aren’t you getting some food delivered like a normal person?
RomeBlackburn: No time to call in anything.
HandsRomingMyBody: But you have apps. And time to talk to me? But you didn’t get food . . .
As he’s typing, I quickly pull up a blank text message and text my friend Tony, who works at the pizza place across from the office. They deliver to the office for me all the time and have access to the building. I order up a pepperoni calzone, have it sent to Rome’s office ASAP, and charge it to me. The delivery guy responds back with a simple text: Give it fifteen minutes.
I love those guys.
I love any guy that feeds me.
RomeBlackburn: Priorities. I’m trying to figure out who you are; that takes precedence over my stomach.
HandsRomingMyBody: Okay, wanna play a game? You ask me anything and I’ll answer honestly?
RomeBlackburn: Sure, we can do that: What do you like most about working for Roam, Inc.?
HandsRomingMyBody: That is NOT the kind of question I was going for, but okay�
��I’ll answer. Despite the tyrant of a boss I work for (ha ha) I really like the image the company portrays, supporting the active lifestyle, and honestly . . . the free stuff too.
RomeBlackburn: Your favorite part of working here is the FREE stuff? Not the hot guy who sits on the top floor and signs your paycheck?
HandsRomingMyBody: Maybe. We’ll call “him” an added bonus. Can I ask you something?
RomeBlackburn: Fire away.
HandsRomingMyBody: Ever flirt with an employee before?
RomeBlackburn: I don’t shit where I eat—it’s not my style and it shouldn’t be anyone else’s either. So, no. I haven’t ever flirted with an employee before.
HandsRomingMyBody: Yet here you are, talking to me.
RomeBlackburn: Because apparently I’ve lost my fucking mind. How do you take your coffee?
HandsRomingMyBody: At work? With loads of that Irish creamer, because the coffee at work is disgusting—no offense. When I’m not at work, I prefer lattes. I float back and forth to what I order that day.
RomeBlackburn: So it isn’t just me? I’m going to have Lauren switch up the coffee, because drinking that basically amounts to “roasted grounds and a heavy dose of shit” and that’s not on the top of my list.
HandsRomingMyBody: Roasted shit? As in . . . poo? Yeah, I won’t be able to get that out of my head for the rest of the night.
RomeBlackburn: Hold up. Why is there a guy in my office holding a bag of food? Did you just have food delivered? Are you FEEDING me?
HandsRomingMyBody: Can’t have Sexy McBossyPants going hungry. **wink** Enjoy, the calzones are among my faves and TO DIE FOR.
RomeBlackburn: Taking care of me. I’m actually in shock. And thankful. And to be honest? A little stunned . . .
Chapter Fourteen
ROME
Where the hell is everyone?
One glance out my office window and I see no one.
Love Sincerely Yours Page 11
