Love Sincerely Yours

by Quinn, Meghan

  Hmm . . .

  When I round the corner of the table, I catch the gaze of another employee from across the table, her eyes cast down but glancing up at my crotch every two seconds. I take her in: red hair, freckles decorating her porcelain skin, and classic green eyes highlighted by dark liner. Pretty.

  I don’t remember her name, and I don’t remember looking her up on social media. Did she hear about the meeting and invite herself?

  I make a quick count of the heads in the room. Twenty unfamiliar faces.

  How is it possible that I don’t know any of their names when they work for me? Well. Except for Payton Lévêque, and she’s on her way out of the company.

  I make a mental note to look up a redhead when I get back to my office.

  A feminine clearing of a throat draws my attention to the back where Peyton is sitting. Her hand is raised like she’s in grade school and I’m the teacher.

  What the hell does she want?”

  Not in the mood for her antics, I say, “What?”

  Don’t believe for a fucking second that I don’t notice how she swallows hard before asking, “Is there a point to this meeting? I have a really important phone call in ten minutes, and I’d like to see this move along.”

  My jaw clenches, her insubordination hitting me directly in the chest, heightening my irritation to dangerous levels.

  Taking the position at the head of the table, I lean both palms on the cool glass and pin her with my stare. “If you have a problem with attending this meeting, Miss Lévêque, then why don’t you do us all a favor and pack up your belongings early? We’ll be fine getting along without you.”

  Metaphorically folding her cards, she backs down, melting into her seat. “I’ll send them an email telling them I’ll be delayed.”

  I give her a condescending smile and gesture my arm toward the room. “Please, email them while we wait for you.”

  I don’t miss the gasps of shock around the room as we volley off shots back and forth.

  All eyes on her, Peyton fumbles with her phone, fingers typing a mile a minute, then shoots off an email. When she’s done, she rests her phone on her lap and gives me her full attention.

  “Are you ready, Miss Lévêque? Can we proceed?”

  Twisting her lips to the side, eyes narrowed, her sassy mouth says, “You may proceed.”

  Christ. Anyone else I would have fired by now, but after a conversation with George during one the weekly meetings I have with all my department heads, I know he’s struggling with Peyton’s departure and is trying to soak up as much from her as possible before she leaves.

  Apparently, she’s a real asset to the company he wishes we could have kept on.

  Figures.

  Standing tall, I adjust the folds on my sleeves and say, “I brought you all here to test your reactions to the mock-ups of the new women’s line we’re releasing soon.” Semi-true.

  From the looks of it, it might be our redhead friend who can’t seem to keep her tongue from licking her lips at me every two seconds.

  “I want to go around the table and hear your initial reaction to the ads. Starting with . . .” I point to the redhead.

  She points to herself, pushing her chest forward, the buttons on her shirt straining. Jesus, what department is this girl from? I can’t even take her seriously.

  “Yeah, you. Also state your name and department for me.”

  Smiling wickedly, she says, “I’m Sasha from marketing. I’m interning to take Peyton’s job.” Ah, that’s why I don’t know her—she’s a newbie. I quickly catch a roll of Peyton’s eyes when I turn her way.

  Looks like Peyton isn’t on board with her replacement. That makes me chuckle inwardly.

  If Sasha is just starting, the emails couldn’t possibly be from her.

  I cross her off my mental list.

  “My first initial reaction to the ads.” She bounces her index finger off her chin. “Super pretty.”

  Oh, for fuck’s sake.

  This is the replacement we found for Peyton? She’s supposed to show some form of marketing intelligence, and all she has to say is pretty?

  I’ll be having a conversation with George.

  Pressing my tongue against my teeth, trying not to lash out on the new girl, I nod to the next girl, prompting her to introduce herself.

  Voice shaky she says, “Hi, I’m Diane fr-from accounting and the ads are nice to look at.”

  Another winner.

  Another employee I cross off my list.

  We move around the room in rapid pace.

