by Meghan Quinn
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 8
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 buttonup 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 devise 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 mockups 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.
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 t
oward the room. “Please, email
them while we wait for you.”
I don’t miss the gasps of shock around the room as we volley of 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 mockups 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 her 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.
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 m
y tongue down her throat.
Fuck. Me.
CHAPTER 9
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 tonguelashing, 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.