Love Sincerely Yours

by Meghan Quinn

  “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 mytime. And thelittleclip on thefar 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 apictureof 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?”

  “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

  refusedto have anysortoffun.” Lickandsuck. “For once, letloose. Who knows, ifyouactually

  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. “Youdon’tknowwho sheis, so whatdo youhave 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:

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

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

  3. 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 10

  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, almost 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, dra
gging 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