I quiet, thinking. I picture her naked, standing in the middle of an all-white room, her tits full and aching for my touch, her long legs ready and willing to wrap around my body.
But I don’t say that. “I imagine your place to be like the Pottery Barn threw up inside your entire living space. Just trendy vomit everywhere.”
“What.” Peyton chokes. “Okay fine. It’s true. That is what my place looks like, so sue me. Sue me for liking trendy, beige things.” She shoots me a sidelong glance, finger trailing the rim of her wineglass. “What about you? What does your place look like?”
“Not like Pottery Barn barfed inside of it.”
“Want me to venture a guess?”
I lean back in my seat. “Sure. Have at it.”
“Well . . .” She begins. “I see lots of black—to match your mood. Lots of cold spaces. Concrete floors. High ceilings—and stainless steel. You bought it that way and haven’t decorated any of it yourself. Someone came and did it for you, and you hate it, but it was too expensive to change, so you left it.”
What. The. Fuck.
Her brow goes up. “I’m right, aren’t I?”
I cannot help but laugh—a loud, booming laugh that goes along with the hand I whack onto the table. That’s how fucking surprised I am that she has me pegged.
“Yeah. You’re totally right.”
“How right am I?”
“That’s my place, down to the concrete floors.” Which I hate because the entire damn apartment is always freezing. And if I’d had known, I would have put in carpet. “I have to wear slippers every damn day no matter how warm it is outside.”
“You. Wear slippers?”
“I do.”
“What do they look like?”
“Guess.”
“Um . . . black leather with Sherpa insoles?”
“Pfft,” I scoff. “Hardly. They’re grizzly bear slippers. Hunter gave them to me and they’re badass.” Every time I take a step, the bear opens his mouth and looks like he’s snarling.
“Is that some joke? Or do you seriously have teddy bear slippers?”
“I did not say teddy bear—I said grizzly.”
“Same thing, kind of.”
“No, they are not the same thing.”
Peyton holds her thumb and forefinger together with one hand, squeezes one eye shut. “Lil’ bit.”
I can’t tell if she’s teasing me, or flirting with me. Either way, I like it.
She takes a sip of wine and looks away, biting her bottom lip.
Definitely flirting.
Red, sexy dress. Red lips. High heels.
Flirting.
There are papers still on the table, and I motion to them. “Maybe we should clear these out of the way so nothing gets spilled on them.”
“Oh. Good idea.”
We make quick work of cleaning them up, sliding everything into Peyton’s black leather portfolio. It’s smart and expensive, and looks great with her entire look tonight. Classy, sexy, and professional.
“I’m curious. Why New York? Why not somewhere else for the company, like . . . Colorado or even Chicago, where they have kettles and moraines? I know you initially said it was because of your parents living in Buffalo, but you could have changed your mind by now.”
It’s a good question, one almost everyone asks. Especially the journalists who’ve done stories on me in the past. Yet, coming from Peyton, I’m more relaxed to talk about it. She actually wants to know . . . me. That was something so surprising about the emails we sent each other. She seems to want to know more. Even now that I know who LSY is. It’s no longer a mysterious game, but it’s . . . friendship? “It’s New York City. This is where Wall Street is, and big business—and that’s what I always wanted my business to be. Big. Publicly traded. I didn’t think I could do that anywhere else.”
“I see. And now?”
“Now I know I could have.” But now it’s too late.
I’m here. The business is here.
The only thing I can do is open more branches in more rural locations—like Colorado Springs, or Vermont. Or Washington State.
Someday it will happen—just not right now.
And right now, I don’t want to talk about it anymore. I want to talk about her.
“What made you decide to start your own brand?”
She sits back in her seat mimicking my pose. “Oh. Brand . . . I like the sound of that. A lot.” A drink of her water hits her lips. “Don’t get me wrong, I loved working for you—probably a little too much. But I was great at what I did, and honestly, no one wanted to promote me because of that. If that makes sense.”
