by Sara Ney
“How’d it go?”
I breeze past the front reception girl, her voice stopping me with a staged whisper. She’s leaning over her the cold stone counter, glancing up and down the hall—then back at me, crooking her finger so I’ll come closer.
“Well? How did it go, you weren’t in there long.”
I glance toward Rome Blackburn’s office, my face defeated. “Not as I expected. And now I know where he gets his last name from.”
His personality is as black as his soul.
Wincing, Lauren motions with her finger for me to come closer, still. I have nothing better to do since I just quit, so I follow her little command, resting my hip against her granite reception counter with a loud sigh.
She grimaces. “That bad, huh?”
“Worse.”
“I didn’t hear any shouting—how bad could it have been?”
My brows shoot up. “Shouting?”
“Well yeah—you’re leaving. You quit. Rome Blackburn doesn’t take kindly to people leaving the company.”
As if I needed to be told; I just witnessed it first hand.
“Were you able to give him your two-weeks notice?”
“No. The conversation tanked when he started talking about my non-compete.”
Lauren laughs, clicking away at her keyboard. “Yeah, he usually has people clean out their desk on the spot when they intend to leave. Don’t be surprised if there’s a box already packed by the time you reach your desk.”
“Oh really? I never would have guessed.” The words drip from my mouth, coated in sarcasm I can’t conceal, but my stomach drops.
I hope he lets me stay; I need this last two weeks.
“He’s built this company on blood, sweat, and tears from the ground—”
I lean over to pat Lauren on shoulder. “Sweetie, I know. You don’t have to defend him. I get it. It’s nothing personal, it’s business. I just wish he would have given me more of a chance to—”
Down the corridor, a door opens.
His door.
Lauren’s back goes rigid; her fingers immediately begin flying faster across her keyboard.
I freeze.
My shoulders stiffen, back straightens, senses kick on, suddenly on high alert.
His cologne is sharp and masculine—with an air of power, mixed into one unmistakable and ridiculously intoxicating scent and what the hell am I even saying?
Rome Blackburn is woods and rivers and adventure.
He is excitement.
He is an asshole.
Rome Blackburn is a freaking. Prick.
The energy in the entire room shifts in the hallway. Commanding steps move toward Lauren and I, stopping just behind me.
“Ms Lll…” He stops, unable to pronounce my last name, and not even attempting to try. “What are you still doing here? Don’t you have two weeks notice to give to your supervisor?”
He’s not making me clean out my desk. He’s not making me clean out my desk!
“It’s Lévêque.” It’s pronounced le-veck.
“What is?”
“My last name.”
Sharp, intense green eyes narrow, five o’clock shadow covering his strong, chiseled jaw. Rome crosses his arms, biceps straining against the expensive fabric of his blue, button down shirt, feet a shoulder width apart. The stance makes the room feel smaller, tighter, sucking all the air.
“Le veck,” he repeats, testing it on his lips. His gorgeous, pouty lips.
“Yes.”
“Then why the hell don’t you spell it that way?”
“It’s French.”
His eyes narrow even further—if that were possible—
jaw ticking, thrumming an irritated beat as he sticks his hand in his pocket.
“Lauren, please show Ms Fancy Pants Le-Veck to the elevator, the clock is ticking on her time here.”
“Yes, Mr. Blackburn.” Flicking an apologetic look my way, his secretary stands, hastening to do his bidding, guiding me hastily to the elevators twenty feet in front of her desk, hands on my shoulders, propelling me forward.
“I’m so sorry. We’ll talk more later,” she whispers, her ruby red nail poking at the down button; the doors automatically slide open, revealing the interior black and chrome walls.
Stepping in, I turn around and press my floor button, four levels down.
“Human Recourses first Ms Fancy Pants,” Rome calls out the reminder with a smirk. “It’s that way.”
He points toward the ceiling.
Jerk.
God he’s good-looking.
Tall, with wide shoulders and tapered waist, the best part about him is his broody demeanor. I am attracted to it like bee’s to honey; it intrigued me to no end.
As the doors of the elevator begin to shut, Rome steps into view, hands tucked into the pockets of his perfectly pressed trousers and watches me, scowl etched across his beautiful dark brows.
Just because I feel the need to be pleasant—despite how rude he’s treated me—I mouth the words, “Thank you, Mr. Blackburn,” as the door slide closed in front of me.
Smile to myself, knowing I had the last word.
Smile as the door shut me in.
Only when they close do I slump my shoulders and lean against the wall for support, letting out a ragged breath.
Giving your two-weeks notice is difficult enough—giving it directly to a man like that?
Harder.
That could have gone better.
It went exactly nothing like I’d imagined when I played out the scenario in my mind. Or when I’d rehearsed the speech I was going to give to my dog, a rescue mutt I’d named Scott, because I think it’s hilarious giving my pets people names.
“Scott and Mister Blackburn—thanks so much for seeing me today, I know your time is valuable.” I’d cleared my throat. “Oh, what’s that? You like my skirt? (giggle) Thank you so much, I picked it out just for you.”
But he hadn’t liked my skirt; he’d made fun of it. I’d stuttered over myself, hadn’t been able to give him my pitch, and fallen flat on my face.
I had visions of how much better that could have been. Dreams actually.
Praise and gratitude were supposed to be thrown my way. Excitement for a new partnership. For growth! Maybe some high fives or at least a few professional handshakes or a fist bump to seal the deal!
I adjust my tweed, tight-fitted pencil skirt, feeling the hug of the fabric and slit up the back, allowing for some breathing room. Pluck open the top two buttons of my stifling shirt.
