I don’t have time to lift my ass out of this seat to know there isn’t any noise coming from the common area outside my door where most of the cubicles on this floor are. The place is a dead-zone and I have no goddamn idea why.
And instead of caring enough to find out, I find myself rooted in my chair, staring at my computer.
Last night, I learned a little detail, a little nugget of information that could help me figure out who LSY is.
And I don’t think she even realized . . .
She slipped up.
Even though I was smiling like a damn fool the entire time talking to her when I should have been looking through Hunter’s reports, I smiled even wider when I realized she gave me the golden ticket I was looking for.
My cursor drags along my computer screen, lands on the icon for a search engine, my fingers deftly typing out the words, “Edith’s Treats.” Enter.
She was so excited about her damn quiche that she didn’t realize she gave me a radius of where she lives.
Fucking sleuthing it up this morning.
An image appears of a small bakery on a corner about three short blocks from my apartment building—and just one over from the spot where Peyton in the marketing department was having coffee.
Interesting.
Peyton.
I stare off into the distance, my mind wandering; today would be her last day if I’m doing the math correctly—wouldn’t it? I pull up her file, noting the photograph attached.
She’s pretty.
Sexy, if I’m being honest.
Smiling at the camera for a picture taken for the website of our staff. Navy blouse. Hair down. Red lipstick.
Jesus, Peyton is . . .
Hot.
Why did I wait so damn long to pay serious attention? Do I really have a stick so far up my ass that I haven’t noticed her? Or is that why every time I’ve interacted with her in the last week or so, I’ve found it hard to pull away and leave her?
My eyes scan the details provided by human resources: Age, twenty-seven. Position, President of Social Media Marketing and Acquisition. Address looks vaguely familiar, and curiosity has me googling the area.
My area. My neighborhood.
My coffee shop.
My head starts to spin. Every interaction I’ve had with her running on repeat as I lean forward and stare intently at the computer as if it’s supposed to verbally confirm exactly what I’m thinking.
Edith’s Treats is right on the corner, perfectly spaced between her place and mine. “It’s from this little shop around the corner from where I live . . .”
Jesus Christ.
I lean back in my chair, drag my hand over my face, and blink a few times.
No. There is no way.
I lean forward again, match her address with the bakery and the coffee shop.
Fuck.
FUCK!
Peyton is HandsRomingMyBody.
Peyton is the employee who wants to bang me.
Peyton has been fucking around with me this entire time, lowering my defenses, making me talk about personal shit, sending me goddamn food.
I glare at the desktop, anger billowing in the pit of my stomach, the heat in my body skyrocketing to inferno levels.
She’s been lying to me this whole time. She’s been right under my damn nose, playing with me . . . tricking me. Probably laughing behind my back with those friends of hers I always catch her with. Look at me, fooling the boss.
Not okay.
I rise, slamming my chair back into the windows, skirt around my desk and yank open the door.
Silence.
Well. Except for the low buzzing sound of modems and computers humming in tandem. The fluorescent lights flicker. A printer scanner at the far side of the room beeps.
No sign of life.
“Where the fuck is everyone?” Seriously, it’s in the middle of the goddamn workday, not a Saturday—and as far as I know, it’s not a national holiday.
I don’t think.
Asses should be in those seats.
Heads should be down, fingers flying across the thirty or so computers wired into these desks. Papers should be flying out of the printers, and the phones should be ringing.
Something.
But not this.
I pace around the long corridor, glancing into offices, one by one, checking for signs of life. Any stragglers that can tell me what the ever-loving fuck is going on around here.
Make my way toward Lauren’s desk, float around the granite counter to look for any clues. If anyone would know what’s happening, it will be here.
One sheet of paper, lying limply across her keyboard, with a message printed in black, bold letters: WISH PEYTON FAREWELL ON HER LAST DAY! Cake and ice cream, break room on the third floor. Ten o’clock.
I glance at my watch.
Ten thirteen.
I punch at the elevator button—like one of those assholes who hits it ten times hoping to make it come quicker—stuff my hands inside the pocket of my gray dress pants (no fancy meetings today, so I’m casual, sans tie), button-up shirt brushing my chest as I stab one more time at the illuminated button. Bounce back on the balls of my feet, agitated.
They threw Peyton a going-away party when she quit? What the actual fuck?
Throwing a party for someone who has been deceiving their boss, all for a laugh? I don’t fucking think so. Not at my office, not during business hours.
Not happening.
My jaw ticks when the elevator doors finally slide open and once I’m inside, I stab at those buttons, too, with my knuckle. Hit the third floor.
My jaw is clenched, because the noise level when I arrive is as loud as it should be upstairs, only there are people congregated around the entrance to the break room, spilling out and standing around, holding cups and plates of cake, and laughing.
Peyton isn’t even a power player here. What the hell is everyone doing celebrating? It’s not like she’s retiring. She fucking quit. She created a new job, and she’s leaving, and that is that.
End of the fucking story.
As soon as I’m spotted, a few hushed whispers fill the air; I take in a nudge. A few coughs. My employees moving aside to create a narrow path in front of the door for me to enter through.
