Love Sincerely Yours

by Quinn, Meghan

  But I don’t say that.

  I take a sip of my water, swallow slowly and then cap my bottle. “Thank you for your time.” I stand from my chair and button my suit jacket. Hunter follows behind me. “Thank you all for your time. We have a lot to discuss. We will get back to you shortly.”

  I give them all a curt nod and make a beeline for my office, Hunter hot on my heels.

  The minute the glass door shuts behind us, we both let out a long, pent-up breath. Staring each other down, we both break out in a laugh at the same time, not something I partake in very often. But fuck, I can’t help it.

  “That was a nightmare.” Hunter goes to my mini fridge and pulls out cheese sticks, hands me one and takes one for himself. “Like a living nightmare. Did those people even review their campaigns before presenting?”

  I unfold the cheese stick and knock it against Hunter’s—Cheers!—before biting off half of it. “I don’t think anyone knew what the hell we were looking for in that meeting.” I think back to the ideas thrown at us. “You have to admit though, the idea of matching what dog you are according to your interests in the clothing line . . . that had real potential.”

  “I think an intern from Buzzfeed came up with that shittastic idea. But I couldn’t help but wonder—”

  “What dog you would be?” I finish for him.

  “I keep leaning toward huskie. Is that weird?”

  “Nah, I see it.” I shove the rest of my cheese stick in my mouth.

  “You’re totally the chihuahua.”

  Both my eyebrows shoot to my hairline. “You’re kidding, right? No way in hell I’m the chihuahua. Pit bull, that’s me.”

  “Yeah, keep telling yourself that.” Hunter sits in one of my chairs and asks, “What are you going to do?”

  I take my seat across from him. “No fucking clue. Those were the top agencies in New York City, and the best idea was a dog test.” I run both my hands over my face. “Christ, are we in trouble. I blame kids show—like Paw Patrol—they’re corrupting our society.”

  “How do you even know what that show is?”

  “Farrah is obsessed. It’s all she talks about when we FaceTime.” Naturally, I never miss FaceTime chats with my sister Bailey, or niece Farrah. She is far too adorable.

  Hunter nods. Farrah also has Hunter wrapped around her five-year-old, pint-sized fingers.

  Hunter nods. “How is Bailey doing? Still have the hottest legs in town?”

  “Talk about my sister like that again, see where it gets you.”

  He chuckles and presses both his hands behind his head, leaning back. “Well, looks like we might have to put the launch on hold, unless . . .” His voice trails off.

  “Unless what?”

  Why do I know where this is going?

  Reaching into the pocket of his flannel shirt, he pulls out a business card and tosses it on my desk.

  Without even looking, I know what it is. Through my teeth, I say, “Over my dead body am I calling her.”

  “Because you’re a stubborn ass wipe? Great, our women’s line is going to tank because you’re too prideful to give her a call.”

  “We can do better than her.”

  “Really? Because I’m pretty sure I hear George cry in his office every day over the loss of Peyton. She was a huge asset to the team. We need her on this.”

  “She left us.”

  “To pursue her dreams, just like you did so many years ago, so you can’t fault her on that, man.” He raps his knuckles on my desk when he leans forward. “If anything, call her so we don’t have to use the dog test people. That’s company suicide right there.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  PEYTON

  Thirty-six.

  That’s how many emails I’ve sent today to prospective clients, the list on my notepad glaring at me because I have thirty-two more contacts to message.

  I wanted every one to be personal, tailored to each client’s needs, and I’ve been at this table all damn day long. Pounding the pavement, as one would say.

  I’m my own boss.

  I work for myself.

  I have my own office . . .

  That’s a lie—I’m at my favorite coffee shop, and thank God they haven’t kicked me out for loitering, because all I’ve bought from them was a medium ice tea, and that was at ten o’clock this morning.

  I shoot the barista another awkward smile and wave, certain she’s been judging me for being cheap. But I’m self-employed. Every penny counts, and I’ve been counting mine all weekend.

