Love Sincerely Yours

by Quinn, Meghan

  We scoot out of the tight corner and make our way out of the coffee house where we both pause to say goodbye.

  Like the professional she’s trying to portray, she holds out her hand to me. “Thank you for letting me present to you today, Mr. Blackburn.”

  Her formality makes me smile. At least she hasn’t sir’d me tonight.

  I take her hand in mine, the feeling of her palm soft and slender, the perfect fit against my large hand. “Thank you for taking the time to come up with these ideas. I’ll get back to you soon.”

  She nods and swallows hard. I can see she wants to say something else, but she holds back, tamping down that wild tongue. That’s my girl. Shit. No. Not my girl. Professional.

  Instead, she puts a few feet of distance between us. “I look forward to hearing from you, Mr. Blackburn.”

  Taking a step forward, cutting down the distance, I pinch her chin between my fingers and force her to look at me head-on. “Call me, Rome. I like the way it sounds coming from your mouth.” More than I should.

  With one last look in her eyes, I spin on my heel and make my way toward my brownstone. I’m turned on and fucking horny as hell. I have some business to take care of, and it doesn’t have to deal with Roam, Inc.

  Chapter Nineteen

  PEYTON

  I can’t breathe.

  Even three hours later, tucked under my sheets, the meeting long over with, I still can’t breathe.

  Why weren’t they sitting next to each other? Why did I have to sit next to Rome?

  When I walked into the coffee house and saw the open chair next to Rome, I knew I was going to have one hell of a time getting through my presentations being that close to him.

  And I was right.

  I could feel his gaze blazing up and down my body, those steady, sure eyes focused in on the way my chest rose and fell with every strangled breath I took. I could feel his body language angled in my direction, and when he took the pictures from me, the light graze of his fingers across mine, innocent and yet so sinful, I felt it to my bones.

  Professionalism? What’s that? I can barely remember if I gave a good presentation or not, because I was so wired over being that damn close to Rome that I couldn’t concentrate. I fumbled over my words, I dropped papers on the floor, and every time Hunter chuckled, I became more and more frantic.

  It’s probably why Rome didn’t jump at my ideas. I was a hot mess. So. Professional. Not.

  Sighing, I throw my head back on my pillow. God, I stayed up late every night for the past three nights practicing my pitch, making sure everything was perfect, and then I go and screw it up because Rome’s cologne frazzled my mind.

  He has to think about it.

  I don’t blame him. If I sat through my presentation, I’m pretty sure I would be just as contemplative as he was.

  And here I thought the job was in the bag.

  I bite my bottom lip as tears start to prickle at the corner of my eyes. This is stupid. I shouldn’t be crying. I gave him one hell of a presentation, yes, I might have been nervous, but my ideas were solid and that’s all that should matter.

  Feeling a little more confident, I pick up my phone from my nightstand and open my email, hoping to see an email from Rome telling me how amazing I am.

  But when there are ZERO new messages in my inbox, I once again become self-conscious.

  Well that confidence was short-lived.

  If I wasn’t so set in stone on staying in my bed and never getting out of it again due to a vast amount of humiliation I had to endure today, I would walk over to my freezer and pull out a pint of ice cream.

  Maybe there is something good on TV to take my mind off things. But the remote . . . it’s so far away, on the other side of my bed.

  Succumbing to my laziness, I pick up my phone again just as I receive a text.

  From Rome.

  Butterflies take flight in my stomach, sending my body into a nervous frenzy. Sitting up and positioning myself against the headboard of my bed, I read his text.

  Rome: Question about your presentation tonight.

  Oh God, okay, be on point. Quick with your response but smart.

  Peyton: Hopefully I have an answer for you.

  I wait as the little dots dance right away.

  Rome: Were you nervous?

  That’s the question he wanted to ask about my presentation tonight?

  Leave it to Rome to call me out on my nerves. He could never let anything go. He observes, assesses, and then lets it be known what he sees, never sugarcoating. It’s one of the reasons I respect him so much as a CEO but also one of the reasons why I want to smack that handsome face of his, especially when his assessment is pointed in my direction.

  It’s not like I can lie to him, because he already knows the answer so I decide to be real. Maybe he’ll respect that, an honest-to-God answer.

  Peyton: Yes, beyond nervous.

  Rome: Why?

  Why? Is he serious?

  Well, besides the fact that I not only made it known many times that I wanted to bang him, or how he is the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen, I want to earn his respect. I want to impress him. I want him to see the worth in me.

  Peyton: Despite the obvious?

  Rome: What’s the obvious?

  Ugh, he’s going to make me say it, isn’t he? Knowing Rome, he is. He’s making me work for this job. I know he is, so I might as well give him all the truth.

  Peyton: The obvious: the way I so blatantly confessed my attraction toward you far beyond a professional level.

  Rome: Ahhh, that.

  Peyton: Yeah, that. It’s kind of hard to be taken seriously when I not so eloquently asked you multiple times to bend me over your desk.

  Rome: It was flattering . . . and entertaining.

  Peyton: Moving on.

  Rome: Why else were you nervous?

  I nibble on the inside of my cheek and type out a response before I can chicken out.

