Love Sincerely Yours

by Quinn, Meghan

  “No.” Thank God.

  “Did someone sext someone?” Wiggles his eyebrows.

  “Not exactly.” Leaning back in my chair, I grumble unhappily. “But close enough.”

  Fascinated, Hunter claps his hands in front of him. Rubs them together gleefully. “Tell me more.”

  Hunter is my best friend and confidant; I know if I show him the email, he’ll keep his loud mouth shut—at least to other people—but there is no doubt in my mind he’d give me a giant rash of shit about it if the opportunity arose. Dirt on me doesn’t come along often, and this is solid roasting material.

  Fuckin’ A.

  I adjust my shirt collar. “Someone sent me a highly improper message through company email. Very out of line.”

  I sound like a goddamn prude.

  Like—my grandmother.

  “Improper?” Rising to his feet, my best friend rounds the desk in two seconds flat, leaning greedily over my shoulder to see my screen. “Show me. Show me right fucking now.”

  “Quit breathing down my neck.”

  Excited, he ignores me. “Who was it? Show me.”

  “The email is anonymous.”

  “Even more fun. Let me see, let me see.”

  He shoves me with his elbow—begs like a five-year-old—probably because the two of us don’t have secrets.

  “This stays between us,” I warn sternly.

  He nods. “Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

  I level him with one more hard stare before cracking open my laptop and giving him room to ogle the glowing screen and the inbox displayed.

  Gleefully, Hunter’s gluttonous eyes bounce back and forth just as mine had, a smirk forming on his face as he reads. I read along with him, and there’s that sentence I keep getting stuck on: I want to bang you so hard.

  Jesus Christ, who even says that anymore?

  Fuck. Screw. Have sex.

  But bang?

  Hunter practically vibrates beside me. “Well, shit, this is—”

  “Appalling? I know. I’m going to have to—”

  “Fucking awesome.” Standing back, Hunter lets out a howl. “Dude. How lucky are you?”

  I can’t with him right now . . .

  “Jesus, go sit down.”

  For once, the asshole listens. Thank. God.

  His hand scratches the stubble on his jaw as he walks back to his chair. Dumping his giant body into the leather seat, he crosses one leg over the other and studies me.

  “You’re going to reply.” He says it casually, yet it detonates the statement in my office.

  “Reply? Are you nuts? No. I’m not dignifying that with a response.”

  “Why the hell not?” His voice raises an octave; an impossible feat given how deep it is. “Are you insane?”

  I give my eyes a healthy roll. “Yes, O’Rourke, I’m the insane one here.”

  “Yeah—you kind of are.”

  “You’re crazy if you think for one second I’m going to message back an employee.” I’m hissing and I don’t care.

  He has lost his damn mind. I literally just sent a company-wide memo warning people about offensive behavior; I’m not going to fucking perpetuate the behavior myself.

  His hands go up in retreat. “Relax. Relax. Just hear me out for two seconds, okay?”

  “You have two seconds.”

  “Well. What if it’s that girl in logistics who wears that pink cardigan every Wednesday? She’s kind of cute in a ‘I have cats and no boyfriends’ way.”

  “I have no clue who the fuck you’re talking about.”

  “That, my friend, is your problem. You don’t spend any time on the lower floors. You have no clue who any of your employees are.”

  “And I suppose you do?”

  Hunter snorts. “Of course I do.”

  “I know who the important ones are.” Even to my own ears, I sound like a complete asshole.

  He chuckles. “You’re such a pompous windbag.”

  He’s not wrong. Not even a little.

  “I don’t have time to know all my employees or to respond to inappropriate emails.”

  “Right, I get it.” He nods knowingly. Patronizing? I can’t tell.

  “Get what?” A dull ache starts to throb behind my eyes.

  “You’re afraid it’s a guy.”

  Oh shit.

  I hadn’t even considered that, but now he’s mentioned it, a seed of doubt pricks at my brain.

  Brow pinched, I narrow my eyes at Hunter. “Are you fucking mental? That note was not written by a guy.”