  Margie from archives thinks the ads are nicely placed.

  Samantha from marketing likes the font.

  Theresa from reception wants her butt to look that nice.

  *Giggles from around the table*

  Shoot me fucking now.

  Pulling on my hair, we reach Peyton who has her pen perched against her mouth, studying the mock-ups with laser focus.

  The weekend must have freshened her up, because instead of soaking-wet hair and a trench-coat dress, her hair is long and curled over her shoulders, and she’s wearing a black tunic over a black and white-striped button-up shirt. She looks professional, just like the day she resigned.

  Leaning forward, pen poised at the screen, she doesn’t say a word.

  Yet. . .

  “Peyton, you look like you want to say something.”

  “Do I?” she blurts out, obviously trying to look casual and failing. “I might have a few thoughts.”

  “Please.”

  She clears her throat and her pen waves in the air like a pointer. “What would I do? What would I do? I think . . .” She chews on the tip of that pen now, biting down on the black cap, straight, white teeth blinding. “I think they’re pandering to our audience. It’s overdone. Too many fonts, for starters—there should only be three, that’s a design rule of thumb.” She casts an apologetic look around the room.

  “Go on.”

  “Three fonts, but here, I’m counting five.” Now she taps the pen on the tabletop, giving it a few raps. “It’s also very wordy.”

  “Wordy?”

  “You’re going to lose people with all this text. Keep it simple. Eight words or less for a header.”

  My nostrils flare. “Anything else?”

  I pay my marketing people good money for this shit—why wasn’t Peyton included on the team for the new campaign when it’s clear here she has a grasp on what we needed? Better yet, why wasn’t she running it?

  “Yes. I’m done.”

  “Are you though?” My sarcasm is palpable.

  “I mean . . .” Her voice trails off. “You said you wanted this to be a quick meeting and I’m Social Media acquisition.”

  Peyton shrugs.

  My body tenses. Fists clenching at my side, I slide my tongue over my teeth, feeling how tight the pressure in my jaw is.

  This meeting was a mistake. I’m getting nothing out of this, especially with Peyton running her mouth like this, trying to be helpful in a very public way.

  Before the next marketing team member has an opinion, I stalk to the door, fling it open. “You’re free to go. Miss Lévêque, a moment please.”

  Shuffling quietly and at a rapid pace, the women file out, happy to leave the tension-filled room. Eyes trained on Peyton, I watch a few women pat her on the shoulder before leaving. One elbows her in the rib cage.

  Must be her friends.

  She’s going to need the encouragement when I’m done with her.

  Once the last of them have exited, I slide the door closed, the frost of the glass blocking us from the peering, prying eyes of the office.

  I take a seat in one of the chairs and cross my ankle over my knee, striking a casual pose, pinning Peyton with my don’t fuck with me look.

  We sit in silence, her fidgeting with her hair, me still as a goddamn statue. I can sit here all fucking day, intimidating her with my fixed stare. Unwavering and dead fucking serious, that’s me.

&nb
sp; No one talks to me like that in my boardroom, let alone in front of other employees.

  She’s treading on thin ice, even if she was right about the ad campaign.

  “What was that?”

  “You asked for my thoughts on the ad. And I gave it.”

  “That was before I knew you were going to rip the whole thing a new asshole.”

  “Did you want me to lie? I can do that, too.” She clears her throat, flattens her lips into a thin line, and smiles. “The ad is wonderful as is. Don’t change a thing.”

  I’m not amused.

  “See? I can lie.”

  “Scale of one to ten, how bad is the ad copy?”

  “Seven point five.”

  Shit.

  I spent forty thousand dollars on that mock-up no one is wild about.

  “Was there anything else you needed, sir?”

  My head rears at the word Sir; she used it on purpose.

  “There’s nothing more I need.” At least, not right now. “You’re free to go.”

