Love Sincerely Yours

by Quinn, Meghan

  I swallow hard. Fuck, I’m such an idiot. “Peyton . . .”

  “No.” She shakes her head. “I understand your passion for your business and the employees that work for you. I’ve known from the beginning that you value each and every minute you’re working, but never would I have ever guessed you’d treat me as poorly as you have today.” She fixes her purse strap on her shoulder, pulling it closer to her body. “I would have expected you, out of anyone, to have respected me and my business enough to know I would never do that to you. Never deceive you or put your business on the line.”

  “I didn’t know what to think,” I say quickly, trying to come up with anything to ease the hurt in her eyes and the devastation in my heart.

  “You could have thought, ‘My girlfriend really likes me. No—I think there is possible love there. So even though these pictures look damming, I know she isn't capable of something so incredibly awful. Period.’” Love?

  My heart swells just as it’s deflated by the look in her eyes.

  “I’m sorry.” I drag my hand through my hair. “I was caught off guard.”

  Leaning forward, she looks me dead in the eyes and says, “Then let me catch you off guard again. We’re done, Rome.”

  “What?” She starts to walk off, but I catch her by the arm again. “Peyton, come on.”

  “No, Rome.” She shakes her head, tears falling from her eyes that she quickly wipes away. She points to the coffee house. “Back there, where you first gave me the job to work with you on the women’s line, it meant the world to me that you trusted me enough with this project. And yeah, I might have fallen for you in the process of all this. But what it comes down to is that you’ve never really trusted me.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “No? Well, it sure as hell seems like it to me.” She shakes her head. “Don’t worry, I’ll finish out my work with Roam, Inc., see through the launch of the women’s line, but I’ll only work with Hunter on it. When it’s over, I’m through with Roam, Inc. Done.”

  My chest constricts, my body is numb, and for the first time since I started dating Peyton, fear takes over me. She’s serious. She’s really ending this, and fuck if that doesn’t devastate me more than anything.

  Fuck the business.

  Fuck the women’s line.

  Fuck Project Mountain.

  I can’t lose Peyton, not after everything we’ve been through, not after I’ve . . . I’ve . . .

  Before I can come to terms with my feelings, Peyton is walking down the sidewalk, not even bothering to look back at me.

  I tell my feet to move, to chase after her, but for the life of me, I can’t seem to listen. Because all I can hear are her words: “We’re done . . . I might have fallen for you in the process of all this. But what it comes down to is that you’ve never really trusted me . . . We’re done.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  ROME

  “It’s called a shower,” Hunter says, barging through my office and taking a seat in front of me, a folder in his hand. The dickhead has actually been doing my job for the past two weeks.

  My job of working with Peyton, and I can’t fucking stand it.

  I know when every meeting occurs, when it ends, and the exact moment they part ways, because Hunter texts me the goddamn update every time.

  Just getting to the coffee house. Short dress. She looks fine, dude.

  God, she’s so smart. She is really good at this shit.

  What’s her perfume? It smells amazing.

  Did you know she paints her fingernails often? Today it’s pink.

  The way she bites her bottom lip . . . dude.

  She gave me a hug goodbye today. Her tits pressed against my chest **okay hand sign emoji**

  Oh and she sways her ass when she walks away.

  I could seriously kill him. It’s been like that for the past two weeks.

  I know what she smells like, like fucking rain and sunshine. And I know she paints her nails. I’ve watched her do it wearing nothing but my shirt. And smart? Fuck, she’s the smartest girl I know, so clever and astute. It’s why I hired her. Not because of the emails or the flirting, but because she’s damn good at what she does, and I needed her on my team.

  Now I need her in my life. A permanent fixture.

  I miss everything about her. The way she tests my patience or brightens when I walk in the room, or the way she moans my name when I’m thrusting into her, never able to get enough.

  I love her ability to bring me to my knees with her quick wit, and I love that she knows when I need her to sit on my lap and let me hold her, breathing in her scent and empathy after a hard day.