  “It could easily be a guy. Haven’t you ever caught an episode of Catfish? Someone could be catfishing you. That’s all I’m saying. Like, a dude. Oh.” He snaps his fingers and sits a little taller. “Could be one of your competitors trying to throw you off. Write them back, ask to see a dick pic.”

  I rub my temples, willing this nightmare to end. “You can slither out of my office now.”

  “Okay, okay, let’s not ask for a dick pic just yet. There’s an easy way to discover if it’s female. Read me what the drinks were again?”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yes, hit me with them.” He makes a gesture with his hand, asking for the info.

  Sighing, I scan the email and say, “Uh, three margaritas, Swedish fish shots and a beer . . . because it was free.”

  “Bingo.” Hunter holds up his finger. “Total chick. No self-respecting gay man would pack on the sugar with Swedish fish shots, and women are the only ones who get free drinks. You’re in the clear, probably not a catfish situation.” He looks smug. “Although, now we’re in a whole new ballgame. Who’s the sex-acholic who wants to bang you? My money is still on pink cardigan. She seems like she’d be kinky out of the workplace.”

  “Based on what?”

  “She makes eye contact every time I walk past.”

  “How often do you walk past?”

  “Often enough.”

  “And she’s kinky because she looks you in the eye,” I deadpan.

  “She doesn’t just look me in the eye—she looks me in the eye, if you know what I mean.”

  “Can you stop talking for a goddamn minute?” He’s giving me a fucking headache. My head is pounding.

  Elbows on my desk, I rub my temples back and forth.

  I want to bang you so hard.

  I can’t imagine someone who wears a pink cardigan every Wednesday sending me a note like this.

  “You’re definitely firing back a note. It’s the only way to find out who she is.”

  Oh, someone is getting fired all right.

  “How about I don’t and instead get back to my fucking job.”

  “Nah, I like my idea better.”

  Of course he does, because he’s a horny moron.

  Once again, he gets up and crosses to my desk, shoving me aside and strong-arming his way to the computer. Once on his knees, he jacks me in the rib cage until he has room to type. Fingers poise at the keyboard, hovering.

  As he begins typing, he talks out loud.

  “Dear Foxy Lady—”

  “What? No. I would never fucking say that.” I try to move him out of the way, but he stays put and continues to type.

  “Dear Yours. Thank you for your correspondence.”

  My nostrils flare. “Are you fucking serious?”

  He ignores me. “As you’ve noticed, my underwear is twisted tightly and shoved so far up my own ass that I’m often rather unpleasant to be around.”

  Rolling my eyes, I sit back and let the douche have his moment, but there is no way in hell I’m sending an email.

  “But let me assure you,” he pauses, “my sensible cotton briefs (probably in a boring white) are untwisted because of your email, and I’ve never felt so free. Freeballing, one might say.” Okay, that part makes me laugh. Idiot. “Your email might be the thing I need to bang the bastard right out of me; I’d like to return the favor. How about a seat on my lap during the Staff Update meeting—which are a complete waste of every
one’s time when an email would serve the same purpose.” He gives me a sidelong smirk and I flip him off. “Please RSVP with a Xerox copy of your ass so I know whose ass to park in my lap. Respectfully yours, Romey Bear. P.S.: Let’s fuck.”

  With a wide, satisfied grin, Hunter reads over his email and is about to move the cursor toward the SEND button, when I leap out of my chair and smack his hand away.

  “What the fuck were you about to do?”

  “Hit send. Duh.” He shakes his hand, cradling it to his chest as he stands. “Why are you so sensitive?”

  “Why are you such a pervert?”

  “I’m not a pervert. I’m normal. You’re the one who needs to loosen up. Relax, dude. Chill. Have some fun. Jesus.”

  “I can’t send an email like that.”

  “But . . .”

  I shift in my seat, uncomfortably. “But . . . nothing.”

  He stands, swiping at any carpet dust that might have gotten on the knees of his dirty jeans. “If you don’t send this one, think of sending a different one. What’s the worst thing that could happen? You actually having some goddamn fun? Flirt? Get a hard-on for something other than a spreadsheet?”

