Love Sincerely Yours

by Quinn, Meghan

  “Need I remind you of the company’s policies?”

  He waves a hand at me and sucks on his lollipop. Suck. Pop. “Lighten the fuck up and send her a dick pic.”

  “You’re psychotic. I’m not sending her a dick pic.”

  “Why not? Talk about a way to fucking shock her. Just stick the camera down your pants, take a quick snapshot, and send it on its way.” This man is my best friend. Has he met me?

  In a million years I would never send a dick pic.

  I cross my arms over my chest and study my asinine friend. “Is there a reason you’re here?”

  From his back pocket, he pulls out a crumpled set of papers stapled together in the corner and tosses them to me. “Got you those reports you were looking for.”

  I eye the folded papers on my desk and then look at my friend. “You know how to send emails, so what the hell are you doing giving me a hard copy?”

  He shrugs. “I just like seeing your angry face. It makes me happy.”

  Why the hell are we friends again?

  “You need to leave before I lose my shit.”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Dude, you need to calm down. Look at how tense you are. Jesus, take a breather.” He sucks on his lollipop again, smacking his lips. “We’ve been friends for a long time and believe me when I say, I admire your work ethic. Kind of wish I had some of that in me.” Me too. “You’ve become a hermit over the last year, and I’m starting to get worried. You’re my best friend, and I don’t want to see you croak at thirty-five because you refused to have any sort of fun.” Lick and suck. “For once, let loose. Who knows, if you actually give in to these emails, you might find yourself less tense, less of a raving bitch around the office, and more satisfied when you get home.” He shrugs his shoulders and stands from his chair. “You don’t know who she is, so what do you have to lose? Nothing. But you have a whole lot to gain.”

  Walking away, he shimmies his shoulders and says, “Loosen up, dude. It’ll be good for you.”

  My office door slams behind him. Why does he always do that? Why can’t he ever shut the door quietly? I turn my head back to the computer screen when the door cracks open again, Hunter sticking his head through. “By the way, want to print that picture for me? I can go around and compare and contrast and report back. That’s the kind of work I don’t mind doing.”

  “Get the fuck out of here.”

  His laugh echoes through the door as it slams again.

  Fucking imbecile.

  I run my hand through my hair and stare at the picture one more time, her words ringing through my head.

  I like it when you roll your sleeves up.

  It makes me want to bang you even more.

  Hell . . .

  Is Hunter right? Do I need to loosen up more?

  I do spend a ridiculous amount of my time at the office, but I justify it because I don’t have a girlfriend or a family—so what else am I supposed to do with my damn time? Sit at home twiddling my thumbs? No. I pour that time into my company.

  I used to be fun. Sort of.

  Used to go out more, but that was before the company blew up and I had employees to take care of. Jobs to create and a brand to build. A brand I freaking love.

  Love.

  Something I haven’t thought much of—until now.

  Until those damn emails have me up at night, and now I’m thinking about stupid shit like loosening up and having some fun. Which is so unlike me.

  My laser like focus is for shit. Lately, I’ve been spending more time at a little coffee shop by my house, watching people. Hell, I’ve even thought about getting a dog.

  Jesus, Hell really has begun freezing over.

  Giving in, I lean forward in my seat and decide to take Hunter’s advice and send a reply—a scary decision I know—but at this point, he’s right, what do I really have to lose?

  * * *

  From: RomeBlackburn@RoamInc.com

  To: HandsRomingMyBody@RoamInc.com

  Miss WhatEverYourNameIs,

  I regret to inform you that there will be no butt shots coming your direction. Being the CEO of this company, I like to keep all my body parts private, including pictures of my ass. I suspect you were expecting such a response from me, but I will tell you this: that ass of yours is officially the wallpaper on my desktop. Thanks for that.

  Postscript: Still trying to find out who you are while I stare at your inappropriate ass cheeks.

