Whom. He’s so adorably stiff.
“Why . . . I’ll be taking my meetings with you.”
Chapter Eighteen
ROME
“How’d the meeting go? Did you lure her in?”
“I didn’t need to lure her in; she was happy to have the opportunity.”
Hunter laughs—he knows I’m full of complete crap. “Bullshit. She probably told you to fuck off.”
Not in those exact words, but yeah. Basically. “It did take some convincing.”
“Well, what the hell happened?” Hunter pops a salsa-coated chip in his mouth.
With my tequila pinched between my fingers, I lean back in my chair and think back to my conversation with Peyton.
She was a hot mess, knocking drinks over, pulling out her cords while tripping everywhere—but fuck if her ass framed in those black yoga pants didn’t do something to me.
I was reminded just how much I want to bang her.
How much I want to shut that sassy mouth of hers with my lips.
How much I want to pin her against the wall and pop open one of her godforsaken blouses just to finally see what’s underneath.
I might have been pissed about the emails; I might have been pissed that I succumbed to admitting that Roam, Inc. needs her help, and I might hate that I still want her just as badly as I did before—but what’s making all of this tolerable is the knowledge that she needs me, too.
She needs me.
It’s a heady aphrodisiac. I wish I could bottle it up and sell that shit along with my tents, gear, and travel products.
Peyton needs me. I could see it in her eyes as she studied me warily; the concern, the disillusionment, the overcompensation. I saw past the smoke she was trying to throw at me—she could try and sell the fact that her life is so much better after she’s left Roam, Inc., but I fucking know better.
Her business is already tanking and needs me.
A small part of me wanted to teach her a lesson by getting up from the table and walking away—not offering her the job at all. “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 hate that she’s right.
Annoys the absolute shit out of me.
“I’m waiting,” Hunter singsongs, taking a sip of his giant frozen margarita, rimmed with sugar rather than salt. It’s a good thing the guy tests out adventure equipment for a living.
“What?”
“You were about to tell me how Peyton told you to fly a kite, and how you had to beg.”
“When was the last time I begged for something?”
Hunter pauses, giving it some serious thought. Snaps his fingers. “Eighth grade—you begged me to call Savannah Goodrich and pretend to be you, so she’d leave you alone at the dance.”
“Savannah Goodrich was a clingy bitch.”
“Dude, speaking of bitchy; you were so whiny.”
“Whatever—we were thirteen, let it go. I don’t remember you calling anyone pretending to be me.”
Which is a crock full of shit; I remember it like it was yesterday—me, being afraid of a teenage girl that had a huge crush on me, and not wanting her to follow me around the middle school dance. I begged Hunter to call her and tell her I had a wart on my lip that was highly contagious and didn’t want her to see it. Spent the entire rest of the dance hiding in the shadows like a pussy, because I was too chickenshit to dance with her.
Hunter and I were always doing crap like that—swapping places when we could and causing mischief. It’s a good thing we were neighbors and best friends, and not identical twins, because, Jesus, we’d have gotten into so much trouble.
I fiddle with a corn chip, breaking off one end and popping it in my mouth, chewing to buy myself some time.
“You’re being really weird about this,” Hunter grumbles. “I have a right to know. It’s my company, too.”
God, I hate when he’s right.
“Fine. I found her at a coffee shop. She needed a job, I offered her one, end of story.”
Hunter scoffs mid-sip, shooting strawberry margarita into the air. “Stop acting so blasé about it. We both know you had to convince her.”
“Not true.” Nope. She forced my hand by being a hard-ass, because that is the sassy, strong-willed woman she is. And with every fucking unrelenting word from her mouth, I wanted to kiss her. Devour her. And I am not telling Hunter that. “Technically I could have figured a marketing plan out without her help.” Eventually.
I casually take a sip of my drink while Hunter shoves his mouth full of chips.
“God, do you actually believe your own bullshit? You know we can’t do it without her.” A smile plays at his lips as he chews. “When is our first meeting with her?”