And I do.
I stalk toward the break room like a man on a mission, plowing through like a dump truck, eyes scanning for one person: Peyton Lévêque. It takes me a few seconds to settle on her—there are shit tons of people crammed into this room, which is probably a fire hazard or health code violation.
Then.
There she is.
Like a goddamn ray of sunshine, light streaming behind her from the window, a halo shining above her pretty head.
Her lying, beautiful head.
Dark hair, wavy and glossy, down around her shoulders, the rich color picking up red from the sun.
She’s holding a glass—it’s poised at her lips and she’s about to take a sip—when our eyes meet. She lowers it, her mouth parts, and her smile spreads.
Until I scowl. Then, her face morphs from happy to concerned in a second. Damn right she should be concerned.
I nod.
She nods.
My eyes trail down the front of her and I note her dress—it’s baby blue, wrapped and tied at the waist, and shows off her curves while highlighting her legs in those sexy-as-shit heels.
Stop thinking about her curves and legs. You’re not here to admire her.
The pile of gifts in the corner pisses me off, bringing me back into the present, back to my rage, and has me lifting my arm; crooking my finger.
Peyton’s brows go up at the same time her head cocks and she pokes a finger into her own chest. “Me?”
“Yeah. You.” I know she can’t hear me, but I say it anyway—and if she’s any good at reading lips, she’ll haul her ass over here right quick.
Her cup is passed. Skirt gets smoothed out. Chin tilts high.
She heads over.
Good girl.
“Follow me,” I order her when we’re on the outskirts of the room. When we’re clear across the office common area, I pivot to face her.
She’s shorter, even in heels, so I have to dip my head to glare at her. “Want to tell me exactly what the fuck is going on in there?”
A shrug. “They threw me a party.”
“I can see that.” I’m so annoyed. “I’m asking why?”
Peyton is unperturbed. “’Cause I’m leaving?”
“You quit. Parties should be reserved for employees who are celebrating birthdays or monumental occasions—not young women who leave for greener pastures.”
Or better yet, parties should not happen at all.
She wilts under my bark, her eyes shifting back and forth over mine.
“Sir, I’m not using this as an excuse, but I had no idea they were planning anything.”
Sir.
That gives me pause, and I want to fucking laugh.
Wow, she’s good at pretending—not giving away any hints of her being HandsRomingMyBody anywhere. Not fidgeting. No signs of distress on her face. Not a flinch or a blush.
I cross my arms, shirt stretching across my chest. “How long is this party supposed to last?”
“I’m not sure. Lauren was in charge. They haven’t done games yet.”
“Games,” I deadpan, because—are you fucking kidding me?
“Just a few fun ones, like, What’s in your desk drawer?”
Paper. Staples. Post-it Notes. Tape.
Yellow notepad. That’s it—that’s what’s in my desk drawer—and I mentally facepalm myself for playing along in my head.
My lips stay sealed closed.
Peyton prattles on. “And then Donna in accounting made Pin the tail on the Bo—” Her lips clamped shut.
Obviously my brows shoot up when she fails to finish her sentence. “Pin the tail on what?”
“The . . . um. Beaver.”
She’s so full of shit. “Is that so? You’re playing pin the tail on the beaver.”
“Yup. Mm-hmm.”
“Are you sure it’s not something else?”
Her lashes flutter innocently. “Like what?”
“Oh, God—I don’t know. Pin the tail on the boss?”
When her face flushes, I know I’ve nailed it. “I fucking knew it.” I get even closer, a sneer on my lip. “And you know what else I know, Peyton?”
She backs against the wall, pressing her spine to the gray, textured partician. “What else do you know?”
She gulps. Licks her lips. Holds her breath.
I lean in—get in good and close. I sniff her hair . . . because it’s impossible not to. Lower my voice. “I know you sent that email.”
Her eyes widen uncharacteristically large. Wide. “What email?”
“Don’t be coy. You’re HandsRomingMy . . .” I actually choke on the damn words. Embarrassed. “Body.”
I give her credit though; she presents a stiff upper lip and doesn’t immediately cave. Lifts her chin a notch. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“And I’m sure you do.”
One of her shoulders rises in a shrug. “Sir, the only emails I’ve sent you were regarding—”
“Wanting to bang me.”
Peyton chokes on her surprise. “Sir, I assure you—”
“Stop calling me ‘sir’ and cut the bullshit, would you? It’s not doing you any favors.” All it’s doing is pissing me off even more. “Did you or did you not send me that email?” I press a hand against the wall behind her, getting in even closer, letting her feel my palpable anger, letting it smother her.
At first, I’m not sure she’ll admit it and assume she’s going to do one of three things:
Cry because she’s embarrassed and humiliated, although now I’m looking at her, it doesn’t seem like she’s either.
Lie and say it was a joke.
Continue denying it.
Her mouth puckers before it opens, no sound coming out as she gathers her words, thinks them through, and strings them together.
“Rome. I . . .” Peyton looks at the carpet, then back at my face. Blows out an exasperated puff of air. “Fine. You’re right. It was me.”
Was. Not. Expecting. That.