  * * *

  From: HandsRomingMyBody@RoamInc.com

  To: RomeBlackburn@RoamInc.com

  Did you hear that? That was my mouth hitting the floor from your response. Allow me to do a quick recap here:

  You think my ass is sexy (Thanks, I do lunges.)

  If my ass is your wallpaper, I’d love to see the proof.

  You’re warming up to me.

  Admit it, you look forward to these emails. If you didn’t, my ass wouldn’t be parked on your laptop screen.

  Postscript: What does your middle initial stand for? Humor me. I’m a details kind of girl . . .

  * * *

  From: RomeBlackburn@RoamInc.com

  To: HandsRomingMyBody@RoamInc.com

  Miss—

  You realize, in addition to dealing with this situation with you, I also have to keep this pesky little Fortune 500 company afloat? Flirting and evading your prying questions should be the last of my worries.

  For your edification: see attached picture of my desktop. I will admit your ass isn’t all that bad to look at.

  Postscript: RMB – Rome Michael Blackburn

  * * *

  From: HandsRomingMyBody@RoamInc.com

  To: RomeBlackburn@RoamInc.com

  You know, Rome, the more details you share with me, the more I want to . . . you know. Bang you. Sorry for putting it that way, but I was drunk and impulsive and the word stuck. The more details you share, the more I want to cuddle you. Thoughts on snuggling on the freshly cleaned copy machines? Or a freshly cleaned set of white cotton sheets?

  Postscript: Your middle name makes you human. I like to know the middle names of people I want to yell at. **shrugs**

  * * *

  From: RomeBlackburn@RoamInc.com

  To: HandsRomingMyBody@RoamInc.com

  First of all, the word “bang” doesn’t bother me—I’m a man, I can handle words like bang, screw, and fuck. Make love? No. Cuddling? Hell no. I haven’t done that since my . . . never mind. I don’t like cuddling. Cuddling is for sissies. Real men DO NOT CUDDLE.

  Confession time: were you one of the people who had sex on the copy machine in the supply closet? I’ll be sending the cleaning bill your way.

  * * *

  From: HandsRomingMyBody@RoamInc.com

  To: RomeBlackburn@RoamInc.com

  No. I’m not the one who “got it on” (cue Marvin Gaye) on top of the copy machines, but I know who did. Send me the cleaning bill, and I’ll pass it on to the guilty parties. Yes, plural. It happens more regularly than you’d probably like. Maybe you should tighten up that no fraternizing policy you’re so fond of?

  And for the record: if I were to screw in the office, it sure as hell wouldn’t be in the copy room. That’s so tacky. Gross. It would be in your office, pressed against one of your big windows. Better yet . . . bent over that massive . . . desk of yours.

  Postscript: I probably shouldn't tell you this, but what the hell? I’ve had daydreams of office sex with you in each and every board meeting.

  Chapter Ten

  PEYTON

  A man is standing next to my table at the coffee shop near my apartment, casting a shadow over my paperwork and blocking my light.

  I cast my eyes up.

  And up.

  And there he is.

  Rome Blackburn, in the flesh, in my little neck of the woods, looking just as surprised to see me as I am him.

  His mouth parts.

  Mine does too.

  He stands at the edge of my table, hands in his pockets, looking down at me, al
most like a dark, angry storm cloud. His expression is moody.

  “Miss Lévêque.” His greeting is stuffy and formal, so like him.

  “Mr. Blackburn,” I volley back, smiling sweetly, dragging out both syllables of his name.

  Black.

  Burn.

  The way I murmur his name has the desired effect, and he scowls, just like I knew he would. So predictable. So moody and stubborn.

  So good-looking.

  God, I’m so ridiculously easy . . .

  I shift on the wooden bench I’ve been perched on for the better half of two hours, left hand finding the cardboard coffee cup. Cuffing it, I give my hand something to do other than fidget.

  “Were you . . . meeting someone here?” This café can’t be anywhere near his place; the area isn’t fashionable enough. I picture my boss in a sleek high-rise, not a neighborhood full of families and struggling artists.