  Peyton: Because I respect you, your work ethic, what you’ve been able to create with Roam, Inc. I value your opinion, and since I’m out on my own now, I don’t know . . . I hate to say it, but I’m kind of seeking your validation.

  I squeeze my eyes shut when I send the message, a little embarrassed but also slightly relieved from my confession. If there is one thing that was helpful with our almost-daily emails, it helped me to be honest with Rome. And I think that’s a good thing. I actually think he prefers complete honesty rather than sniveling and pandering to his every quip and mood.

  Rome: Seeking validation from someone else? That’s how you get yourself into trouble with your business, Peyton. Never seek validation from someone else, only yourself.

  Rome: Be confident in your work, in your business model, in the product you’ve created. Your confidence will extend to your clients, and they will hire you because of it.

  Who is this man right now? Is this really Rome Blackburn giving me sound advice about my business? I know it has to be, but it’s doing funny things to my stomach, flipping it upside down and inside out.

  And that’s when it hits me.

  He cares.

  He might put on a steely, impenetrable mask, but past his fortress of a façade, there is a beautifully kind man beneath it all. Just as I suspected, but I never thought I would truly see it in person or be on the receiving end of this side of him.

  Peyton: That’s some really sweet advice, Rome.

  Rome: Don’t let it get around. I need my employees to fear me.

  Peyton: Your secret is safe with me.

  I pause, wondering if it’s appropriate to ask him about my presentation. We’re being pretty honest with each other right now, the usual wall erected between us on a temporary hiatus.

  Before he can text back, I send him a second text.

  Peyton: Be honest with me, did any of my ideas tickle your fancy?

  Rome: Tickle my fancy? Not sure about that, but yeah, I was . . . impressed.

  Oh.

&n
bsp; My.

  God.

  My heart rate picks up, galloping inside of my chest at a relentless pace as his words sink in.

  He was impressed. I, Peyton Marie Lévêque, impressed Rome Blackburn. It’s almost as if all the cosmic forces lined up and shined down upon me, giving me this small moment, this small victory.

  I impressed him, and I know I shouldn’t care what he has to say, but I can’t help but care a little. He’s a talented titan in the CEO world and to be able to impress someone of his caliber, well, it feels freaking good.

  Rome: Let me guess, you’re doing a happy dance right about now.

  I laugh out loud and shake my head while I type.

  Peyton: No, I’m actually trying to pick up my jaw off the floor.

  Rome: Are you really that shocked?

  Peyton: Uh, yeah. You’re . . . wait, should we be having this conversation through text?

  Rome: Probably not.

  Peyton: So . . .

  Rome: Have dinner with me tomorrow night. We can discuss everything.

  Why does the word “everything” feel like it carries so much weight?

  Peyton: Dinner as in business partners?

  Rome: Yes, what else kind of dinner would it be?

  I don’t know, one where you pull my pants down and show me the good stuff, right there in the middle of the busy dining room, waitstaff passing water glasses over our writhing bodies.

  Peyton: Just making sure.

  Rome: Do you like Italian?

  Peyton: Oui, oui monsieur!

  Rome: That’s French.

  Peyton: Eh, close enough. Send me the details tomorrow morning?

  Rome: I’ll have Lauren send you everything.

  My smile falls for a brief second hearing about Lauren’s involvement, but then again, this is business, and that’s it. No need to make this into anything other than that.

  Peyton: Sounds great. I look forward to it.

  Rome: Okay. I have some more reports to go over. I’ll see you tomorrow.

  Peyton: Don’t work too hard, Rome. And thank you . . . for the chance, the opportunity to talk to you and Hunter— for everything.

  Rome: No need to thank me. You did your job. That’s more than enough. Good night, Peyton.

  I can’t wipe the smile off my face as I scoot down in my bed, phone to chest, a new opportunity on the horizon.

  Not to mention, I get to have dinner with Rome tomorrow night. It might be all business, but that doesn’t mean I can’t look drop-dead gorgeous for the meeting.

  After all, the saying goes: dress to impress. What they don’t tell you is who to impress.

  Chapter Twenty

  ROME

  “. . . so you see this image here? She’s tired, but she’s determined, right? And you know just by looking at her she’s going to . . . Rome? Are you paying attention?”

  I’m not.

  Not at all.

  In fact, I haven’t heard a damn word Peyton has said since she walked into the restaurant tonight, shiny, black leather portfolio tucked under her arm. All legs and tan skin, the red dress draped on her body isn’t normal business meeting attire for several reasons:

  It’s blood-red. Sexy.

  It’s tight.

  It shows off way too much cleavage to be professional.

  She looks smoking hot, and it’s distracting as hell.

  And now her brows are raised, and she’s eyeballing me expectantly like I’m supposed to spout off some profound bullshit about the picture she’s holding between two fingers.

  Her nails are dark gray.

  I peel my eyes away and stare at the photograph.

  Some lady at a sink, wearing our workout gear and staring determined out the kitchen window, like she’s going to conquer the mountain in the distance once she’s finished her errands.

  “Yeah, I’m paying attention.”

  Not.