  Technically, I could afford to quit working for Roam, Inc.— but the numbers staring back at me from my bank account scare the absolute shit out of me, and I’m desperate for them to grow, not deplete.

  If I don’t get a contract soon, I don’t know what I’ll do.

  No way can I go back to Roam, Inc. if this venture fails. He would never in a million years hire me back—he made that clear enough when he kicked me out of his office, and essentially out of his life.

  I have to make Fresh Minted Designs succeed if it kills me.

  I raise my water glass, the ice having melted hours ago, ring of condensation dripping onto the corner of my laptop.

  “Shit.” I scrub at the keyboard with the sleeve of my long-sleeved shirt, trying not to hit a key and send my entire document out of whack.

  I’ve done that before and it’s horrible. Once, I wiped down my computer monitor with Windex, turned it a sick shade of green, and had to get the entire monitor replaced.

  My luck with technology is clearly abysmal.

  Ugh, where is a damn napkin when I need one?

  I twist my torso, elbow inadvertently taking up too much space, skimming across the surface of the tiny table, knocking into my cup, and tipping it. Water spills in one quick fall over the side, and thank God I got a medium cup and not the large one I’d wanted.

  Plus, it was half empty so there’s not much on the floor.

  Your cup is half full, Peyton. Half full. Positive thoughts only.

  Nonetheless, when I stand to clean it, and my foot slips, yanking the cord out of the side of my computer and earbuds from my ears, I curse.

  “Goddammit!” I spin, grabbing for cords and my laptop so that doesn’t come careening down, too.

  Fuck my life.

  I swipe a few napkins from the neighboring table, giving the girl seated there an apologetic, awkward cringe, and bend to mop up my mess. Back and forth I run the brown napkins across the tile, sopping up the puddle.

  Left with only a handful of soggy napkins, an expensive pair of black tennis shoes steps into the space I’d just painstakingly dried so no one would slip if they treaded past. Tennis shoes attached to a hairy set of tan legs; masculine and long, my gaze trains on muscular calves. Knees.

  Up, up, my eyes trail.

  Blue mesh shorts.

  Crotch. Ahem . . . a nice crotch.

  “Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” a deep, familiar voice mocks, big hand extending.

  I take it, climbing to my feet, embarrassed.

  Rome.

  Of course he’d see me making a mess.

  God, I hate myself right now.

  “Thanks.” I brush the hair out of my eyes, swiping it away, face flaming red. When and if I bumped into him again, this was not the impression I would have wanted to make.

  “Busy being productive, I see? That six-month clock is ticking.” He’s referencing to the amount of time he thinks it will take me to fail; go out of business.

  Ugh, what an unsupportive asshole. I have tried, tried and tried, to wipe his unfair assessment to myself. If there was anyone I wanted to be in my corner, it was this man who built his own business from the ground up incredibly well. But alas . . . asshole.

  Rome hands me another napkin from another table, just as I’m wiping my palms on the leg of my yoga pants. Awesome, I’m a mess today.

  Our fingers touch when I take the linen from his hands, our eyes meeting briefly.

&nbs
p; “Thanks.”

  He has no reply, damn him, so I sit back down, rearranging my little corner of the coffee shop, folders on the verge of falling off the table, too. I know he’s probably watching me with one of his unreadable expressions, as I fumble around, spine straight, determined to ignore him.

  But also win his business.

  “Just come from working out?” He’s decked out in athletic apparel; the man is seriously a walking advertisement for what looks hot in athletic apparel. Just like he is in jeans. And in his gorgeous navy-blue suit.

  “Heading there after this pit stop.”

  “Caffeine before a workout? Isn’t that frowned upon?”

  What is he up to?

  He’s not holding a coffee, and he’s making no move to head toward the cash register. Plus, him standing here, looking so damn delicious and ready to get sweaty is getting me all hot and bothered.

