Love Sincerely Yours

by Meghan Quinn

  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 moment.

  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.

  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 7 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 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, “Did 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-alackin’.”

  “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 le
tter 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?”