by Meghan Quinn
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.”
His steely eyes slowly move to my lips. Land there, hesitating a few heartbeats before
those giant hands of his get stuffed back inside his pockets. “I should get going.” “Right. Well. Have a good weekend.”
Instead of going to the counter, like I expect him to, Rome Blackburn walks back out the
door.
Completely empty-handed.
And it almost reflects
how I feel. After flirting and practically throwing myself at Rome,
I’m beginning to see it might be a complete waste of my time. He won’t give in. He won’t
give me my one night of passion. In fact, he probably won’t even consider me for future
work. All our interactions of late have been . . . rough. Not once has he taken me seriously as
a viable resource in marketing. And if I truly want his business, which I know I do, that
needs to change. He expects professionalism at all times. And really? He actually deserves
it.
So, that’s that I guess. Time to . . . time to what?
Move on?
How the hell do I do that?
CHAPTER 11
PEYTON
To: [email protected]
I stare at the notification in my inbox, confused at what I’m seeing—an email from
Rome. From him first, not a reply to something I’ve sent him. I stare, shocked that he’s
messaged me.
It would be thrilling if I hadn’t just decided I couldn’t keep this little game up; it could hurt me professionally.
I have to stop.
End whatever this is that I’ve started.
If only it wasn’t so difficult . . . and fun.
Bantering with him is fun, and it turns me on, and I’ve never wanted anyone more in
my life than I want him, even when he’s being an asshole.
Curious, I click open my emails, scrolling to the only email I give a shit about. Rome’s.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
I must be bored as hell if I’m sending you a note, or maybe because I have an employee
driving me nuts, and I need to expel some energy. You, of all people, whose identity I do
not know—and who has caused havoc in the office--tell me that isn’t the most fucked-up
thing you’ve heard all week. Why do I keep messaging you? I don’t know you. I don’t know
if I can trust you—you’re probably gossiping about this shit and showing all your work
friends. Is that what you’re doing? Be honest; I’m the only one here with something to lose.
RMB
Shit.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I bite my bottom lip and sit back in my chair. I shouldn’t engage.
Do NOT engage, Peyton.
You need to be professional with this man. You need to keep him on your good side,
because you never know when you might need him.
And yet, I’m almost ninety-five percent positive I’m the unruly employee he’s talking about. There is no doubt in my mind he left the coffee shop Friday only to go back to his
fancy apartment and stew over our interaction.
Rome is a sharp and shrewd businessman with an amazing ability to find what’s
working and what’s not, but lately, it seems like he’s been having trouble, and me sticking
my nose into his new campaign hasn’t helped.
To be fair, he did ask my opinion.
I can see the uncertainty in his eyes and he’s never uncertain. Even though I don’t want
to gloat about it, I know he’s finally figured out my departure is having an impact on the
campaign, and I almost feel bad. I was mostly joking around Friday night, but now I’ve put
all these little clues together: the uneasiness in his demeanor; how he already looked
through my profile; the weird random meeting about the campaign; and the initiation of an
email.
Let’s face it. The powerful Rome Blackburn has been knocked down a peg.
And I feel bad.
Gah, why do I feel bad?
Maybe because I can see the vulnerability in his eyes and in his words.
You’re probably gossiping about this shit and showing all your work friends. Is that
what you’re doing?
I’m sure he doesn’t have many people to talk to other than Hunter. He’s reaching. And
damn it, I can’t sit back and not respond. Maybe it’s my kind heart or my inability to let go
of this crazy and fun journey, but even though I know I shouldn’t, I write him back.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
No. I promise you, I am not gossiping about you with my friends. They had no idea that I even harbored a crush on you, if that’s what we’re going to call it. Crush. Lust. I let it
slip that night I was drinking—and honestly, they tried to talk me out of it. You’re not the
most popular guy in the office, even if you are the boss.
What did you do this past weekend? Anything interesting?
LSY
Annnd . . . send.
There. I did it.