  Yes, I know I’m being a stubborn jackass right now; Peyton has a good eye, and it sounds like she has fantastic idea. But I cannot bring myself to seek her advice, because all I want to do right now is stick my tongue down her throat.

  Fuck. Me.

  Chapter Nine

  PEYTON

  “What did lover boy want?”

  My head whips around, glancing every which way as Genevieve’s voice carries, embarrassingly loud. “Would you keep your voice down?”

  “Sorry. We’ve been dying. Does he finally want to bang you?”

  I wish. “No, Gen. He wanted to talk about the new ad campaign. You know—’cause we’re at work?”

  “Oh.” I swear, her shoulders sag. “That’s it?”

  “That’s it.” My eyes roll. “You don’t have to look so damn put out about it.”

  “Yes, I do. I have a lot riding on this.”

  “Huh?”

  “Nothing. Just a small, personal bet with Kim and Viv.”

  I hold a palm up to shush her. “Please. Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”

  Genevieve laughs. “So what else did he say?”

  “Not a whole lot.” I shrug it off, trying to act as cool as possible, not like I just got ripped a new one by the man I’m crushing on. “It was no big deal.”

  And yet, it was. It was a huge deal, because while he was giving me a classic Rome Blackburn tongue-lashing, I couldn’t stop myself from ogling him.

  Sleeves rolled up, showing off his ripped forearms, the black of his shirt highlighting the pale silver of his eyes. The scruff on his jaw, sinister and sexy. The pinch in his brow and sharp line of his eyebrows, intimidating and hot as hell.

  And the way his deep voice rolled over me, igniting a wave of butterflies in my stomach.

  I was so desperate to tell him the email was from me, that I want nothing more than to accompany him back to his office. But instead, my face turned bright red, I shivered in my seat, and when he excused me, I tucked my tail between my legs and scampered away.

  Gen leans back into my cubicle wall and sighs. “Well, I guess it could have been worse, he could have fired you.”

  “He can’t fire me, because I’ve already resigned.” I bite the side of my cheek. “I am actually surprised he didn’t pack up my shit, though. I really thought that was going to happen.”

  “Did he say why he didn’t?”

  A sly smile passes over my lips. “George.”

  Gen claps her hands and laughs. “Oh, freaking incompetent George. He’s going to be so lost without you.”

  I do feel bad for George. Such a nice man, but he is going to struggle, big time.

  “He might be slightly incompetent, but at least he knows when he has something good, unlike Rome.” I flick my hair over my shoulder causing Gen to laugh, just as my email dings with a message.

  My eyes fall to my emails and on a message from Rome.

  THE message.

  I swivel my chair around, giving my computer my full attention. Whispering, I say, “Gen, it’s him.”

  Making a gleeful noise, she scoots forward and quietly claps her hands together. “What does it say?”

  Taking a deep breath, a ridiculous smile on my face, I open the email.

  Gen and I both read at the same time.

  From: RomeBlackburn@RoamInc.com

  To: HandsRomingMyBody@RoamInc.com

  Do you realize you called the CEO of this company a pompous ass in your last email? Keep slinging the insults. I can’t wait to watch your face fall flat when I catch you, because my pompous ass will be kicking your sorry ass out on the curb.

  Enjoy your little emails now. They’re only getting you into more trouble.

  RMB

  I bite on the tip of my finger, getting a little nervous. “Uh, Gen?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You don’t think he can do more than fire me? Like, sue me or anything, right?” I nibble a nail.

  Gen chuckles and shakes her head. “No way. He wouldn’t do that—it would be bad press. You have to read past his threats and look further into the meaning of this email. He’s testing you. He’s trying to scare you. He wants to see how serious you are. If he was serious about doing anything to truly end this, he would have a task force put together by IT to figure out where the email came from. There has been nothing. Believe me, he’s interested.”

  “You think so?”

  Gen nods her head and maneuvers my gaze back to the computer. “I know so. Message the bastard back.”