  Shit.

  He’s right; one time I did get a hard-on when I saw the company’s year-end fiscal spreadsheet. It was gorgeous and sexy.

  Sue me; money turns me on, okay?

  It’s not a crime.

  Hunter’s bear paw clamps down on my shoulder. Squeezes. “Just think about it.”

  “Right.” My eyes roll because I have nothing else to say.

  I’m not writing that woman back.

  Whoever she is.

  The idea is ludicrous.

  When Hunter leaves—finally—he has the good manners to close my door behind him with a click, shutting me in with my thoughts.

  No way am I getting any work done right now; I might as well pack up my shit and leave for the day—but it’s only mid-morning.

  Fuck.

  His ridiculous email glows back at me in black and white, a parody of a love letter. A cheap imitation of flirting. I’d never say any of those things.

  What I would say is . . .

  What would I say?

  I scratch at the stubble on my chin, not having enough time this morning to shave. The whiskers are dark and coarse, covering my strong jaw and under my chin. Bristly.

  What would I say?

  I delete the bullshit my friend just typed out, eyes fixated on that blinking, beckoning cursor.

  Say something . . . it tells me. Go ahead, you chicken shit.

  Me? Scared?

  That’s a load of horse crap. I’m not afraid of anything but squirrels, and not a single soul knows about that except me.

  Little beady-eyed bastards.

  To Whom It May Concern:

  As you’ve probably realized, you’ve caused quite a stir with your little declaration. It was unprofessional and could be misconstrued as assault, which I’m sure wasn’t your intention. I’ve held off responding, mostly because there is nothing to say; this nonissue will be dealt with by human resources in partnership with IT, and when they find you . . . you’ll be fired.

  Your boss,

  Rome Blackburn.

  Postscript: You were obviously inebriated when you composed the email, and it was the result of alcohol.

  There.

  Professional. To the point. Authoritative?

  I’m the boss; I’m in control, not some mystery woman who probably works in the damn mailroom.

  * * *

  What the hell am I doing here?

  I tell myself it’s because I need a firmer grasp on my company.

  Not for any other reason.

  None.

  I don’t usually find myself on the lower floors; mostly because I hole up in my office, head down, hands clicking away at my keyboard. Or I’m on the phone, taking important calls.

  I have no reason to venture anywhere but my office, bathroom, boardroom, or break room for coffee—and it’s Lauren’s job to fetch that for me.

  But here I am.

  And I feel like a tiger, pacing the aisles of the marketing department, slowly stalking up the middle of cubicles, tight-lipped smile and a nod to anyone who glances in my direction.

  Anyone scattering like a rat to move out of my way.

  “Hello, Mr. Blackburn.”

  “Oh. Oh, uh, Mr. Blackburn. Uh, Rome. Uh. Mr. . . .”

  “I’m just preparing that file for you, sir. I . . . I didn’t forget, I . . .”

  A few papers go flying.

  Loud coughing.

  More than one folder rises as a disguise.

  What am I dealing with here? A department full of pussies? Christ.

  I scan the aisle, thirty-something cubicles—some empty, most of them occupied—one by one, examining every face staring back at me. Staring for . . . anything.

  A sign.

  A tell.

  Glimmer of a guilty expression.

  For her.

  She’s here, in this department, I can taste it.

  I wet my lips, smiling at George Flanders, my longest in-house ad exec. George might be a floundering old-timer, but his wife makes fucking great pie.

  A perverted joke Hunter once told me about “slicing pie” comes to mind and I chuckle, rounding the corner to the break room. Every floor has one; a nice-sized tile room with a fridge, a few booths, sink, counter, microwave, coffeepot, and Keurig. Plenty of snacks and bagels brought in every Friday by a vending distributor.

  I shove through the heavy door and pop my head in, then settle my eyes on the young woman in the corner, magazine raised to her face, one hand holding a sandwich. Her oversized dress is a hideous hue of olive-brown, an outdated article I’ve only seen in old movies. A can of sparkling water is on the table in front of her, and she doesn’t hear me enter the room and lean against the counter.