  “Would you like to sit down?” There is one empty chair at this teeny table, and I give it a little nudge with the toe of my shoe as an offering.

  Surprisingly, he takes it, pulling it the rest of the way out and parking his firm ass opposite me.

  Huh. Imagine that.

  His platinum eyes survey the coffee shop before settling on me, his irises steely and unnervingly astute. I have a feeling he’s noticing everything about his surroundings, including me.

  “Other than you dropping shit all over the floor, how’s it been going?” Rome crosses his arms and leans back in the chair; not far enough to tip it, but more casual than I’ve ever seen him before.

  I like this side of him.

  He seems . . . at ease. And he’s asking me questions about myself—which is so unlike him.

  “It’s been good.” I sound way too chipper and have to tone it down a notch or he’ll know I’m full of shit. “I mean, it’s a little slow to start, but I’m just starting to reach out to people.”

  Sixty—give or take—with zero replies, because I had no leads going into this “self-employed” gig. Just a leap of faith and some money in the bank to get me started.

  Obviously I don’t mention this.

  Rome nods. “Economy might be on an upswing, but starting from the ground up always is a disadvantage.”

  Now I nod—like I know what the hell he’s talking about.

  “That’s true.”

  “It’ll get better. Just don’t take the first no at face value.”

  “Is that so? Because you were my first no.” And second no, and third. Probably my fourth no, too, if I put him on the spot right now and ask him for a chance at his marketing department.

  I’m not a sadist, so I don’t bother to ask.

  Not yet.

  We sit in silence and Rome’s attention turns toward the window, out toward the street he just came from and together we watch the people outside on the busy street.

  I adjust myself in my seat, waiting for him to say something.

  “You’re not even going to ask, are you?”

  “Ask what?”

  He directs his steely gaze in my direction. “About the job.”

  “What job?”

  “The marketing consulting position.”

  I repeat those four words in my head, drawing a blank. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Is someone hiring? Because I’m done working in an office, you know that.”

  “The marketing position at Roam, Inc.”

  They’ve never had a consulting position. Of course they create one once I’m freaking gone.

  “Oh.”

  “That’s all you have to say?”

  “What am I supposed to say?”

  “You’re supposed to ask if you can have it.”

  “But I don’t know what it is.”

  “It’s the new women’s campaign. It needs direction and a fresh set of eyes.”

  Is he saying what I think he’s saying? “What is it you’re saying, Rome? Be specific.”

  In typical Rome Blackburn fashion, he’s tight-lipped again, choosing his words slowly, one at a time before spitting them out like most people do.

  Then. He rolls his eyes. “Just ask.”

  I want to. But I’m afraid to.

  It’s been a really long, shitty day, and I just spilled water all over my damn self, and the floor, and sent out a jillion emails that are sure to be rejected, and I don’t know if I can handle him rejecting me, too.

  Nonetheless, a sliver of hope springs up in my chest. It leaps when he raises his brows expectantly.

  “Rome. Are you willing to give me a chance at designing a campaign for your new women’s line?”

  He pretends to think about it, mulling over an answer. “Maybe. I’ll think about it.”

  Eyes widen in annoyance.

  “You jerk.” The words fly out of my mouth before I can stop them because—what the hell? He did that on purpose.

  But the room seems to still because Rome Blackburn does something I’ve never seen him do in the five years I worked for him.

  He laughs.

  A belly laugh so deep and throaty . . . holy shit, does it sound incredible, I mean—wow.

  Just. Wow.

  He laughs—at me, no less—shoulders shaking a little, white teeth flashing. Perfect lips tipped into an actual smile that has me staring rudely at his mouth.

  I don’t know what to even say; he’s that good-looking when he laughs. And the sound . . .

  “The look on your face right now.” He chuckles. “It’s priceless.”

  That’s because you’re so damn hot, I want to say. It has nothing to do with the job he’s clearly going to offer me.

  “Is that why you’re here? Did you come looking for me?”