Yeah, it makes sense. You get someone good and you want to keep them right where they are.
Sucks that she quit though, when I could have used her somewhere else.
“I do miss seeing you around the office.” Her words surprise me, and I try not to show it.
“What are you talking about? We barely saw each other.”
“Oh, I saw you plenty.” Peyton chuckles knowingly. “You just didn’t notice.”
“When?” I hardly went down to the lower floors.
“I don’t know if you noticed, but I’m friends with Lauren. She and I did lunch a lot, and I’d grab her, and see you. Always so serious.” She pulls a grumpy face. “Always at your desk.”
“I never saw you.” How is that even possible when she’s all I can think about now? When she’s all I seem to see?
“No. Your head was always down.”
It’s not down right now. It’s up, and my eyes are staring straight at her. And under the glowing lights of this dim restaurant, she’s really fucking pretty.
If I’m being honest with myself, I’m really fucking disappointed she won’t be in the office on Monday, because the first thing I would do is raise my head and stare at her when she came to collect my assistant for lunch.
Maybe even throw her a flirty wink.
Would I?
“You’re doing it again,” she teases.
“Doing what?”
“You’re lost in thought.”
Why the hell do I keep doing that? It’s so unlike me. It’s unnerving and rattling me just a little. I like being in control of my thoughts and actions, and Peyton is making me . . .
“Shit, sorry.”
“When was the last time you got laid?” Her question is random, and out of the blue, inappropriate, and has me almost choking on my own saliva. Peyton is being fucking serious and looks like she really wants to know.
When I part my lips, I almost say something asinine, like Pardon me? or I beg your pardon? but I bite my tongue and manage not to blush.
“I’m not sure.”
She doesn’t believe me; it’s written all over her pretty face. “You’re not sure? How can you not be sure? I thought men knew all the little details about sex.”
It’s not a little detail, it’s an embarrassing fact, and I’m not about to share it with her.
I deflect.
“Why do you even care?”
One of those expertly manicured brows rises. “Oh, you know why I care.”
I do.
She wants to bang me.
And I haven’t had sex with anyone in . . . months. How many months, I have no idea—Hunter would probably know if I asked him. That fucker knows all my personal business, and remembers most of it, too. He’s the most annoying factotum I’ve ever met in my damn life.
“Six months,” I blurt out, just to see the look on her face, choosing a random number and guessing it’s close enough to being accurate to appease her.
“Nuh-uh, I don’t believe you.”
“You don’t have to believe me. It’s a fact.”
“Six months? Stop it. Right now.”
“Okay.” I clamp my lips shut to be annoying, the same way I used to do to my mom as a kid when she’d tell me to stop doing something.
“For real? How can that be?”
“Work, work, sleep, e
ating . . .” I list all the reasons I haven’t felt motivated to have sex with anyone. “Stress.” I finally look her in the eye. “What about you?”
Peyton pushes the fork around with her finger. “I dunno, maybe . . . two years?”
I almost fall off the chair. “Two years?”
“Give or take.”
And now that I know this, there will be no un-knowing it. Peyton Lévêque hasn’t been laid in seven hundred and thirty days, and she wants to bang me, and now I have to wonder . . .
What the hell am I going to do about it? Because the no fraternizing policy no longer exists between us. But, I still think about the look on her face when I had her right before me in my office. I can’t. Two words that have haunted me ever since.
Chapter Twenty-One
PEYTON
I’m not playing fair. I’m well aware of this.
I’m also not listening to my inner business-self telling me in a rather dramatic fashion to NOT STEP FOOT ON THIS ELEVATOR.
Go back to the coffee house.
Stick your head in your work.
Don’t even think about the man you had dinner with last night.
Or the fact that he hasn’t had sex in six months.
Or the way he raked his eyes over you multiple times, nibbling on his bottom lip when he blatantly stared at your cleavage.
