Love Sincerely Yours

by Quinn, Meghan

  But I don’t want to go back to the party.

  Not even a little. I’d rather stay rooted to this spot and volley insults back and forth with him. With Rome. Who’s staring me down like I’m the last person on earth he wants to be seen standing with.

  The fire in his eyes gives him away.

  He can’t take his eyes off me.

  Good.

  I fold my arms over my chest and say, “Or maybe I stand here and argue with you some more.”

  Leaning even closer, he whispers, practically hissing, “My office in fifteen minutes, Miss Lévêque.”

  With a turn on his heel, he heads toward the elevator, his well-tailored jeans showcasing his firm and yummy backside as he walks away. They look expensive—as if he had them custom-made for his body.

  Ten bucks says he irons them.

  Shoulders tense, he sifts his tan fingers through his thick hair, stretching the back of his shirt, while he stands impatiently waiting for the elevator, not giving me a second look.

  It takes two seconds for the vultures to attack.

  “Holy hell, what was that all about?” Gen asks, scaring the crap out of me, a cup in hand.

  “Yeah,” another voice intones, this one deep and definitely male. “What was that all about?”

  Startled, I turn to find Hunter O’Rourke staring at me, plate full of cake and ice cream hovering balanced close to his mouth, forking a chunk as his gaze flicks back and forth between the bank of elevators and me.

  Chews. Swallows, one fork after another into his mouth.

  He’s watching me expectantly, brows raised. “What crawled up his ass and died?”

  I almost laugh. Almost. But Hunter is technically my boss, too, and I don’t want to embarrass myself.

  “Uh, we needed to tie up some loose strings.”

  “What kind of loose ends?” Hunter looks me up and down as he shovels another chocolate chunk onto his tongue. He licks it before raising his fork and pointing the tines in my direction. “He looked a little too agitated for loose ends. Did you piss in his Cheerios?”

  Oh jeez.

  “I might have pushed his buttons just a little.”

  “On your last day. Imagine that.” He shakes his head. “I guess that’s one way to make a dramatic exit.” Hunter takes yet another big bite of his bottomless piece of cake. “Thanks for the slice. Good luck with life. If there are any leftovers, let me know. This is so fucking moist and delicious.”

  Hunter bumps me with his hip as a friendly goodbye, then saunters toward the elevators, most likely headed to Rome’s office. With the way those two bicker and carry on, there’s no doubt in my mind he’s heading up to give him a little shit.

  Once he’s out of earshot, Gen—who’s been waiting patiently for Hunter to leave—can’t hold it in any longer. “Okay, spill. What the hell was that thing with Rome Blackburn all about?”

  No one is paying us the least bit of attention, so I pull Gen to the side, around the corner, and out of earshot. Gripping her shoulders, I look her in the eye, telepathically trying to send her a message without saying the words.

  “Why are you staring at me like that, you weirdo. Did he hypnotize you?”

  I roll my eyes.

  “For real though. If I say ‘whiskey tango foxtrot’ are you going to start jumping up and down on one foot.”

  “Gen. He knows.”

  “He knows knows?” Her brows pinch together, momentarily confused. I nod, slowly, lips thinned, waiting for her to comprehend. And when she does, her eyes widen.

  “Stop it right now.”

  “I’m being serious.”

  “Are you being serious?”

  Honestly, why do I bother with her?

  But Genevieve carries on caterwauling without me. “Oh my God, Peyton. He knows. Holy crap-ola.”

  “I know.” I’m freaking out, too. Somehow, I managed to hold it together when Rome was right in front of me—in my face—when I could smell his delicious cologne, and see every fleck in his gorgeous grey eyes. God, I wanted him to lean in and kiss me so bad. Yet, held it strong . . . even when I told him it was me. Now? Now, I’m freaking the hell out. He. Knows. It. Was. Me.

  My friend grabs my shoulders, giving me a little shake. “This is nuts. He knows and he didn’t make a scene. Wow. This is . . . wow.”

  “I mean . . . he did have smoke coming out of his ears, just a little.”

