Love Sincerely Yours

by Quinn, Meghan

  I watch her retreat, a bit of a hot mess if I’m being brutally honest.

  What the hell was she doing this morning, getting dressed in the damn dark?

  And why is she owning it like she’s working the runway?

  Ass swivels.

  Shoulders sway.

  Then there’s a hitch in her step, and she stumbles over her own damn feet.

  But, she catches herself. Shoulders high again, she disappears behind a wall.

  I twist my lips to the side, remembering her words. Someone has to do the marketing around here.

  Fucking cocky woman.

  If I wasn’t intrigued to find out what she might wear on Monday—another ankle-length trench coat perhaps—I’d fire her ass.

  She’s not the only one in the marketing department.

  Taking a sip of my coffee, I turn out of the break room and head the opposite direction, one thought weighing on my mind: when Peyton leaves, will I be losing an insulting hot mess, or is she actually a vital part of my company?

  Chapter Seven

  PEYTON

  I can’t believe the bastard insulted me.

  Okay, fine—yes, I can—I just can’t believe he did it to my face. That’s another lie. The guy is an asshole; of course he’s going to insult me to my face.

  I hustle to the desk that’s only mine for eleven more days, roll the chair out, and plop down and settle in, hands already poised at the keyboard before sliding my chair in.

  A resentful “hmph” leaves my throat as I listen to my computer purr, going through the motions: check the company’s social media; add hashtags to a Facebook post; three more to Instagram, and a new photo to the story; add buy links for a sleeping bag to the swipe-up feature.

  I make myself a note to have a photo shoot scheduled for the new women’s apparel line; they’re ridiculously cute layering pieces that leave me disappointed I won’t be receiving a discount when the brand offshoot launches.

  My lower lip pouts for a few seconds.

  I’m going to miss this place—not just my friends and the people I work with, but the actual job. It’s been a great place to work, despite upper management.

  Or because of him?

  Rome Blackburn might be a dick, but he’s created something wonderful here, which means he actually does give a shit, despite the blasé attitude and biting remarks. Roam, Inc. is innovative, modern, and fast-paced. The facility is beautiful; rustic without being over the top. Sleek without being sterile. Break rooms on every floor. Clean. Food delivered every week and stocked in the fridge. My favorite thing to do is sit at a table in the corner break room and graze.

  Except this morning; what the hell was Rome doing? He was the last person I expected to see when I set down my magazine, although shame on me for not recognizing his voice. I’m supposed to have a huge crush on him. How did I not know it was him?

  Shameful.

  He was as stunned as I was to see me sitting there; I could see it in his eyes. Oh, he hid it well enough with a practiced neutral expression, but there was no disguising the flicker of shock when our eyes met.

  Rome Blackburn looked . . . interested.

  Or maybe that’s just the fog from the alcohol that hasn’t lifted?

  Guh.

  Or maybe he was interested in the little diddy I put on today. I smooth the thick fabric across my legs cringing from polyester blech that is hugging me in all the wrong places.

  Yup, pretty sure he was more interested in what the hell I was wearing than in me.

  I pound away at my laptop, configuring pixels and tweaking target audiences on a few posts. Yawn. Check the clock, then check my email.

  Like I do every morning, I scroll through them, my finger running down the left side of my monitor, fingertip touching on every new message so I don’t miss anything important. I go through them one at a time, deleting the ones that are trash, or assigning them to a file folder.

  From: Rome Blackburn.

  I pause.

  Heart immediately kicks into overdrive.

  What the hell . . .

  Oh shit, Gen added the fake email address to my Outlook profile.

  Wait.

  Holy shit—he replied.

  He freaking replied.

  Relax, Peyton, he’s delivering a scolding.

  Don’t open it, don’t open it, don’t open it . . .

  No good can come of this.

  None.

  If he found out the original email came from me, my shit and my ass would be on the front sidewalk.

  Going out on your own requires money, and I need these next eleven days. I need this extra paycheck.

  I shouldn’t open it. Maybe he has a tracking device on the email that will announce who opened it. Is that a thing? No, can’t be. Gen would have thought about that, right?

  My teeth rake over my bottom lip, contemplating.

  Should I?

  No, you really shouldn’t.

  But . . .

  Fuck it.

  I click open the email, face flaming hot red as I read. Neck too. My skin is on fire.

  But . . .

  My eyes can’t read fast enough. A typed-out lashing full of reprimand, the type of email that should scare me.

  And yet, I latch on to his very last sentence—the postscript—rereading it with a smirk: You were obviously inebriated when you composed the email, and it was the result of alcohol.

  How very wrong he is.

  I was drunk, but I knew damn well what I was doing when I wrote that email—at least I think I did. The alcohol gave me the courage to do what I’ve been wanting to do for ages.

  What do you say to that?

  You’re drunk, so you didn’t mean it . . . is that what he’s alluding to?

  I was drunk last night—I think everyone on the marketing floor has realized that given my appearance today—but what I said, I meant.

  I want to bang him so bad.