“Are you happy now? You figured it out. And I’m leaving, so you can live in peace. I’ll never bother you again. You won’t have to even look at me. Not that you did anyway,” she mumbles, crossing her arms.
“You don’t even realize how unprofessional sending me those emails were, do you?”
The snort that comes out of Peyton’s nose is anything but ladylike. “Please. Of course I realize it. Why do you think it was anonymous? I’m not an idiot. You and your propriety are the only things you give a shit about.” My eyes widen. “Oh. Look. Big guy doesn’t like it when I swear. Well, too damn bad.”
“You watch your mouth when you’re talking to me. I’m your boss.” I sound like a real dipshit, but I have no idea how to handle this woman. Not a single clue.
She’s confident, she’s not confident. She’s so up and down, and I can’t pinpoint exactly what to say to make an impact.
Peyton’s laugh is loud. And when she tips her head back and lets it hit the wall behind her, the smooth column of her throat contracts with the motion. Her smile would rival that of the Cheshire cat.
“You’re not my boss. I’m done. I can say or do whatever I want.”
“Not if you want to use me for your portfolio.”
She flips her hair. “My portfolio speaks for itself. I don’t need your company in it.”
My body inches closer. “Is that so?”
“Yeah.” Her body is so close to mine. “That’s so.”
“And you expect to get my business? You’re the most unprofessional woman I’ve ever met in my entire life.”
This does not faze her. “Is that so?” She mimics my tone of voice and condescending attitude.
“Yeah.” I mimic her stance and tone of voice. “That’s so.”
“I disagree.” Her eyes rake down my body, and I feel it from the center of my chest where she’s staring, down my stomach and to the tips of my damn toes. Shit. “You’ve never complained about my job performance before.”
“That’s because I had no idea what you were like to work with.”
“And what am I like to work with? I’ve never been written up.” She gestures toward the break room at all the people. “Clearly my coworkers like me.”
I can’t stop the snort from leaving my nose. “They just like free food.”
A diminutive shrug, and Peyton chuckles at me.
Her smug attitude infuriates me. “That’s all you have to say?” I ask, my teeth grinding together.
“I haven’t technically said anything.”
“Don’t get smart.”
“You’re not the boss of me.”
My mouth curves into a smirk. “That’s right, I’m not.”
“Nope.” Her mouth pops the P. “Not even a little. Not anymore.”
The space between us couldn’t be any smaller, and the only thing stopping me from shoving my greedy tongue down her throat is the flash of movement in my peripheral vision.
Everyone is watching.
It’s like we’re a bad accident on the side of the goddamn road, and no one can take their eyes off it, instead going slower to inspect the damage.
No one moves.
No one speaks.
No one but Peyton. “Go ahead and do it.”
Her voice is small, but it carries just enough to reach my ears.
“Do what?” I spit out almost sarcastically.
“Kiss me.” She’s daring me, but I’m not an idiot.
I rear back like she’s kicked me in the nuts, putting space between us, hissing, “Are you fucking insane?”
Another laugh. “That’s what I thought. McBossypants and his proper, Mr. Goody-Two-Shoes manners.”
“We. Are.
At. Work,” I bite out, words halted.
“I’m not at work—I only came in to clear out my desk. You’re the only one at work here.”
So glad she can be nonchalant. “You just cannot help needling me, can you?”
“Needling you? What are you, seventy?” She’s laughing at me. “No, I’m not needling you—obviously not.” She taps her chin. “You’re adorable when you get yourself worked up into a snit.”
A snit.
What the fuck.
No. I do not get myself worked up into snits; I’m commanding and in control of my impulses—unlike some people, apparently.
“I like it,” Peyton adds, crossing her arms.
“You need to stop.”
“Does it make you uncomfortable when I’m honest?”
“No. I prefer when people lie.” I haven’t rolled my eyes this hard since I was thirteen years old.
“Well, if it’s opposite day, I love that I’m not working for you anymore, and I’m glad I never get to see your grumpy face again.”
Wait. Huh?
I have no idea what to fucking say; but she’s in my face, staring expectantly—and so is everyone else.
Through my clenched teeth, I say, “People are watching.”
She tilts her head. Smiles. “They are.”
“You should probably go back to your party.”
I’ve said nothing that I came down to this floor to say—that she quit and doesn’t deserve a fucking farewell party. That she’s unprofessional—well, okay. That part I did say—that her blue dress makes her look smoking hot to the point of distraction.
And I think about her way more often than I should, even before I realized RoamingHands was her.
And that I’m so goddamn mad at her for putting me through the wringer, for making me feel more than is appropriate for an employee, and that because I’m equal parts furious and turned on—because she’s fucking hot—I’m tempted to cause a scene. And I never cause scenes.
How has she made me behave like someone I'm not? I barely know myself anymore.
And why is it that not only am I flustered, but I want to bend her over a chair and spank her to teach her a lesson?
Chapter Fifteen
PEYTON
“You should probably go back to your party.” Rome’s voice is clipped and commanding, hell-bent on being a hard-ass. Hell-bent on being in charge.
Love Sincerely Yours Page 12