  “How the hell did he find out?”

  “I have no idea. All I know is that he busted in on the party to call me out on it. Now he expects me to run up to his office in fifteen minutes, probably for another tongue lashing.”

  Gen smirks. “A tongue lashing.” Wiggles her brows. “One can dream.”

  I smack her. “Shut up.”

  “Maybe he’s going to give you the kind of going-away present that will rock your world.”

  My nose scrunches. “What are you talking about?”

  Gen sighs and flicks my forehead—actually flicks it. And it’s so freaking rude I’m about to protest, but she cuts me off.

  “Dude, he’s totally going to take you up on your offer to bang him.”

  There is no way. Not Rome. “Do you think he wants to have sex?”

  Impossible. He’s so pissed at me.

  “Uh, yee-ah,” Gen whisper-shouts. “Why else would he call you up to his office on your last day? You’re done. There is nothing left for him to say. You did your exit interview with HR, and your access has been revoked.”

  That’s true.

  I bite my thumbnail.

  “Baby, you could have cut the sexual tension between you two with that cake knife; I could taste the sex from here.”

  “Ew, don’t say shit like that. What is wrong with you?”

  “I’m serious.” She taps my cheek and I swat her hand away. “Fifty bucks says you’re about to get bent over a desk by Rome Blackburn. Your dreams are about to come true.”

  “Stop that.” But what if she’s right? My face is flaming hot, and I press my palms against my cheeks to cool them off. “You’re making me nervous and sweaty. He’s not about to bend me over a desk.” Although I wouldn’t hate it. “I’m sure there’s something else he wants to talk about.”

  Gen crosses her arms and taps her toe on the carpet. “Yeah, like what? You don’t work here anymore.”

  I pause, needing to give the question some thought. All my notes and day-to-day schedules have been turned in to George in marketing. I sent my notes to the temporary solution from another department, having typed out my daily task lists and giving her a copy. Brief rundown and overview.

  The ins and outs of managing social media. Passed over the “Social Media for Dummies” that I found on Amazon for my replacement as a joke.

  Gen is right; there is nothing left for me to do here but find the front door.

  “My office in fifteen minutes, Miss Lévêque.” His words ring in my ears.

  “Oh my God,” I gasp. “I’m totally going to get bent over.”

  “You sound dreamy—like you can taste it now, too.” She shakes her fists in the air, excitement pouring out of her. “As God as my witness you, my friend, are about to get banged.” Her gaze trails down my torso critically. “I hope you shaved your legs.”

  “I always do.” I bite my bottom lip and say, “Wait. What if having sex with Rome is a bad idea?”

  Genevieve makes a buzzer sound with her throat. “Merp! Wrong question. No second-guessing yourself.”

  “I know, but—”

  “But what?” Her perfectly shaped brows pinch together, ala Frieda. “How on earth is this a bad idea? This is all you wanted, your birthday wish. All you need to do is get up there and flash him that smile. Oh, and unbutton your dress.”

  “Genevieve.”

  She shrugs and takes a sip of whatever’s in her cup.

  My sigh is loud, filling the hallway where we’re hiding.

  “I have a business to think about now, Gen. I can’t just do whateve
r I want without thinking. I’m trying to contract Roam, Inc.”

  Like a temporary high, the excitement of heading to Rome’s office begins to wear off as soon as I realize this is all coming to an end.

  I quit.

  I won’t be here tomorrow.

  I won’t see my friends, and I won’t see Rome.

  No more exciting emails, no more late-night chats with the boss, no more flirting and sending him food. I’m going to miss this.

  I’m going to miss working for Rome.

  The only way I can work with him ever again is by keeping things professional between us—just like he prefers it.

  Her brow is skeptically raised. “No offense, babe. You know I love you and totally believe in you. But do you really think you can get Rome Blackburn—the most stubborn man on the freaking planet—to hire you to do outside marketing? You know he doesn’t do outside hires. He does everything in-house. That’s how he’s able to pay us so well.”