I cock a brow. “What do you mean, our?”
“I have skin in this game, too. I want to make sure we’re on the right track, keep you in line.”
The last thing I want is him meddling. “I can handle it.”
What is Hunter up to?
He’s never interested in the marketing campaigns—I can’t recall one damn meeting he’s attended. What he is interested in is tents; he has some weird obsession with the innovation of new tent designs, and whenever we come out with a new style, he wants to be a part of every aspect of it.
He’s the one that tests them all out. He has no hand in how they’re advertised, produced, or sold.
That’s my area of expertise.
Hunter shakes his head and brushes his hands off into the black napkin resting on his lap. “From here, it doesn’t seem like you have a handle on anything. It actually seems like you’re drowning.” He makes a fish face. “Blub. Blub. Blub.”
“I’m not drowning. My marketing department is incompetent.”
“Our marketing department.”
I roll my eyes.
He points his rigid finger at me. “This is all on you, boss, I’m out in the field pitching tents.” He pops another chip loaded with salsa in his mouth. “I have her info, I’ll set up a meeting.”
“Please don’t.”
“But I’m gonna.” He rubs his hands together. “I’ve been bored, and this is gonna be so fun.”
Why do I get the feeling this is going to be more than a meeting about a women’s line?
* * *
“Nice place,” Hunter says, looking around and pulling out a wooden chair in the back of the coffee house, away from everyone else. “Very modern with the urban country décor. Oh look.” He points behind me with a giant smile. “Shiplap.”
Jesus H Christ.
I drag my hand over my face; this is not going to end well.
Sliding into the booth next to Hunter, he scowls down at the seat.
“What the hell are you doing?” he asks, eyeing me up and down.
What is his problem? “Taking a seat, what the hell does it look like?”
“If you sit there, it’s going to look like we’re one of those weird couples who sit next to each other rather than across.”
“The fact that you think we’d even make a decent couple repulses me. You’re not my type.”
He’s nonplused. “I’m just saying; I hate those people. They make me sick.”
“We have to sit next to each other; this is a meeting. When she gets here, she’ll sit there.” I point to the seat across from us. “And we can talk easier.”
“Well, she’s not here, and we both look like idiots.” He motions to the other side of the table. “Sit over there for fuck’s sake.”
“Now it just looks like we’re having a lover’s squabble.” I laugh as he nudges me with his hip, trying to edge me off the booth bench.
“You think I want a woman to see me jammed in a booth with you? I’ll lose all credibility.”
Whatever. I’m not in the mood to argue with him, so I scoot out, taking the seat in the corner, placing my iPad on the table in time to see Peyton rounding the corner from the small entry of
the coffee house.
Her dark, shoulder-length hair is wavy and mussed today—as if she spent the morning on the beach, soaking up the salty air. Long, summery skirt in a neutral shade of gray, it hugs her swaying hips. Her tight tank top is gray; necklace, silver and hanging between her breasts.
I bet those tits are perfect.
Goddammit, she’s so hot.
And those lips? They’re glossy and natural, shimmering in the sunlight streaming through the window, begging me to do naughty things with them, or maybe I’m just a horndog knowing she wanted to sleep with me.
Christ.
Scanning the coffee house, Peyton spots Hunter and me in the back, a slow smile curving her lips when we make eye contact. Then her gaze flickers to Hunter.
She gives us a curt wave before making her way toward us.
It isn’t until she’s seated beside me, and the waft of her citrus perfume hits me. I should have stayed on Hunter’s side of this tiny table.
I’m a fucking moron.
Hunter—that dickhead—stretches one of his jean-covered legs over the spare chair, forcing Peyton to fill the space next to me. As she slides in, her firm little rear end doing a shimmy to get comfortable, I shoot my best friend a look that only garners a perverted wiggle of his eyebrows.
Asshole.
God, I hate him sometimes.