Walk away right now, Peyton. Walk. Away.
I’ve never been good at listening to that inner voice, so here I am, stepping into the elevator and pressing the button to his floor knowing the real reason I’m dressed to kill and heading to Rome’s office.
Lunch with Lauren, of course.
Because why else would I be here?
I chuckle to no one as the elevator doors slide closed on me, shutting out the lobby, elevator car begging to climb, floor after floor higher up the skyscraper I’ve become very familiar with.
Taking a deep breath, I adjust the white blouse I’ve got tucked into a tightly fitted royal-blue skirt. Shift in my nude heels. Flip my loose, wavy hair over one shoulder. Pucker my glossy lips.
Just having lunch with a friend—that’s it.
An old friend.
A friend I would visit on occasion just to sneak peeks at her good-looking boss, Rome. Visit just to see him diligently working on his enterprise. Catch glimpses of him, hoping maybe someday I’d catch his eye, too.
Watching him work is inspiring and sexy as hell.
The elevator dings and the doors part, revealing Lauren at her desk, expertly listening to Rome as he hovers above her, catching snippets of their conversation.
“I need that file typed out and back on my desk within the hour. Will that be a problem?”
“No, sir.”
He sighs. “Would you stop calling me that?”
“No can do, sir.” She’s such a brat.
“Lauren, I swear to God . . .”
Lauren is full-out laughing when I approach, although my focus is on ogling Rome’s backside as he leans across her counter. Navy-blue pants, white shirt tucked in tightly and cinched by a brown leather belt.
Our clothes match, which is such a girl thing to notice.
His shoulders are tense, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and his hair is disheveled as if he’s been raking his fingers through it relentlessly today. Which he no doubt has, the way he gets stressed out so easily.
“Oh, relax, boss. You’re so keyed up this morning, what’s your jive?”
This makes me laugh.
Which makes Lauren look up in my direction and cringe.
Busted lipping off to the boss.
Her pretty blonde brows dip into a frown, then up, head cocking in Rome’s direction. Eyes widening.
Crap—she’s going to cancel on me. I can see it in her eyes; regret.
I’ve been spotted by Rome, so I stand taller when his head rears at the sound of my heels clicking against the marble floor, his eyes raking me in from head to toe.
His eyes widen, surprised I’m standing here—but then narrow on the front of my blouse. Skirt. I can see his pupils dilate from here, eyebrows sharpening as his steely gaze rakes its way up from my exposed legs. Up to my less-than-proper button-up job on my shirt, cleavage prominently on display. He likes what he sees.
“Peyton.” Gruff and pained, he continues, “What are you doing here?”
I saddle up next to Lauren’s desk and rest my hand on the high countertop. “Came to have lunch with my friend.” I eye her. “But from the looks of it, we’re going to have to reschedule.”
“Lauren is busy,” he snaps. “She doesn’t have time to eat lunch.”
I hiss between my teeth and tap my finger on the marble slab of her desk. “Tsk, tsk. That’s an HR violation, Rome. She has to have some sort of break.”
“She can eat and work at her desk like everyone else does.” He turns his gaze back to Lauren and says, “I’ll pay you extra. Bounce these files for me and get them back ASAP.”
Spinning on his heel, he doesn’t say another word as he makes his way back to his office, fingers of his right hand pulling on the brown strands of his dark hair.
A little shocked, I turn to Lauren and ask, “What the hell was that about?”
She sighs and leans back in her chair, looking deflated and tired. “Shit hit the fan this morning.”
“I can see that. What happened?”
“Project Mountain announced a new women’s line this morning, almost an exact replica to what we’re putting out there. So similar that Rome thinks there might be a mole in the company.”
Oh. Shit.
I glance toward his office—he’s fuming, sitting at his desk, head gripped in his hands, the tension radiating from his body palpable from where I stand. This must be killing him.
I don’t blame him for being a moody bastard.