  I regard her, my gaze sweeping up her crossed legs, to the puffy fold of her giant dress sleeves circling her elbows. Who the hell is she?

  And why is she dressed like that?

  I’ve walked around my company enough to know no one dresses like this.

  Not that it really matters . . . but . . . shoulder pads.

  She doesn’t acknowledge me when I clear my throat.

  I push off and make a show of brewing a quick cup of coffee. I don’t need one; I’ve had three already, but it’s busy work. To get her attention.

  Still.

  Nothing.

  What the hell do I have to do to get this chick’s attention? Detonate a bomb? And why the hell am I even trying?

  “Nice weather we’re having.” Lame.

  “Mmm . . .” she mutters.

  “I could pitch a tent right here in this room,” I groan.

  Her magazine rustles as she flips a page. “Yeah . . .”

  “Man, Mr. Blackburn sure is a prick.”

  Snort. Laugh. “Yeah.”

  Ah. Now we’re getting somewhere.

  “Did you see that tie he had on yesterday?”

  She takes a drink from her water. “He wasn’t wearing a tie yesterday.” The magazine flutters.

  Well. That’s interesting. “He wasn’t?”

  She ignores me in a way that only Hunter does.

  “What do you think was in the email that got him so fired up?”

  Slowly, the pages of her magazine still, and it lowers, her dark eyes boring holes into me as they come into contact with mine. I watch as her cheeks flush, eyes widen in horror, and teeth nibble at her bottom lip.

  Peyton?

  Peyton in a way I haven’t seen her before: messy and rumpled, looking a little worse for wear, makeup slightly smudged—or what makeup she does have on—clothes wrinkled. I don’t know what the hell that dress is, or where she would have found it, but it’s fucking horrible and should be lit on fire.

  I let this awkward moment between us stretch, giving her an opportunity to string a sentence together and salvage the mo
ment.

  She doesn’t.

  She sits there, stunned.

  Gawks.

  Mouth open wide in disbelief like a carp fish.

  I suppress my smirk. “Good morning.”

  “Morning.” Her voice croaks.

  “Rough night?”

  Her reply is a wane smile that only tips one side of her face. Wobbly?

  She’s definitely hungover.

  She should be drinking coffee to wake herself the fuck up, not water.

  “I’d appreciate in the future if you call in and take half a personal rather than come to the office looking like . . .” I let the implication settle, noting with satisfaction that she squirms in her chair. “Then again, you’re leaving in . . . what’s the countdown at now? Seven days? Six?”

  Peyton clears her throat. “Eleven.”

  I lean against the counter while my coffee brews, arms crossed. “Eleven.” I let the number roll off my tongue. “From the hungover look you’re sporting this morning, seems like you’re regretting your decision of leaving such a powerful company.”

  That straightens her shoulders . . . her well-padded shoulders.

  “I have zero regrets.” She folds her magazine, sets down her sandwich, and clasps her hands together. Folds them neatly in front of her. “I’m quite excited for my new endeavor, if you must know.”

  I shake my head and snag my coffee. “I don’t want to know actually. What I do want to know is why you’re lounging in the break room, reading a magazine, and eating a sandwich when it’s not”—I glance at my gold watch—“even ten in the morning.”

  Her eyes bounce back and forth. Caught. Red-handed. She bites on the side of her cheek and just when I think she’s about to apologize profusely, she straightens her shoulders, brings her sandwich to her mouth, and takes a huge bite from the middle.

  Mustard decorates her upper lip, and a piece of turkey dangles past the bread as she speaks. “If you would really like to know, I fancied myself a mid-morning turkey sandwich snack.” She stands and folds her magazine under her arm. Picking up her water, she addresses me with a shake of her sandwich. “Now, if you don’t mind, I need to down the rest of this delightful turkey yum-yum and make my way to my cubicle. Someone has to do some marketing around here.”

  Full of confidence, looking prideful as fuck, she brushes past me, water dripping from loose strands of her hair as if she just emerged from a shower.