  Accurate. So freaking accurate. Even in the break room, when insults were rolling off his tongue with ease, I wanted to tear that tie from his neck and lick his collarbone, straight-up gnaw on the damn thing.

  I bite down on my bottom lip, taking off half the gloss Gen smeared on my mouth to make me look presentable. My cursor floats above the REPLY button.

  I really shouldn’t.

  Click it.

  Ooops. Slippery finger.

  Hesitate.

  Linger.

  Picking up my phone, I dial Genevieve, because what the hell am I doing, flirting with writing him back? It’s unprofessional, and he already made his feelings on the subject loud and clear.

  Gen answers on the first ring. “Hold on.” I hear her chair creaking and then it’s quiet, the sound of her door clicking closed in the background. “Okay. Go. Talk to me.”

  “He answered back.” I whisper so no one can hear me in the cubicle next door.

  “Read it to me. Slowly.”

  “To Whom It May Concern . . .”

  She interrupts with an undignified sputter. “To Whom It May Concern? Who says that?”

  “Well, I did, in my first letter.”

  “And I didn’t agree with it then either. It sounds stupid.”

  I sigh, irritated. “Are you going to keep interrupting? Let’s just assume you’re going to hate the entire letter, okay?”

  Jeez.

  “Fine. Continue.”

  “To Whom It May Concern.” I clear my throat. “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.”

  She’s silent for a moment before saying, “Di
d he actually write the word postscript? Or did you read it as that?”

  A small smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. Freaking Rome and his formalities. For some reason, it’s endearing that he actually wrote out the word postscript.

  “He wrote it out.”

  “What a tool.” She lets out a long sigh.

  “He’s not a tool.” My voice is a harsh whisper. “He’s refined.”

  Looking back at it, there is no real content in his email, just a basic HR response, very political, very . . . bossy pants Rome.

  I can feel the roll of her eyes from here. “So how are you going to respond?”

  “I wasn’t going to. Do you think I should?”

  “Peyton, he emailed you back, so don’t squander the opportunity. Aka, don’t be a dipshit.”

  “Gee, thanks.” I laugh.

  “He gave you a clear opening with that last sentence—like a total idiot—so take it.”

  “You think that was on purpose?”

  She considers this, and I hear her humming. “Knowing him? Probably not. If it was anyone else, I might say yes.” Gen pauses. “Why don’t I hear the clicking of your keyboard?”

  “Why are you so bossy?”

  “Because I’m trying to help you. Now get crack-a-lackin’.”

  “What should I say?” I bite my thumbnail.

  “Call him Mr. Blackburn, he hates that.”

  I laugh. “Okay . . .”

  “Make sure you include a line about wanting to fuck him. Men love that shit—even robot humans like Rome.”

  “Genevieve.”

  I imagine her shrugging. “Please, you know it’s true. He has a stick up his ass.”

  “Are you going to insult him or help me?”

  “I can’t help it.”

  “I’m hanging up.”

  “Wait. Wait. Blind copy me on it, would you?”

  “You have serious issues; you know that?”

  “Yeah, you tell me that all the—shit. Someone is coming. I got to go. Copy me on it.”

  The line goes dead, and I’m left on my own.

  Eyes trained on my monitor, my mouth twists into a line of concentration.

  Click.

  Click, click, click. My hands fly across the keyboard on their own violation, all caution gone out the window along with my resignation letter now filed with human resources.

  I’ve already broken the damn ethics policy, and who knows how many others . . . why not go for broke?

  Screw it.

  Let’s see if I can make anything happen with this? At least let’s see if I can make the powerful Rome Blackburn squirm.

  Mr. Blackburn,

  I’m sure you think I should be ashamed of myself for sending that email—and perhaps I should feel a little guilt? But I’m not ashamed and unfortunately have zero guilt. Surprise, surprise, it felt great, and there is one thing I won’t apologize for: telling you how I feel. Maybe the way I did it was crass, or tacky—it certainly wasn’t classy—but at least I finally did it. This is not me apologizing for my behavior, because this is me patting myself on the back for having the lady balls to speak up.

  A few more things before I end this message . . .

  You’re not going to find me, but you can sure try.

  Since you’re such a fan of postscripts, here is one for you: it wasn’t the alcohol that made me write that email. It just gave me the courage I needed to say something.

  I still want to bang you. What do you have to say about THAT?

  Love, sincerely,

  Sober.

  * * *

  To: HandsRomingMyBody@RoamInc.com

  From: RomeBlackburn@RoamInc.com

  Dear Sober,

  This back and forth has to stop. It’s extremely unethical, improper, and against the policies. I did not email you to get a reaction; I merely responded in kind to give you a warning and to outline the consequences of such correspondence. This one-sided flirting will end right now.

  RMB

  * * *

  From: HandsRomingMyBody@RoamInc.com

  To: RomeBlackburn@RoamInc.com

  Maybe you should stop emailing me then if it’s “so improper.” And while you’re at it, stop lying to yourself. If you weren’t enjoying this—even just a little bit—you wouldn’t have hit REPLY in the first place. Admit it.