Embarrassed from the gauntlet I just ran through, I make my way back to small office, that’s really just a glorified cubicle, passing many on-looking and incredibly nosey co-workers.
Leave the door open.
Squeaky wheels adjust against the plastic chair mat that protects the carpet of the office, rolling forward as I sit down. Leaning forward, I grip my forehead with one of my hands and replay the meeting over and over in my head.
Rome Blackburn’s casual, yet intimidating stance. The pinch of his long fingers as he fiddled with that damn pen. My eyes as they roamed to the taper of his waist of his well-tailored pants as he watched the elevator doors close on me. The simple mess of his hair, pushed in all different directions, as if moments ago he was pulling on the silky brown strands, making a decision for the fortune 500 company he’s created from the ground up.
And those eyes.
Dark brows hooded over pools of complex green, that for once, I’d been close enough to discover the color of.
Mossy, they’d gotten darker as he’d gotten more irritated with me.
With me.
Ugh.
Rome Blackburn is callous, brash, and calculating. Yet, in that brief moment we’d stared at each other, I saw it—
saw a fleeting look of vulnerability behind his tough exterior.
A glimmer of—
Knock, knock.
The wrap of knuckles sound on the top of my cubicle wall, and before I
even look up, I know it’s my best friend Genevieve.
“Well. How did it go?” Genevieve works in IT, the technical side of Roam, Inc, and has been incredibly supportive of me leaving the company to start one of my own. A branding and consulting firm.
Gen sits on a small filing cabinet in my office, smooth legs crossed and ready to listen.
Spinning slowly in my chair, I angle toward her. Purse my lips. “How do you think it went?”
Her face contorts. “I’m going to guess not so well?” She phrases it like a question. “Mister Blackburn doesn’t seem like an understanding kind of guy. He’s too pissed off all the time.”
Understatement of the year.
“God, Gen, I wussed out so hard. I’m so embarrassed—and I didn’t even get to talk about my idea or my plans.” I shake my head. “What he hell was I thinking? Rome Blackburn legit cut me off before I could even get my words out of my mouth.” I laugh some more, finding the meeting more comical with each passing breath.
“At least it’s a pretty mouth,” my friend teases.
“He didn’t even know my last name, which means he had no idea who I was. Awesome.”
That gathers a chuckle from Genevieve. “He seems so refined, how could he mess up your last name?”
“He couldn’t pronounce it so he didn’t bother saying it.” I shrug. “Or maybe it was his way of jabbing me with one last insult before I left.”
Dutiful and supportive, my friend rubs my back.
“All it did was make him look like an ass.” Her high heeled shoe bounces up and down. “Hey. Listen. Forget about him—you’re leaving and you’re going to some serious kick ass when you’re out there, hustling all these companies, making a name for yourself, he’s going to be sorry he passed on you.”
I shake my head mirthfully. “He is not. You’re so stupid.”
Genevieve considers that a compliment. “I’m telling you, he’ll be sorry.”
Picking up a paperclip, I play with the metal and undo its shape—a nervous tick of mine. When I was younger, I’d shove the metal in my mouth against my teeth and pretend it was braces. I’m older now, so I set the bent metal back on my desk. “Any gossip I need to know about lately?”
Genevieve knows everything. And, in my opinion, has the best job in the company.
She monitors the instant messaging accounts, watching for any kind of misconduct or misuse of time. Creates new employee accounts and emails. Deletes old ones. Takes random screenshots of co-worker’s desktops.
Basically, she is the eyes and ears of Roam, Inc.
The best part of her job? No one knows exactly what she does; they just think she sets up work phones and fixes their computers every now and again—so she can dig up some real dirt on people.
“Hmmm,” she hums, taping a finger against her chin. “Calvin over in finance has a girlfriend getting implants this Monday, and he’s paying for the entire thing.”
“You’re lying.”
She shakes her head.
I quietly laugh, slightly jealous, my shoulders shaking. “What about Rose and Blaine?”
She takes a mint from my candy dish and pops it in her mouth, the crinkle of the wrapper rolling in her fingers before she tosses it in the trash can next to my desk.
“Still in a stand-off. He won’t admit to crushing on her, and she won’t admit to kissing him when they were drunk at the last office party. Looks like good old fashion stubbornness is going to get in their way of true love.”
“Such a shame.” Toss my paper clip in the trash, grabbing another one. “And Sally up in payroll? Is she still talking shit about me to Jessica?”
Genevieve rolls her bright blue eyes. “Always. Said you were dressed like a tramp today and went to the top floor today to try to fuck the boss.” She emits a soft snort. “As if anyone would want to go near that icicle dick.”
I bite the corner of my lip, eyes cast down. I don’t know, someone might want to fuck him.
In fact, I could name one person off the top of my head in an instant.
Me.
Me, me, me.
I would do Rome Blackburn in a heartbeat.
My friend chatters on, oblivious.
“Hey!” She perks up, sitting up ramrod straight on the desk. “Are we all still on for tomorrow night? Thirtieth birthday celebration!” She claps her hands, excited.
Some people might dread turning thirty, but not me.
I’m excited to be out of my twenties and I’m ready to be taken more seriously. I’m ready to have my own business, I’m ready for this new chapter in my life, despite the slightly negative start to it.
“We’re on. I need a stiff drink.”
My friend snickers. “A stiff drink and a stiff cock inside you.”
“Trust me, that’s not going to happen.”
“Why not?”
Because. I’m saving it for someone who doesn’t want me back: Rome Blackburn.
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