  I think about it for a second. Should I really continue? I don’t want to start a new company with Rome Blackburn pissed off at me. I mean, he’s already furious, and if he found out I’m sending the emails, I think he might lose it, especially after what happened today.

  He has the power to tarnish my reputation in this business. Is that something I’m willing to risk?

  I think back to the intensity in his eyes, the way he vibrated with anger. But what I remember more is the small smirk I caught on his face as I left the boardroom.

  I hold on to that image as I type back.

  Feeling way too frisky for a Monday, I stand and hand Gen my phone. “Take a picture of my ass.”

  “What?” Brow pinch together.

  “Just do it. I have a plan.”

  “Uh . . . okay.” She holds the phone up to my butt, and I turn sideways, showing its curve, and pop it out just a bit.

  “Don’t get much background, just the butt.”

  Thinking I’m mental, she takes the picture. I send it to myself through email. I have plans, big plans.

  * * *

  ROME

  It’s been seventeen hours.

  SEVENTEEN HOURS with that godforsaken email burning a hole in my inbox. I told myself I wouldn’t open it.

  It wasn’t worth my time. And the little clip on the far right side, indicating an attachment, yeah, I don’t care about it either. It’s probably some weird picture of a glittering rose or something. A rose from my secret admirer. Some stupid girly shit like that.

  I don’t need a fucking rose. I need to get my head out of my ass and work.

  I sip my coffee, drum my fingers on the desk, flip my pen in my hand.

  Stare at the email.

  Sip my coffee.

  Finger hovers over the email.

  What if it isn’t some stupid glittering GIF? What if it’s a picture of her? Would she do that? Better yet, maybe it’s something more.

  I grind my teeth together, weighing my options.

  Goddammit.

  Squeezing my eyes shut, I click on the email and plead for a rose.

  Please, be a rose; please, be a rose. For the love of God, be a fuckin’ rose.

  I peek my left eye open getting ready to be bedazzled by a GIF when at the bottom of the email, I see a preview of a picture.

  A picture of a perfectly curvy and covered ass.

  Shit.

  Dragging my hand over my
face, I let out a sharp breath and read her email.

  Dear Pompous Ass,

  Since we’re speaking of asses, thought I would send you a picture of mine. Don’t bother looking too hard. I can answer your question now; no, I’m not wearing underwear.

  I’m so cheeky, aren’t I? < - - Pun intended.

  Okay, your turn, send me a picture of your ass.

  Postscript: I like when you roll your sleeves up on your dress shirt. Just makes me want to bang you even more.

  Fuck.

  Sitting back in my chair, I drag my hands over my face and then lean forward again, opening up the picture at the bottom.

  Coming to full screen is a picture of the nicest fucking ass I’ve ever seen. Wrapped in tight black pants, her ass arches from her back, a slope I want to run my hand over, I want to cup, I want to fucking spank.

  I adjust myself in my seat, studying the curve of her ass, the background behind her. It looks like she’s in a cubicle, so that means it could be ANYONE. Great.

  And black pants? That gives away nothing.

  I lean forward a little more, trying to see if I recognize—

  The door to my office flies open and Hunter comes strolling in, a lollipop in his mouth and a smirk on his face.

  Frantically, I try to hit the exit button, but it’s too late. Hunter notices my panic, his smirk turning into a full-on grin as he rounds my desk and takes in the ass on my screen.

  “Well, well, well, what have we here?” One hand on my desk, the other gripping the back of my chair, he leans forward to examine the picture. “Damn, whose ass is that?” I don’t answer him, and it takes him all but two seconds to figure it out. “Is that mystery girl? Fuck, she has a nice butt, man.”

  He claps me on the back.

  Shaking him off, I say, “It is.”

  “Has she revealed herself?”

  “No.” I pick my pen back up and start fiddling with it. “She’s relentless. My threats have no effect on her.”

  “Why would they? If your stupid memo didn’t stop her, why do you think your emails will? Plus, why do you want it to stop?”