  She’s so right, he does hire within and self-performs most things company related. Marketing. Design. Quality control. Advertising and new product development. Everything within reason, except the actual manufacturing of what we sell.

  Gen might be right; he probably won’t hire me.

  He’s already told me no twice.

  Fortunately for him, I’m tenacious. I might hear the word no, but I’m always plotting—I want this job, and I’m willing to do whatever it takes to get it.

  I mean. Almost anything.

  I cough, shooting Gen a smile.

  Straighten my skirt, because . . . I am heading up to Rome Blackburn’s office.

  My former boss.

  The man I have a schoolgirl crush on.

  He needs me—he wants me.

  I can see it in his eyes. All I have to do is force him to recognize it . . .

  * * *

  “Would you get the hell out of here? I have a meeting.” I hear my former boss grind out between clenched teeth as I approach his office, the floor completely devoid of any humans besides him and Hunter. Lauren is still at the party along with the rest of the company.

  “What meeting?” Hunter sounds amused. “Come on, be honest. The meeting is with your right hand, isn’t it?”

  “Sod off, for fuck’s sake.”

  “Sod off? Are you British and didn’t tell me? What else don’t I know?”

  I swear, I can hear Rome fuming and he isn’t saying a single word in reply. I imagine that his lips are drawn into a thin line and he’s biting back his temper.

  “Secrets, secrets, everyone has them.” It sounds like he’s rising. “You wound me, you know that? We’re blood brothers, and if you know who your little pen pal is, you should tell me. It’s only fair.”

  “I’m not telling you who it is.”

  “Aha! So you admit that you know who it is. I fucking knew it. Is it Peyton, whose moist cake I just devoured?”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “So you’re not denying it.”

  “She’s on her way up, so can you get the fuck out of here?”

  “Blink once if she’s the one who wants to bang you.”

  Silence.

  “Are you blinking once or having a seizure? What is that shit you’re doing with your face?”

  I can’t help the laugh that escapes my lips, hand flying to my mouth.

  “Tell me to get the fuck out if it’s Peyton Lé—”

  “Get the fuck out! And shut the door.”

  Suddenly, Hunter O’Rourke backs out of the office, doing a weird little dance—it’s more of a jig, actually—red plaid shirt bold and bright against the dreary gray the walls are painted. His arms are above his head and he’s pumping his fist in the air when his eyes land on me, standing square in the middle of the corridor, eyes wide.

  I can actually feel how wide my eyes are.

  He stops dancing, giant smile spreading like the Cheshire cat across his face. “Well, well, well, if it isn’t Rome’s resident pen pa—”

  “O’Rourke! Leave. Now.” Rome fills his doorway, a deep edge creeping into his voice and an even deeper crinkle in his brow.

  Our eyes lock.

  My stomach drops.

  Uh-oh, he’s not happy—not even a little bit, and I curse Hunter O’Rourke for giving him shit. The last thing I needed was for him to be in a bad mood when I wanted to pitch to him one last time before I left.

  Dammit, dammit, dammit.

  I square my shoulders and clear my throat.

  “All right, all right. I’m gone.” Hunter’s hands go up in mock surrender. “Hey, Peyton—thanks for igniting the beast and then leaving us all high and dry.”

  The bastard actually winks like he’s funny, does a small skip, and salutes, walking briskly down the hallway.

  Whistling.

  Incredulously, I stare off after him. What the . . .

  “Lévêque, get in here. Now.” His head nods toward the interior of his office.

  I stand my ground, nervously. “Say please.”

  Rome glares. Flares his nostrils. “Please.”

  I scurry through the door like a rat, feeling phony—all false bravado and twisted nerves.

  My heart has never beat so erratically, and my nipples never been this puckered. I’m scared, I’m nervous. I have no clue what to expect.

  The door slams and Rome stomps to the front of his desk, leaning against the wooden top. Hands behind him, I notice that his knuckles are white from the firm grip on his desk.

  “Why? Why did you do it?” His head is tilted down, but his eyes are blazing a hole right through my chest. “Tell me. I have a right to know.”