Given I’m heading up the marketing for his women’s campaign, it’s my duty to go in there and see what I can do.
Not because I hate seeing him like this.
Not because I want to comfort him, hold him.
But because it’s my duty.
“Raincheck on lunch?”
Lauren scans her desk full of papers. “Looks like it. I’m so sorry.”
I wave her off. “Don’t be. I totally get it.” Sometimes Rome is tyrannical, but it looks like today he has a good reason. “I’m going to go see if there is anything I can do on my end marketing-wise to help the situation. Thanks for filling me in.”
“Good luck. He’s been a complete bastard today. For a second there, I thought maybe he was different, a little happier, you know? He’s been in a really good mood lately; even brought me coffee and lunch a few times this week. Me. I almost fell out of my chair the first time he did it. But today just reminds me of the man he really is.”
I hide the smile that wants to play at my lips. I like to think that maybe I’m the reason he’s been a little cheerier and happy, metaphorically loosening that tight tie around his neck. Right about now, I want to loosen it even more.
“Cut him some slack. I’m sure he’s dealing with a lot right now.” His stress level must be through the roof. “Text me when you can reschedule?”
Lauren nods. “I will.”
I give the counter a few raps with my knuckles and throw a little wave at her with my fingers, pushing through Rome’s heavy glass door without knocking.
Close it behind me, careful not to make a bunch of noise.
Keeping his head tilted down, he lifts his eyes and spots me. Letting out a long exhale, he leans back in his chair and tries to act as casual as possible, but I see right through him.
“I’m busy, Peyton.”
“So I’ve heard.” I make my way around his desk, set my purse down on the floor, and prop my body up on the edge, staring directly down at him. His cologne relaxes my nerves—just the smell of him does—the vulnerability in his eyes reminding me that he is, in fact, human despite the terse façade he likes to wear. I’m no longer an employee of his co
mpany, and have no cause to be intimidated. This passionate man needs some propping up. And I can at least do that.
His fingernails rake over his stubble as he makes no attempt to hide his blatant once-over of my body, his eyes lingering on my chest before they fall to my lips. Involuntarily I lick them. His eyes darken, become more sinister.
“It’s best you leave, Peyton.”
“Why?” My breath starts to pick up as Rome shifts in his seat, the V of his shirt falling open revealing the tan, smooth skin of his clavicle and collarbone—two of my favorite spots on a man’s body.
“Because I’m shitty company. I need to get work done, and right now, you’re a distraction.”
“A distraction?” I mock surprise. “I’m here to see if there’s anything I can do to help.”
“You don’t work here anymore; you’re not obligated to stick around and help me.” He licks his lips, reaches over to his desk, and presses a button. I know exactly what that button does. I’ve seen it done plenty of times when he has important meetings in his office. It tints the windows.
My heart rate picks up to a sprinting beat, my chest rises and falls, my breasts stretching the already tight fabric of my button-down blouse.
“I might not work in this building, but I work for you, Rome.” And I thought we were becoming friends; I’d do anything to help my friend if I could.
“Do you? Did I officially hire you without knowing about it?”
Oh, wow—he’s in a rare mood today; too bad he doesn’t scare me like he scares everyone else in this office. Moody grouch—maybe I should start calling him Oscar.
“Stop taking your anger out on me.”
“If I’m taking my anger out on you, I sure as hell would know about it.”
My cheeks flame, but that doesn’t stop my eyes from falling on his lap. Just a few feet away, I could easily just reach down and ease some of that anxiety he’s feeling right now. Wipe away that furrowed brow; relax it a little.
Just a pull . . . a quick tug and zip down on the front of his trousers.
It would be so easy.
“Why are you really here, Peyton?” he grits out before standing and moving around his desk to pace the room, shocking me out of my reverie with his stern attitude.
I thought we’d had a breakthrough . . .
Love Sincerely Yours Page 18