  “No. I’m here for coffee.” As if that explains why he is in my part of town and not his.

  I hum from the center of my chest. “Let me guess. Black. No cream. No sugar.”

  His lips twitch. “Wrong.”

  “Espresso shot.”

  “So wrong.” He crosses his arms. “Iced latte. Soy. Three sugars.”

  “What! Sugar?” I tease, lips smiling wider. “Sugar, but not to make you sweeter.”

  Tone it down, Peyton. Stop flirting with your boss.

  He doesn’t bite. “Do you always come here?”

  “Me? When I’m not working for you, yes.” Which isn’t that often, to be honest—but when I have freelance, this is where I love to work. Little bit chaotic, just enough hustle and bustle with the right amount of noise.

  A notebook is in the center of my table and Rome’s hawk-like gaze lands on it.

  “No laptop today?”

  “I’m a purist.”

  “Odd for someone paid to be online all day long.”

  This makes me laugh, partly because it’s true, and partly because the look on his face is a mixture of horrified, disgusted, and admirable. I can’t decide which one.

  “What’s in the notebook?”

  “None yo bizness.”

  His brows shoot up, surprised. And if I had a nickel for every time this man’s nostrils flared, I wouldn’t have to start my own business. I’d be independently wealthy.

  “Is that a notebook full of ideas that are going to transform Roam, Inc’s new women’s line?”

  I laugh. “No talking about business. I’m not on company time as of”—I check the invisible watch on my wrist—“six PM. Sorry.”

  “You still owe me nine more days.”

  I sip from my cup. “Seven.”

  “Seven days, then.”

  I cradle the coffee cup, blowing over the brim. “You pay me for social media—not to come up with marketing strategies.” I am all too delighted to point this out.

  “But you do those.”

  “Indeed I do.” Another sip. “Which you casually rejected at my resignation.”

  “Because you were quitting.”

  Resigning.

  Huge difference.

  “Did you even look at my portfolio?”

  Rome hesitates so long he doesn’t have to answer.

  I smirk, knowingly. “Ah, so you did.”

  I lean back, gloating, an arrogant arch to my brows. “I’m good, aren’t I?”

  His lips form into a thin line.

  I set my cup down and throw my hands up, exasperated. “Oh my God, why won’t you just admit it? What on earth is wrong with you?”

  More silence stretches, only the sounds from the café filling the gap between us.

  “You’re good.”

  Two words. Coming from him—the man who compliments no one—his words carry weight.

  “Thank you.”

  “I’m going to need you to refocus your energy in the next seven days on marketing.”

  Say what?

  My tongue makes a clucking sound.

  “Not in my job description.”

  “Miss Lévêque, might I remind you—”

  “Might I remind you, Mr. Blackburn, that it’s after working hours, and a Friday, and I’m done with Roam, Inc. for the day.” His mouth drops open. “You love meetings. Schedule one on Monday with my secretary. I should have a block of time on Wednesday.”

  “You have a secretary?” Oh God. The look on his face. I have studied his gorgeous face for years. Years. I’ve seen him angry, disinterested, frustrated, and very occasionally . . . mildly happy. But I haven’t seen this face. He’s shocked. God, it is so hard to hold back the laughter in my throat. He’s so fucking adorable.

  “No. I’m just messing with you.” I swear, the look on his face . . .

  Silver eyes narrow in my direction. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

  “Mmm. So, so much.” Immeasurably.

  “By next week you’ll be four days out from your end date.”

  “Yeah.” I flip my hair. “Not much time, is there?”

  I can almost hear his ass cheeks clenching from irritation. My heart is racing, knowing where this whole conversation is heading.

  “You’re going to force my hand in this, aren’t you?”

  “Whatever do you mean?”

  “I’m not going to sub-contract you after you leave. You will not force me into it.”

  Tsk-tsk.

