by Meghan Quinn
to continue working with him. But now, the idea of being more? Of possibly being his
friend? It’s scaring me shitless. Would Rome actually let someone like me in? Could he
consider me a friend, or am I setting myself up for an even bigger drop when this is over?
CHAPTER 12
ROME
I have a goddamn smile on my face.
It’s spread from ear to ear, and for the life of me, I can’t wipe it away. I try to relax my
cheeks, I try to pinch my eyes together, I even try to pout my lip like a child, but I can’t get
rid of this smile.
I have clearly lost it.
Fucking lost my mind.
This is what happens when you work too hard, when you spend hours upon hours
hovering over the blue screen of your computer trying to make your company the best in the
world. There is a breaking point.
There is always a breaking point, and I think this is mine. I’m smiling about a goddamn email chain that I shouldn’t be partaking in.
I should have deleted this ridiculousness the minute it started.
But I didn’t.
I only added to the problem by responding and making this girl’s ass the center of my
computer screen.
Fuck, it’s such a nice ass.
I sit back in my chair, cross my ankle over my knee, and click on the email’s that are
somehow lighting up my entire damn day, and this dreary and cold office.
TO: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
I’m not stereotyping you. Well, not exactly—maybe just a little. **holds fingers an inch
apart to display the teeniest, tiniest bit of judgment** I mean, do you blame me? You stalk
into the office and sit behind a huge desk, behind a glass wall. It’s . . . intimidating. So yes,
I would have assumed you’d live somewhere posh. Posh, LOL, what a very British thing to
say. Fun Fact: I spent a semester in London when I was in college, and it’s my favorite city
in the whole wide world, not including NYC.
Can I ask you a question? If you own an outdoor adventure company . . . why are you
based in New York, and not somewhere like Colorado? I’ve always wondered that.
LSY
***
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Why am I in New York? Well, I went to school here, and my parents are in Buffalo, so
it made sense. I don’t see them often, but we are close. Plus, my grandmother is at an assisted living facility about half an hour out of the city and WHY AM I TELLING YOU
THIS? It’s none of your business. LOL. But since we’re on the subject—yeah, I wouldn’t
stay if it weren’t for them. Maybe someday I’ll pull the plug and move the company to a
city that makes more sense. But for now, I’d like to remain close to family.
And as far as my neighborhood—I fucking love it. I love that everyone minds their
own business and no one puts on pretenses. That’s the bullshit I can’t stand and why I’m so
close to my best friend.
I adjust the sleeves of my navy-blue flannel shirt and twist my lips to the side. Maybe
it’s time to grab some coffee, peruse the cubicles . . .
That’s a good fucking idea, procrastination at its finest. I should be going over Hunter’s
numbers, but I’m too distracted to even consider going through his jungle of numbers typed
and put together in the worst way possible.
I stand from my desk, shuck the jacket, loosen my tie over my head, and undo a few
buttons of my white dress shirt. Carefully, I roll up the sleeves and run my fingers through
my hair for good measure—and not because somewhere out there is a woman who likes to
see my hair tussled.
Nope. It’s just a hot day, that’s all. I don’t even need a jacket.
Time to get some coffee.
The glass doors to my office close behind me just as Lauren’s head picks up from the
eReader in her lap. She thinks she’s so clever, but I know what she’s doing.
“Mr. Blackburn, can I get you anything?”
“I’m good. Just make sure you have those accounting reports on my desk by the end of
the day.” I press the down button to the elevator, and I’m pleased when the doors open right
away. “Yes, of course,” she answers as the elevator doors close.
Hands in pockets, I make my way around the marketing and advertising floor once the
elevator doors open. Everyone seems to be hard at work . . . for the most part. There are a
few people sitting in each other’s cubicles, talking and laughing, but the minute they lay
eyes on me, they duck their heads and walk away.
I smirk to myself.
Looks like LSY is right. I am known as a tyrant. I haven’t even said anything to anyone,
but the floor quickly silences, the sounds of keyboards clacking lifts into the air.
I walk past George, who is eating a muffin, napkin stuffed in the V of his shirt, and
licking his fingers. When he looks up from his pastry, he waves frantically, so excited to see
me on the floor. I nod back and continue to walk to the break room where I find Peyton
pouring herself a cup of coffee.
Sneaking up, I say, “Do you plan on making another cup?”
She startles, spilling coffee on the floor, her bottom half backed away from her hands to
avoid any coffee burns.
“Christ.” She sets down the coffeepot and shakes her hand, ridding it of the brown
liquid. “You can’t just walk up on people like that.”
From above the sink, I rip off a rectangle of paper towel for her and hand it over.