  His head tilts. “Possibly.”

  My chin notches up a bit. “Don’t waste my valuable time by playing games or I’ll say no based on principle.”

  His smile fades back into the impassive mask I’m used to seeing. “Fine. You’re right. I’m here to offer you the contract.”

  Holy shit.

  Holy shit.

  Breathe, Peyton, breathe.

  Why am I so uncool? Why can’t I hide my emotions and feelings better, because right now I want to leap out of my chair and do fist pumps in the middle of the coffee shop—and I have no idea how much the contract is even worth.

  I want it.

  I need it.

  The job I mean—not sex.

  Did I say sex? Why would I be thinking about that? This is a business meeting, clearly.

  “So, let me get this straight; you’re here to offer me the contract. You came here, hoping to reel me in.” I’m baiting him to see what he’ll say.

  Rome scoffs. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  His lips purse. “You need a job.”

  “Oh, you’re a philanthropist now, helping the newly unemployed and gainfully climbing their way to the top from the ground up? How magnanimous of you. No thanks, I’ll pass.”

  “Suit yourself.” His mouth says the words, but his ass doesn’t leave the chair.

  My eyes narrow. “Why are you doing this? Why can’t you just suck up your pride and admit that you need me, and that’s why you’re here?” I take a deep breath and collect myself. “You’ve got a lot of pride, but I do, too. And it’s not going to allow me to take a job that you couldn’t even bring yourself to offer me. I refuse to force your hand—so if you need me—like I suspect you do, then now is the time to say it.”

  I give my head a little tip. Go on, I encourage him as if he’s a child. Say it, don’t be shy.

  Mr. Grumpypants is slow on the uptake, but he considers my words. I can see them spinning in his brain, his jaw ticking and moving as he thinks. Maybe he’s even grinding his teeth a little. It’s so hard to tell.

  “Peyton.” Just my name.

  One word.

  “Yes, Mr. Blackburn. Sir.” I give him my sweetest smile, knowing he hates being addressed as either.

 
; He moves his jaw back and forth, and then it hits me hard in the chest. “You need me more.”

  Shit.

  Can he see the desperation in my eyes, the nerves shaking my hands? Does he know I’ve contacted company after company looking for business without a response?

  Either way, I’m pulling an Elizabeth Bennet and putting on my too-proud pantaloons.

  “Maybe”—I tilt my chin in the air—“but I’m willing to turn you down just to prove a point. You’re not willing to sacrifice your new line. That’s why you’re here.”

  I hold my breath, my boldness getting the best of me.

  Boldness or stubborn personality?

  Maybe a little bit of both.

  His lips thin into a contemplative line as he lets out a long, irritated breath. “You really know how to push my buttons, do you know that?”

  “I do.” I do indeed. Don’t smile. Don’t you dare smile.

  Rome’s nostrils flare. “I’d like to offer you the marketing position for the women’s outdoor collection.”

  “Me?” I demure.

  “Jesus Christ, could you—”

  “I’m joking. Relax. Man, you’re wound up so tight.”

  He’s not amused, and pushes himself up out of the wooden chair across from me, rising to his full height. “I’ll have Lauren email you the details.”

  I stand too, thinking it would be a good idea to end our impromptu meeting with a handshake.

  I stick my hand out.

  He stares at it.

  I wiggle my fingers until he takes the hint, and slides his palm against mine. Pumps my hand once and releases it, stepping back to leave—but not before a thousand bolts of electricity shoot through my entire body.

  Whoa.

  He shivers.

  “Uh, just one more thing before you go.”

  He turns toward me. “What’s that?”

  “I . . . work remotely, so I wouldn’t be coming into the office unless it was for meeting with the entire marketing staff. I think creative juices flow better in a creative environment.”

  “Places like”—he gestures around—“this?”

  I grin. He’s such an ass. “Exactly.”

  “So you’ll be taking meetings here, with whom exactly?”