It’s out there in the Interweb now, and I can’t take it back.
What’s really strange is that I’ve pretty much confessed to this man about everything I
wish I could do to him in his office, from bending over on his desk to getting fucked against
his office window and yet, the one thing that is making my stomach break out in a flutter of
butterflies is my last question.
What did you do this past weekend?
Seems stupid to be so worried about a simple question, but it’s more personal. It brings
these emails to a more intimate level rather than just flirty talk.
That’s terrifying to me because what if he doesn’t answer? What if he thinks—
Ding.
Quickly I look over my back to make sure no one is watching me and open the email.
It’s from Rome and my heart-rate accelerates.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Anything interesting? No. I lay low. For once, I didn’t work this weekend. Bumped into
someone from work at the coffee shop where I hang out, which was kind of weird. What
about you?
Never in my entire life have I been high. I’m a good girl who has never smoked a thing
or even tested out any recreational substances, but this feeling shooting my veins, this
feeling of Rome having an ACTUAL conversation with me rather than threats and lectures?
This has to be what a high feels like.
TO: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Why was it weird that you bumped into someone from work?
And he’s totally talking about me. I knew there was an off chance I made a lasting
weekend impression on him. I just need to make sure it was a good one and not a bad one.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Did I say weird? I meant fucking awkward. This woman is someone I clash with on a
regular basis, so it was a shock to see her in “my spot” sitting at “my” table, in my damn
neighborhood.
Eh, okay.
There goes that good impression.
Awkward? I didn’t think it was awkward, more . . . entertaining. Well, it was
entertaining for me, maybe not for him as much since I was the one pressuring him when he
was looking for help . . .
No! I will not feel bad about that. If he wants my expertise, then he can hire me for what
he wants. There.
And what was he doing at MY coffee place to begin with? I’m practically married to the damn shop. Our invites are on backorder right now, so there is no way he’s been there
before.
TO: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
And you’ve never seen her there before? How is that possible?
I cross my arms over my chest and rock in my chair. Yes, how is that possible?
&n
bsp; To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Yeah, I was thinking about that too. In all honesty, I haven’t been there much lately.
Too busy working. Thought I’d go and sit and enjoy the evening—but that didn’t happen.
She was sitting there, working, and the whole thing threw me off. I walked out without
getting my coffee—felt like such a fucking idiot. But whatever. Think I should find a new
coffee shop?
Felt like an idiot?
Don’t feel bad for him, Peyton. DON’T YOU DARE feel bad for him.
Okay.
I might feel a little bad for him.
I threw him off, made him feel awkward, and then sent him on his way when he just
wanted to enjoy a nice cup of Joe.
I giggle to myself, recounting our interaction. I was in rare form. Confidence oozed from me, and I shouldn’t be ashamed of that.
The only thing I should be ashamed of is letting my coffee get lukewarm while talking to
him.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
You LIVE in that area where she was hanging out? What neighborhood was it?
Time to get a little more personal. Not that I’m going to stalk him or anything . . .
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
I’d rather not say. I live in the same building I lived in when I graduated from college.
Granted, I own the building now, but still. Where did you think I lived? No—don’t tell me.
Some snotty complex in Manhattan or Tribeca? Maybe a brownstone in Gramercy? Are
you stereotyping me? Because I own my own company and I’m young? Tsk, tsk, shame on
you.
RMB
P.S.: Your email handle makes me fucking laugh every time I type it in. Hands roming
my body. So fucking ridiculous.
I take a deep breath as another wave of butterflies erupt in the hollow of my stomach.
He’s joking with me.
He’s interacting with me.
He’s opening up to me.
This might be too much to take in one day. In the matter of half an hour, Rome has
morphed into an entirely different man behind the screen. He’s no longer the angry tyrant.
No, he’s become the hot guy with a sensitive heart. I am totally screwed. It was one
thing to fantasize about fucking him, and another completely to consider emailing him back
and forth with ridiculous banter. And chemistry. Don’t get me started on the idea of having