“Here.”
Giving me a look, she snags the paper towel from me and starts cleaning up. “What
brings you down here?”
I lean against the countertop, arms folded, eyes trained on Peyton, who is wearing a
tight-fitting red dress that wraps around her waist and ties around the side. Her tits look
fucking fantastic on prominent display like that. Shit, I shouldn’t be looking at her tits.
But hell, could her dress be any more low-cut?
I clear my throat and look at my feet. “Thought I would spend a little more time walking
around, seeing if anyone needs anything from me.”
She’s mid-wipe of her hands when she looks at me from the side, her head tilted, her
eyes pinched together in confusion.
“You decided to walk around to see if anyone needs anything from you?”
“Yeah.” I shrug nonchalantly while snagging an apple from a bowl behind me and
taking a bite out of it.
Bite. Chew. Chew.
Her eyes narrow in on my mouth, watching intently as I work the apple around.
Chew. Chew. Bite.
Her eyes stay fixed on my lips, longer than they should, longer than what’s appropriate
for a workplace. I count the seconds that go by.
One.
Two.
Three.
Blinking rapidly, she pulls her eyes away and crumples the wet paper towel in her hand
only to toss it in the trash in front of her.
Clearing her throat, she rests her hands on the counter and looks around frantically as
she says, “Uh, do you want coffee?”
Chew. Bite. Chew. “This apple is actually working for me.” I tilt my head and say, “Are
you okay, Peyton? You’re looking a little flushed.”
She pats her cheeks, eyes widening. “Do I? Oh, must be the temperature in here. It’s called air conditio
ning, Rome. Try turning it on.”
“It’s a constant, cool sixtyeight degrees in the office at all times. Maybe . . . it’s you.”
Bite. Chew.
Nervously, she laughs and flips her hair over her shoulder. “Oh no, I put my deodorant
on this morning, so I’m good.” Eyes widening, a horrified look crosses her features as she
bites down on her bottom lip, shaking her head as if trying to shake the last few seconds
form her memory. “I mean, I’m not going through menopause. Still a young caterpillar over
here.”
“Caterpillar?” I lift my brow in her direction.
“Did I say caterpillar? That’s weird, I don’t know why I said that.” Another nervous
giggle. She picks up the coffee mug and examines its contents. “You know, I think it’s the
coffee. A little too much caffeine on an empty stomach.”
“Oh . . . do you want some of my apple?” I lend my half-eaten apple to her that she eyes
only to be followed by her gaze landing on my mouth again.
“No.” She shakes her head. “I’m good. Going to grab a Pop-Tart from the vending
machine. Screw the diet today, you know.” She nods and then rests her hands on her hips,
looking around. Fuck, she’s flustered . . . and I love it. She had me out of sorts on Friday
night, as if I had disrupted her little domain. And now, she’s on the back foot. Not so sassy
and confident now. Interesting. “Guess I’ll go do some more social media posts. Can’t like
comments enough.”
“If you’re just liking comments, why don’t you come up with some marketing ideas for
the women’s campaign?”
She pauses and then whips toward me, the fire I saw the other day in her eyes returning
as she’s snapped out of her stupor. And I smile. I can’t help it. Turns out I like Peyton both sassy and contrite. “Care to pay me more to do that?”
“Does it look like I’m about to cut you another check?”
“It would behoove you to do so.”
“Don’t say behoove; you’re not seventy.”
“And you’re my boss for only two more days, so unless you plan on paying me extra, I’m
going to sit in my comfy spinny chair, answer emails, and like all the comments I want.” She
leans forward. “On your dime.”
With a wink, she walks away, a sway to her nice, dress-covered ass.
***
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
I bet by now you want to know what floor I am on at the office, don’t you? **flips
hair** Ha ha. You can’t see me and have no idea what I look like. Is it driving you nuts?
Trust me—you’d think I’m cute. Maybe. Possibly? Ugh, I don’t know—what’s your type?
You tell me yours and I’ll tell you mine. Deal?
LSY
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
My type. Physically? I’m going to assume that’s what you mean, but I’ll dive a little
deeper, if only for my own edification. Taller women. Smart, obviously—someone
educated. Someone professional who understands that I do not have time for anything other than a quick lay or a one-night stand. She doesn’t want a relationship. I’m attracted
to dark features—dark hair and eyes. Quiet.
Can’t stand a woman who has a smart mouth. Know any like that?
RMB
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Do I know any women with smart mouths? **coughs** I might know one or two, ha
ha. Won’t admit to whether or not I have one myself.