“Well hello, boys.” Peyton’s greeting is flirty and cute, and her slim shoulder brushes mine as she situates herself. Squirms her ass. The last time I’d been this close to her was four weeks ago. Christ. Just thinking about how soft her skin had been as I’d grazed my nose and lips over her neck and cheeks. How much I’d wanted her to turn her head a fraction so I could taste her lips. Every part of me—and I mean every part of me—was tuned into her body. The softness. Her scent. And yet she hadn’t taken the chance I’d thrown at her. Get it together, Blackburn. Business. Meeting. “Hunter, I’m so glad you could make it. I would love to get your perspective on the line.”
He drapes his arm over the empty chair. “Mr. Tightpants here threw a mighty stink about it, too. Went on and on about how he wanted to spend time with you alone, didn’t you, grumpkins?”
What?
“No, I didn’t.” I sound like a freaking child and clear my throat. Starting over, I use a more even tone. “I did not say that.”
“Well, maybe not those words exactly, but you did insist I stay home.” He takes a slow sip of the ice water in front of him. “I think he has a crush on you, Peyton.”
“Hunter,” I snap, because Jesus Christ, why is he like this? Why is he talking? “Be a goddamn professional.”
The bastard shrugs. “When have I ever been professional?” If he had gum in his mouth, he would have snapped it just to piss me off.
We stare each other down, silently communicating:
I’m going to kill you.
No, you’re not. I’m your best friend.
I don’t care if you’re my best friend. You’re a dead man.
You like her. Admit it.
Never.
Peyton taps her pen on the table like a judge bangs his grovel. “Sorry to disrupt this stare down, or pissing match, or whatever it is you two are doing—but I think we should get to work. It’s seven, and this place closes at nine . . .”
From the corner of my eye, I catch a blush on her cheek when she pushes her silky hair behind her delicate ear.
Huh, have I ever noticed that she wears earrings?
And from this angle, her lips are fuller than I expected, her eyelashes long, fluttering open and closed as she sifts through her papers.
My eyes travel down the column of her neck, smooth and long, the perfect length for me to explore. Her collarbones are prominent, guiding my eyes to the tops of her breasts.
I shift in my seat.
From where I’m sitting, the neckline of her shirt is low enough for me to ogle the lace of her white bra supporting her perfectly sized tits. A handful. That’s all I need.
I bet her nipples—
“Yo, lover boy. Her eyes are up here, and the ad campaign is on the table,” Hunter says, a nod to the table, a giant smile on his smug face as I’m caught red-handed.
I adjust in my seat, sit farther from Peyton, and take in the ad copy she’s spread across the table.
Fuck, they’re good.
They’re so much better than what we’ve received from every other agency, including our in-house team.
The colors are vivid and strong, yet feminine. The typeface bold and inspiring, and the photographs she chose from the photo shoot really show off the angle we’re going for; active wear for all types of women.
“So I was hoping to set Roam, Inc. apart from all the other outdoor companies by highlighting its best attributes.” She turns to me and wiggles her eyebrows. Fuck, she’s cute. “Meaning, look at all these gorgeous women.” She lays down picture after picture. “What do all these women have in common?”
“They’re real,” I answer, noticing every shape and size.
“Exactly. They’re real. It was one of the things I loved about this line at first. How you showcased women from every walk of life: old, young, short, tall, curvy, petite. You covered all your bases and put them in all different outdoor gear highlighting their best features. When I saw the pictures for this photo shoot, I kept thinking, this was a social media campaign I was excited to work on because the possibilities of promoting were endless, but along the way, I feel like you lost the vision. You put it on hold, lost momentum, and now that it’s time, you’re at a loss.”
Nailed it. That’s exactly what happened.
“But,” she continues. “Not only can I bring this ad campaign back to life from the dead, we can have one hell of a launch.”
Turning away from me, bent over enough on the bench that her pert little ass is directed right in my line of sight, Peyton digs through her bag on the floor.