  Wow. He’s not wasting any time.

  My hands tangle together as tight as the knotted nerves in my tummy. This Rome in front of me? I’m not used to him. I’m used to pissed-off-boss Rome, who’s demanding and insistent because he’s a perfectionist. Wants everything done right the first time. Demands respect and commands a room.

  This Rome is different. He’s vulnerable and unsure and guarded because he looks . . . a little bit hurt, actually. Which is weird.

  Like he took the whole thing personally.

  Because it was personal.

  But I never meant to hurt him or humiliate him.

  I owe him an explanation—it’s just having a hard time forming on my lips.

  “I . . .” I clear my throat. “It was at my birthday and . . . I was drunk. Really drunk, like I wrote in the email—more drunk than I’ve been in a while.”

  I’m a lightweight; ask anyone.

  “So you decided to prey on me while intoxicated?”

  “Prey on you?” I’m surprised. That’s what he thinks? “No. I wasn’t preying on you—not at all. It’s just . . .”

  I let out a long, ragged breath and take a step forward, farther into his dungeon of his office. Its walls are a darker gray than the common area behind me, dark desk and silver finishing. Masculine and hard. Like him.

  “It was my birthday. We actually saw you at the bar that night, and the whole thing was a blur, but there you were.”

  “I don’t go to bars.” He doesn’t roll his eyes, but it’s close.

  “Yeah, you did. The night of my birthday, we saw you. You were alone, but it looked like you were waiting for someone who never showed up. You had one drink and then got up to leave.”

  I exhale, unclenching my fingers. “You never even looked in my direction—just like every other day here in the office—and it was so disappointing. And I would have come over, but it really did look like you were meeting someone, and I didn’t want to interrupt. Then my ridiculous friends hid from you, ducking down in the booth, and it was too much for me to handle with all the alcohol I’d had.” I can’t believe I’m admitting this out loud. “All I wanted was a little bit of your attention.”

  My voice is unexpectedly small, and I hate it.

  Rome seizes the calm as an opportunity to study me, strong jaw moving back and forth as he considers my co
nfession.

  I can’t stand the fact that he’s not saying anything—I never could, and crack within seconds.

  “You never looked over at me. And when you left, in a drunken stupor, I admitted to my friends that I had a secret crush on you.” My hands are now gesturing, animated while I tell my story. Spill my guts. “Gen got this crazy idea to create a fake email address and had her tablet in her purse because she’s always—”

  Rome cuts me off. “Genevieve Porter in IT?”

  Like an idiot, I nod.

  He pushes off his desk and rounds the corner. “She’s fired.”

  His long arm extends, fingers reaching for the phone cradled on his desk.

  Holy shit.

  “Rome! Please, no.” Oh my God, he cannot fire my best friend.

  Tears are already welling in my eyes, panic racing in circles around the middle of my gut. Gen cannot be fired. Why did I just say her name? Why? I’m so, so stupid.

  “Please, Rome. Please don’t fire her,” I beg again, voice strangled from the tears. My hand holds his down as it grasps the telephone.

  He is unflinching as he begins ticking off Gen’s offenses. “She created a company email account for personal use, on company property. Used that same company property for personal gain. Created an email address to anonymously harass the boss and lied about it.” He’s leaning against this desk, arms crossed. “Shall I continue?”

  “She needs this job . . .” More than I do.

  My hand is still pressed over his, holding it down, preventing him from picking up his office phone and calling human resources. Or security.

  “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t toss her ass to the curb with yours right this second.”

  Reasons why Gen shouldn’t be fired. Reasons why Gen shouldn’t be fired—there are a ton, but my freaking brain can’t come up with a single one.

  I swallow hard, wracking my brain for something that might stop this relentless man from firing my best friend.

  “She felt bad for me,” I muster, feeling foolish. “I was so hung up on you, wanting you to see me as more than one of the employees that sit in the cubicles of this office building that she tried to help me. This is on me, not her, please, Rome, please don’t punish her. I know you’re upset, but be upset with me. Genevieve needs this job.”