  I love her personality—feisty and intelligent—how it kept me on my toes. And I love her smile, her sultry eyes, and her full lips.

  Christ . . . I . . . I love her.

  Hunter raps his knuckles on my wooden top desk. “Uh, hello in there. Were you even listening to me?”

  I shake my head and rub my hand down my face, the three-day-old stubble growing into an actual beard. “No, I’m not listening to you because whatever you’re saying is probably going to torture me, and I don’t want to hear about it. Just give me the notes and move on.”

  After every visit with Peyton, Hunter makes his first stop here in the office to torture me with details about how amazing Peyton is.

  Newsflash: I fucking know, and I’m the dipshit who screwed it up.

  “You’re right.” Hunter reaches into his pocket and pulls out a protein bar. Unwraps, chomps, chews. The crinkling sound makes me want to drive my head into the wall. “I would have told you that she looked sad today. Her ‘I’m okay’ façade has worn off, and she’s lacking the brilliance in her eyes.”

  Fuck.

  I can’t handle the image in my head. A sullen Peyton, barely getting through the meeting, that spark she carries, dulled and masked.

  Fuck, I’m a moron.

  “She didn’t even order a drink this time.”

  “What?” I snap my head at Hunter. “Why?”

  “Said she wasn’t thirsty or hungry. Didn’t stop me from eating a croissant and licking my fingers afterward.”

  “Shit,” I mumble and lean back in my chair.

  Hunter exhales and props his ankle up on his knee. “Dude, what’s stopping you from saying you’re sorry?”

  “I already said I was sorry, but she walked away.”

  “Don’t be a moron. Of course she walked away. You hurt her, big time. And mind you, I told you not to blow up, and look what you did.”

  “Thanks for the reminder.”

  “Seriously though, what are you waiting for? You look like shit; she looks like shit. You clearly miss her, so go grovel at her feet.”

  “It’s not that easy,” I answer, staring at the wallpaper on my computer screen. It’s a picture Peyton took of us at Serendipity. She’s sitting on my lap, arm wrapped around my neck as I kiss her cheek, the smile on her face so gorgeous.

  “Why not?”

  “Because she wouldn’t even say yes to moving in with me—”

  “Because she wanted a grand gesture, not some bullshit statement that you guys should move in together.” Hunter snaps his finger and lowers his foot, inching closer to my desk. “Pull up Pinterest. I bet we could find some good ideas on how to win her back.”

  “I’m not looking at goddamn Pinterest.” I push back from my desk, and pace my office, rubbing the back of my neck. My mind whirls but not with ideas, with worry. What if I’ve waited too long? What if she doesn’t want me back?

  Head bent forward, completely deflated, I say, “I love her, Hunter.”

  “I know, so what are you going to do about it?”

  Turning toward him, I eye my computer again, her infectious joy reminding me where we started . . .

  “I think I have an idea.”

  Hunter rubs his hands together and leans forward. “Oh, my nips just got hard. Lay it on me.”

  I really need to get a new best
friend.

  * * *

  Hunter suggested I clean myself up before I try to win Peyton back, and I think he was right, for once. I didn’t shave, kind of liking the scruff, but I trimmed it up so it didn’t look like a truck just dragged me down nine miles of bumpy road. I chose to wear a pair of black jeans and a gray V-neck sweater with a white shirt underneath it. Peyton always said she loves me in my business clothes, but it’s my “street” clothes that really turn her on.

  Fuck, I’m nervous.

  I’ve never had to win a girl back. I’ve never been interested enough to put in the effort, but Peyton is worth every single second of my time.

  Sitting at a restaurant across from the coffee house, I have the perfect view of her. Dressed in jeans and a simple blue sweater, brown boots up to her knees, she looks so good. The minute I laid eyes on her, knowing she’s so close, I felt the beat of my heart wanting to erupt out of my chest.