  Peyton smiles, a dimple I’d never noticed popping up in her cheek. “You liar. Prove it.”

  I think fast on my feet. “Something blah blah that mountain looks high? That woman is obviously going to need hiking equipment.”

  For a brief moment, Peyton doesn’t say anything—just stares at me, the wineglass in her hand poised halfway to her parted lips. But then, she laughs.

  Tips back her head and laughs. “You’re funny when you want to be, do you know that?”

  I am? Since when? “No one thinks I’m funny.”

  “I do.” She takes a sip of wine and studies me over the rim of the glass.

  “You’re obviously drunk.”

  “Not at all.”

  “Easily amused?”

  “Nope. I’m a tough crowd.”

  She is not—this woman laughs at everything. “Well, you should be tested, because you obviously have a concussion.”

  Peyton laughs again, the wine bubbling in her throat, her red, pouty lips smiling. White teeth. Dimple. Dark hair.

  She’s the poster girl for a classy, sexy, girl-next-door, all rolled into one.

  I fiddle with my knife. “Do you want to take a break from discussing this and order an appetizer or something?”

  She looks surprised by my suggestion. “Sure. It’s not like you were paying attention anyway.” Her eyes don’t roll, but they’re close. “And can I remind you, this dinner meeting was your idea—not mine.”

  “I like to eat real food, not nibble on coffee shop rabbit bait in the middle of the day.” Scones and croissants and shit. “We weren’t getting anything done at that place, either.”

  Peyton’s laughter is louder this time, and she covers her mouth with her linen napkin, remembering herself. And her manners.

  We’re at a really nice fucking place—my favorite steak restaurant for surf and turf; she confessed to loving lobster to Lauren when my assistant called to confirm the date and time. So Italian was thrown out the window. The atmosphere is darker, all the tables lit with small lamps, the house lights dim. Hunter green leather booths and mahogany wood, this place is classy and sophisticated and not at all suitable for the meeting Peyton and I are pretending through the motions of having.

  “We accomplished so much at that first meeting. What are you even talking about?” Her pert little nose is wrinkled and confused and I want to tap it with my finger.

  Jesus Christ. What the hell is happening to me?

  I don’t flirt—I’m terrible at it.

  I don’t laugh or crack jokes.

  I work and work then sleep and eat. Then get up and work some more, occasionally getting out of the city to do what I originally set out to do: enjoy nature. The outdoors. Which I rarely see anymore, locked inside my office, in the concrete jungle of a city where I made my home.

  Peyton is studying me thoughtfully, head tilted. “Wanna tell me what’s on your mind? You look lost in your own thoughts right now.”

  If she could get out of my headspace, that would be fanfuckingtastic, thanks.

  I pick a slice of bread out of the basket on the table, and pull it in half, setting one piece on the bread plate. The other half I take a bite of. Chew.

  “I’m in a very weird place right now, both personally and professionally, I guess.” I cannot believe I’m admitting this to anyone, least of all her. “It just occurred to me now that I haven’t done anything active outside in . . . Christ. I don’t even know.”

  “What would you do first if you could?”

  “Hike a mountain.” I used to do that a lot back home, though nothing on a grand scale.

  “Which one?”

  “I don’t know—nothing like Everest if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  We both laugh, the sounds mingling.

  “Wasn’t exactly thinking Everest, more on the lines of maybe something in the Adirondacks.”

  I ponder that, twisting my water glass on the table. “I love it up there.”

  “Let me guess, you have a cabin there.”

  A smile tugs at my lips. “Maybe.” And I wish I could
take you there, someday. You and me. Mountains. My cabin. Solitude.

  Nudity.

  She rolls her eyes but then scoots forward as if she’s about to tell a secret. “Do you let contracted employees stay in the cabin for free?” She wiggles her eyebrows, looking adorably cute.

  A belly laugh bubbles out of me as my head tilts back, humor hitting me square in the chest. “Only if they do a good job for me.”

  She rubs her hands together. “Then I’ll start planning my little jaunt now, because I know I’m going to blow your socks off with this campaign.”

  Blow.

  Wish she would blow something other than my socks off right about now.

  I shift in my seat, my eyes glancing at her cleavage again as she takes a drink. So goddamn full. What I wouldn’t give to pull her across this table, unzip the back of her dress, and take her nipples in my mouth, right here in the dining room of this fancy-ass restaurant. I wouldn’t care about indecent exposure. I would only care about how she tastes, how her hardened nipples feel in my mouth.

  I clear my throat. “Have you always had an eye for graphic design?” I ask her, stuffing the other piece of bread in my mouth and chewing slowly, giving her time to answer.

  “Yes. Well, yes and no. It wasn’t my major or anything in college, but I did like glitter and design growing up.” She smiles at the table for a brief moment, biting her lip before raising her head again. “I thought I’d be an architect, but I wasn’t great at math. So I had to change my major, ended up with a business degree. Draw in my free time, photography and all that jazz.”

  “So. The creative type.”

  “Sure, I guess.”

  “Is your apartment all bright and colorful?”

  “Is that how you picture it?”

  I study her. She’s not the flighty type, just . . . happy. “No.”

  “What do you picture?”