I take that moment to observe her backside—the same backside that is still the wallpaper on my computer. Firm and heart-shaped, begging for my fingers to press into it. Squeeze.
From the other side of the table, Hunter coughs loudly, covering his mouth and kicking me under the table like he did when we were in middle school.
Busted again.
He shakes his head at me, disgusted. “You really do need a babysitter,” he hisses just as she’s sitting back up.
For the next half hour, Peyton presents us with multiple campaign ideas—all varying slightly, but centering around the main focus: outdoor adventures for every woman.
Novice. Intermediate. Expert.
Stay-at-home moms and cross-trainers. Hikers, backpackers, and someone wanting to walk in their neighborhood.
I don’t know how she managed it, but the whole thing is fucking brilliant and it chaps my ass that I didn’t think of any of this myself.
Or that no one else on my payroll did either.
Smacking his hands together, Hunter stands—makes a giant production out of stretching his hands over his head—yawns, and makes an audible sound. Why is he so damn dramatic all the time?
“Damn, this is some good stuff, Peyton.” Another fake yawn.” I’m sure the boss already has which one he wants to choose in his head. I approve all of them.”
Not that it matters.
His approval means jack shit to me right now, especially after the half-assed performance reports he recently turned in. He can have an opinion when he gets his work done properly.
He checks his watch—a Roam, Inc. brand with thick, waterproof leather wristband that can be submerged up to one hundred feet—and declares, “Well, kids, playtime is over for Uncle Hunter. I have to get going. I have a dinner date that I don’t want to miss, but first I should take a nap.” He wiggles his eyebrows and taps the tabletop. “Nice work, Peyton. Should have hired you for marketing, not all that social media bullshit. Now we have to outsource you and really pay you the big bucks.”
He gives us a two-finger salute, clicks
his heels, and takes off.
Smug bastard.
And because he left early, Peyton and I are stuck sitting awkwardly next to each other, on the same side of the table. We look like that couple—if we were a couple.
Avoiding my eyes, Peyton takes a dainty sip of water. Caps the bottle. Sets it down.
Clears her throat.
Fingers a few pictures that have been laid out on the table in neat little rows, and finally says, “Can you say something please? I’m kind of dying over here.”
I scratch the side of my jaw, my stubble coarsely scraping my fingertips. “Are you looking for more compliments?”
She turns toward me, vulnerability in her eyes, my approval important to her. She is beautiful, extremely talented, witty, and dynamic, yet my approval is important to her.
“I’m looking to see if I did a satisfactory job. Did I present you with something you would feel confident using? Did I give you any kind of idea that you could be excited about?”
Excited. Just the way she says it . . .
Hell, I’m excited about the tank top she’s wearing, how I’ve seen the cup of her lacy bra five times in half an hour. Yeah, I counted. And yeah, I’m excited.
That she’s here and that she brought me a proposal we can definitely work with.
The campaign is going to be amazing.
Still, I cannot help giving her a hard time. “I’m going to have to think about it.”
She blinks a few times, shock registering across her face.
“Oh.” More blinking. “Yes, of course.”
She slowly and methodically begins gathering the materials laid out on the table, gently placing each photograph in a folder labeled “visuals.” Takes a few hand-drawn commercial boards and slides them into a leather portfolio. The papers go in yet another folder, along with a few articles from our competitors and their ad campaigns geared toward women.
When she’s done collecting her materials, Peyton rises from the table, too, slinging her bag over her shoulder and hands me a blue folder.
My fingers take it, keeping my gaze fixed on her down-turned head, all confidence washed away in seconds.
I desperately want to tip her chin up, force her to look at me, to see that I’m just playing hardball, but I don’t. This is business, and even though I’m going to easily hire her and take her on, she needs to learn not everything comes so easily. If she wants to succeed, then she needs to see this side of the business, the desperation.
Love Sincerely Yours Page 16