  LSY (Love, Sincerely, Yours)

  Postscript: what do your initials stand for?

  * * *

  From: RomeBlackburn@RoamInc.com

  To: HandsRomingMyBody@RoamInc.com

  Your ability to take a simple direction makes me question your ability to make a reliable employee.

  * * *

  From: HandsRomingMyBody@RoamInc.com

  To: RomeBlackburn@RoamInc.com

  Your inability to answer a simple question like “what do your initials stand for?” confirms the title you wear around this office is correct: pompous ass.

  Postscript: I still want to bang you, pompous ass or not. Or maybe because you’re one . . . the jury is still out.

  Chapter Eight

  ROME

  Click.

  Unclick.

  Click.

  Unclick.

  I fiddle with the pen pinched between my fingers, eyeing my computer.

  Reading her email over and over again.

  Pompous ass. I’ve been called worse, and I’ve also acted worse. Her words don’t faze me. At least those words don’t faze me.

  It’s her postscript that’s making me question my sanity as my finger hovers over the reply button. This should end, right now. I should trash this email thread and start looking over the mock-ups George brought to my office earlier this morning for our new women’s line.

  Sighing, I click the red X in the top corner and minimize the email. Get it out of my sight.

  Focus.

  This foolish behavior is taking up too much of my time.

  Mock-ups. I need to look at the mock-ups. Bring the boards close to my eye, observe the colors and type font. Strong and . . .

  I still want to bang you.

  Fuck.

  Type font. Strong and feminine. The picture could be better, it could use . . . what could it use? I study the picture, the pert ass in yoga pants catching my attention.

  I still want to bang you.

  The words hang over me like a rainy cloud, constantly beating me from above, killing any kind of work ethic I might have.

  Jesus Christ.

  I drop the mock-ups and push away from my desk, exhaling heavily. I stand and pace, rolling up the sleeves of my black button-up shirt. Didn’t go with a navy-blue suit today. Couldn’t. I didn’t want to give the impression that I enjoyed the compliments, or that I was looking for more.

  But it was tempting, so goddamn tempting.

  Pacing back and forth, I rake my hand through my hair, trying like hell to figure out what to do about this email. The responsible CEO would trash it and move the fuck on. The hard-up CEO, who hasn’t had an ounce of excitement in his life for years, is curious to find out what other responses he can garner from the mystery woman.

  I’m also wracking my brain to figure out who the woman is.

  Want to know how pathetic I really am? I spent the entire weekend going through our list of employees, divided them in a spreadsheet by male and female, then marital status, and highlighted the single women in the database.

  Then, I proceeded to look them up on social media, trying to pinpoint those who had boyfriends.

  It was a low point in my life, but for fuck’s sake, it’s driving me crazy. I was able to gather a group of twenty-two women.

  Twenty-two single women to sift through.

  The list is on my desk, printed and catching my attention every few seconds—it’s nothing but a distraction, and the entire reason reason I haven’t gotten any actual work accomplished.

  Staring at the names on the list and the mock-ups, I scratch my jaw, the rough scruff scraping over my fingers as I devis
e a plan.

  If I can’t get any work done because I’m trying to figure out who this mystery girl is, why not try to kill two birds with one stone?

  On a mission, I snap the list off my desk and barge through my office doors. I float the paper onto Lauren’s desk and say, “Meeting in the executive boardroom in ten minutes. All the women on this list are required to attend. Make sure the mock-ups are on easels.”

  Startled, Lauren traps the paper under her hands and gives it a quick scan. “What if they’re in another meeting?”

  As I head back to my office, I say, “Then make them leave.”

  The door slams behind me. Water, I need some fucking water before this meeting.

  * * *

  I watch them, study them closely as they file in one by one, taking seats in the black conference room chairs, filling up the back first. No one wants to sit in the front. I don’t blame them.

  Arms crossed, a scowl written across my forehead, I stand to the side, my suit jacket left in my office, too heated with frustration to put it on for the meeting.

  The room is silent. The soft click of the conference room door sliding shut echoes through the small space. Pushing off the wall, I take them all in. A sea of blondes, brunettes, and black hair—one ginger—sit before me, curious gazes in their eyes, some annoyed, some scared shitless, having never been in one of the meetings before. I don’t normally call on accounting to give me input on mock-ups, but like I said, I have ulterior motives.

  Silently, hands in my pockets, I walk around the room, taking in all the small things about these women.

  Coiffed hair, curled and sprayed to stay in place.

  Black mascara speckled under the eyes from an already long day at work.

  Turtleneck covering up a still visible hickey. Nice try.

  Smeared red lipstick.

  Glasses that need to be cleaned.

  Peyton.

  Sips too loudly on their straw.

  Painted fingernails, clacking away on an iPad.

  Wait . . . Peyton. I turn my gaze to her once again, seeing how she sits tall in her seat, twirling her pen in her hand, ready to take notes. She isn’t brimming with confidence, but she isn’t cowering in her seat like some of the other women.