  Man, he is so stubborn.

  “Force you? Me? I’m a little pussycat.” I’m practically purring—and at the word pussy, Rome Blackburn’s face turns a pinkish hue I’ve only seen on myself in the mirror.

  Rome Blackburn, blushing.

  Interesting.

  I flip open my notebook and pull out a glossy, square business card, tucked away in a side pocket. Set it on the table and slide it forward with the tip of my index finger.

  “You know where to find me when you need me.”

  And he does need me.

  Rome snorts, the card staying in its spot on the edge of the wood.

  “Take it. Don’t be shy,” I prod. “It won’t bite.”

  His hands remain in his pockets, where they’ve been this entire time.

  “Don’t be so stubborn. We both know you’re going to come crawling to me in seven days when I leave the company.” Preferably on his hands and knees.

  “I never crawl.”

  “Ugh, don’t be so literal.”

  “I won’t beg you to come work for me.”

  “I already work for you.”

  “You know what I mean.” The man is practically rolling his cold, platinum eyes. “It’s not going to happen.”

  “Okay. If you say so.” Sip.

  Sip.

  Slurp.

  I smile.

  “You . . .” he starts, clamping his mouth shut.

  “Me . . .” I sass him back.

  One hand comes out of the pocket of his dark jeans, and it points at me, accusing. His mouth is gaping, ready to shoot me a retort.

  My gaze flickers toward the cash wrap.

  “Line’s getting really long. You should put down your finger and get in it.”

  “Are you handling me now?” I wish I was.

  “Handling you? No.” Maybe just a little. Testing my boundaries? Absolutely. “I’m just suggesting you get in line before the wait is too long.”

  “I’m going to.”

  Another patronizing smile. “Then go.”

  His feet remain rooted to the concrete floor, liquid gaze narrowing. “Stop doing that.”

  “Doing what?” My lashes flutter.

  “Whatever it is you’re doing.”

  “Drinking coffee and outlining my business?” My smile is saccharine; innocent as can be as I mentally pat myself on the back and thank God I’m sitting down—I don’t know if my knees could withstand the look he’s shooting me right now.

  Confused.

  Like he’s trying desperately to figure me out.

  A perplexed Rome Blackburn
is a sight to behold.

  Irritated, obviously, because the man is always pissed off about something, the big baby.

  “I can grab your drink if you want? They know me here, maybe—”

  “I don’t need you buying my drink.”

  My chuckle is low, hidden by the white insulated cup in my hands.

  I shrug at him, slender shoulders moving up and down slowly. “Suit yourself.”

  “I will, thanks.”

  God, it’s taking every ounce of self-control I have not to bust out laughing—he takes himself way too seriously.

  “Well . . .” My sentence trails off. Eyes flicker to my business card on the table. “Are you going to take that?”

  “No.” He is so rude. “I have one already.”

  It was in the packet I gave him. Which he looked at and read.

  Which makes me want to jump up and do hip thrusts into the air—a victory dance.

  “What’s that look on your face for?”

  “What look?”

  “You look like a cat that just ate a plate full of cream.”

  The tang of victory is so strong I want to lap it up.

  “Do I? Mmm, tastes amazing.”

  Rome Blackburn is going to give me a chance, whether he knows it yet or not.

  Like a total brat, I lick my lips.

  “Don’t do that.”

  “Don’t lick my lips?”

  “It’s unprofessional.”

  “But it’s Friday . . .” As if that explains everything away. My flirting. My behavior.

  But then something else occurs to me at the exact same time: if Rome hires me, he’s going to be my client.

  My. Client.

  I won’t be working for him. He’ll be contracting my company, and I’ll have to handle myself with the professionalism he demands . . .

  A pit forms in the hollow of my stomach.

  Which means . . .

  The emails to him have to stop.

  The flirting.

  The inappropriate banter I throw in when I message him.

  “Sorry. I . . . I had some foam on the corner of my mouth.”