  Pulling my phone from my pocket, I pull up the email I put together and give it one more look, tweaking it until I’m comfortable.

  I glance at Peyton again. Her nose is buried in her computer working diligently, a cup of coffee next to her. What did she get today? A latte? She favors those more, but when she’s in dire need of caffeine, she goes for the espresso. Does she need caffeine today like I need it, to help combat the sleepless nights I’ve had?

  Only one way to find out.

  Taking a deep breath, I press send and wait.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  PEYTON

  This latte is doing shit for me right now. I should have gone with the espresso with five shots, because oh my God, I can barely keep my eyes open as I look over these ad copies. My vision feels blurry, and my mind is elsewhere—on a certain asshole who unfortunately captured my heart.

  I press my hand against my forehead, trying to keep myself propped up through my drowsiness.

  Okay, maybe I kind of wish he would come apologize again. Yes, I’m that girl. What he did was presumptuous and mean and the definition of his personality, but it still stung . . . because I thought I was different. I thought I mattered to him, that I could be someone he could talk to before jumping to conclusions.

  I’m so mad at him, but I also want him.

  I love him.

  I hate everything about this.

  Sighing, I take a sip of my lukewarm latte just as a new email pops up on my computer.

  I set my latte down as I click on the preview, pulling up the email.

  I don’t recognize the email address at first, but when I take a closer look, my heart sputters in my chest, and my breath catches in my throat.

  HandsRoamingPeytonsBody.

  Subject: I don’t want to bang you . . .

  With shaking hands, I scroll to the start of the email.

  To Whom it May Concern (I mean you, Peyton):

  You don’t know how gutted I am writing this, but it has to be said. Because I can’t fucking stand it anymore.

  I can’t breathe as tears start to well in my eyes, making it impossible to see the screen in front of me. This is almost word for word the first email I sent him as LSY.

  I cover my mouth in awe, taking a deep breath to steady my nerves.

  But . . . full disclosure, I would like it to be known that I have consumed zero alcoholic beverages before writing this. Yes, I might have had too many drinks in the last two weeks while trying to fill an empty void in my heart, but I can honestly say right now, typing this email, I am completely sober and pouring my heart out to you. For the record though, I’ve had five cups of coffee this morning to make up for the sleepless nights without you.

  I think it’s important to be open and honest with the one you love, don’t you? And full disclosure, Peyton?

  I love you.

  And I’m finally being honest.

  I like you so much, and it’s clouding my judgment, making me do things I never would, like lash out at you and blame you for things that you’d never in a million years do. < - - Did you read that? Never in a million years do I think you would BETRAY ME. I’m a fucking asshole for even thinking it for a second, and I’m so fucking sorry.

  I have a hopeless, foolish, school yard crush on you.

  Did you know people around the office call ME a sadist? An egomaniac? An insensitive, arrogant prick? But you knew from the beginning that my bark was worse than my bite. You gave me a chance to prove that I’m more than the man behind the desk with a tie cinched tightly around my neck.

  For once, you were the one who put a smile on my face. You were the one I wanted to impress. You were the one I wanted more than anyone else.

  And as long as we're being honest, that blue sweater you’re wearing? With the low-enough V that I can see the swell of your breasts? It really makes me want to ask you a very important question . . .

  I don’t want to bang you . . . I want to love you if you’ll let me.

  Love,

  Sincerely,

  ALWAYS Yours

  Postscript: Look up.

  Look up? What the heck does that mean?

  I wipe the tears from my eyes and lift my head to find Rome standing in front of me with a white box in hand, the other hand stuffed in his pocket, looking nervous but so sexy in his sweater and jeans.

  Oh God, I forgot how handsome he is.

  “Hey babe,” he says gently, taking a step forward. And there it is, his cologne waking me up for the first time in weeks. Before I can say anything, he drops to one knee in front of me and holds out the box. “Open it.” His intense eyes are intent on me, soulful and hopeful all wrapped into one.

  With shaky hands, I lift the lid of the pastry box to find my favorite quiche at the bottom and written on the top with a key taped below it, it says, “I can’t live another day without your hugs and ‘quiches.’ Will you move in with me?”

  Like the girl that I am, I cover my mouth, and tears continue to fall from my eyes. He sets the box on the table and takes my hands into his, never moving his eyes from mine.

  “Peyton, I’m so goddamn sorry for what I said, for not trusting you when I know I should have. You mean everything to me, and not because of all the incredible work you’ve done for me, but because you’re so beautifully intelligent and witty and make me so fucking happy. I can’t imagine another day without you by my side.” He kisses my hand and says, “Will you forgive me and please move in with me?”

  Unable to hold back my excitement or keep him waiting, I nod my head and chuckle as he pulls me into his chest and hugs me until I feel like I’m about to break.

  Sighing into my neck, he kisses my cheek and then whispers, “I love you so fucking much, Peyton. I’m sorry I hurt you.”

  Out of my mind with joy, I hug him even tighter and then pull away. I point my finger at him and say, “Don’t do it again. I don’t forgive easily.”

  He chuckles, the sound no longer foreign to my ears. “Never.”

  Gripping his cheeks, I bring his lips to mine where I place a soft, gentle kiss on them and say, “I love you, Rome, and I can’t wait to share a home with you, but . . .”

  “But?” He cocks a brow at me.

  “But we’re not living in that concrete jungle of an apartment you have.”

  Smiling brightly, he says, “Don’t worry, I got the apartment two floors down. Fresh and new for the both of us.”

  “You’re such a good man.”

  “Good for you.”

  He captures his mouth with mine and even though we’re in the middle of a coffee house most likely making a scene, I don’t care. He was known as a sadist and an egomaniac, and a tyrant, but I knew deep down, he was a soulful gentleman with an alpha tendency that was going to bring me to my knees.

  And guess what? He’s all MINE.

  When he pulls away, he sighs and rests his head against mine. “God, I love you.”

  “I love you too.” Twisting my lips to the side in a smile, I add, “And by the way, I can’t live another day without your hugs and
‘quiches.’ Clever, Rome. Very clever.”

  He shyly shrugs. “Who knew Pinterest could help win your girl back?”

  Epilogue

  HUNTER

  I can’t even look at those two. They’re so disgusting.

  My two friends; the one I’ve had for half my life, and the other because, well—he fell in love with her, and she’s fucking cool. I couldn’t help but become her friend.

  She’s irresistible, and I fell for her too, only I don’t get to bang her.

  Rome does, the lucky bastard.

  On the outside, Peyton looks like the girl-next-door, and I wouldn’t have pulled her from a lineup if I were trying to find a date for him. Brunette when he preferred blondes. Petite when he’d preferred tall.

  She’s the opposite of everything he thought he wanted.

  Not that he thought he wanted anyone, the fickle bastard.

  Then she had to go and say she wanted to bang him . . .

  Cheeky little shit.

  “Why are you just standing there? You look weird.” Peyton’s sweet but insistent voice interrupts my musing.

  “I look weird?”

  “Yeah, you look lost in space—and if you’re not careful, you’re going to drop that dresser right on your foot.” She taps hers impatiently.

  “And if you do, don’t think for one goddamn second you’re claiming that injury on my homeowner’s insurance.” Rome gives me a bump with the other end of the heavy, mahogany dresser that’s going in their new bedroom.

  We’re in their new apartment—just two floors below the one where Rome was living before—and Peyton has us doing the heavy lifting.

  “Give me some credit, asshole.” I heft the heavy wood, blowing out a little puff of air. “Where are we putting this? I’m about to bust a nut.”

  Peyton laughs, pointing to the large wall adjacent to their king-size bed. “Right there would be good; center it against the wall.” Her hands make a more that way . . . to the right . . . just a little motion, then she gives me the universal sign for stop. “Perfect.”