**taps chin** My type . . . my type. What’s my type . . . I have a few of them. Tall and
athletic. Fit. Um . . . Oh! I love tattoos, although I’ve never dated anyone with any. And
piercings, which is totally random. Beards get me hot. I follow this amazing account on
Instagram of hot dudes with beards and tats, ha ha. But anyway, I digress. My type is
handsome and smart and funny. Someone who can make me laugh. But not in a cheesy
way, because I can’t stand predictable jokes.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
I’m not funny.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
No, you’re not. Not even a little.
But . . . There is something about you . . .
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Something about me . . .
Like what?
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Well, let me see if I can put my finger on it; paint you a picture, if you will. When I see
you, there’s something about you that makes me stop and watch you. You have this way
about you—I don’t even mind your cold glares. They mean something. And you don’t blow
smoke up anyone’s ass or sugarcoat anything. Which I know a lot of people resent or take
personally, but I know why you do it. I know you work hard and take it seriously and that
you care. We can all see it, and I respect you for it. You’re handsome. You’re smart. You’re
. . . yes. You’re intimidating, but what man in your position isn’t? And your friendship with
Hunter O’Rourke is too damn adorable—yeah, I said it. ADORABLE. I’ve seen you get
pissed at him for joking around, and I die every time.
LSY
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
There is nothing adorable about Hunter O’Rourke. He’s a pain in the fucking ass. MY
ass. You’d think that as my business partner he’d act like a goddamn professional and why the hell am I telling you this?
Keep in mind that since we’re using the company server, any correspondence between
us is private and confidential, and I could sue you for sharing the content of these emails.
RMB
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Wow, you and your non-disclosures and legal mumbo-jumbo, always wanting to sue
people. You seriously need to relax, boss. It hadn’t occurred to me to share these emails
until YOU MENTIONED IT. Bring it down a notch, Rome. I’m not going to tell anyone
your secrets. So feel free to start sharing a few of them . . . ha ha. I’m a very good listener.
LSY
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
What kind of boss would I be if I didn’t point out the obvious? Before we get carried
away with . . . whatever this is.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
“Whatever this is.” Did you just admit, in your own weird way, that you’re actually
enjoying this back and forth? Do tell . . . bring it to my good ear. **leans in close**
Whisper it to me like a confession.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
I’ll admit, I’m entertained and curious. Have you noticed I’ve been walking around the
office more? It’s not because I’m trying to be a dutiful boss, it’s because I’m trying to find
out who the hell you are. I’m hoping one day I catch you writing back to me. Guard your
screen. I’m looking.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
You’ve resulted to
creeping on your employees? Come on, Rome, you’re better than
that. Instead of hovering behind people trying to read their inboxes, why don’t you
conduct a little sleuthing instead?
Ask me some questions, any questions besides the obvious. Let’s see if you’re really
smart enough to figure this mystery out.
CHAPTER 13
PEYTON
“What? Why are you not coming?” Kimberly asks in her whiny tone that grates on my
nerves.
“I’m not in the mood to drink, plus you guys have this whole party planned for Friday,
so I might as well save all of my liquor tolerance for then.”
“But we’re going to get chicken fingers,” Viv interjects.
I pat her on the shoulder. “And as lovely as that sounds, I think I’m going to enjoy
myself a nice little quiche from the corner bakery and head to my apartment where I can lounge in a long Tshirt and that’s it.”
“No bra?” Gen asks.
I shake my head. “No bra.”
She sighs and puts her arms around Viv and Kimberly. “Give it up, ladies, we can’t
compete with no bra. We had a chance with quiche as her dinner, but with the extraction of
underwire, we’re doomed.”
Knowing Gen’s right, they bow their heads and turn away toward the bar. “You slay us,”
Viv says over her shoulder. “Hope your boobs enjoy themselves.”
I take the subway home, getting bumped and bruised by every other New Yorker trying
to make the busy commute. Not in the mood for reading or listening to any podcasts, I hang
on to the metal bar next to the door and stare out the window, the tunnels passing by me at
a rapid speed.
I hate to admit it, but I’m going to miss this commute. A little. There’s something about
stopping by the corner bodega to pick up your favorite bagel and coffee on the way into
work, scanning your key card to make it through the doors, and then making your way into
an overcrowded elevator to join the hustle and bustle of the city.
But on the other hand, there’s nothing like working in your underwear, on your couch,
in your home.
Thankfully my favorite bakery isn’t too busy, so I’m in and out in minutes, warm quiche
in hand. I waste no time in slinking out of my dress, slipping off my bra—yes, that feels
good—and throwing on my Whitney Houston T-shirt that falls to mid-thigh.
I hop on my couch, pop open a La Croix I got from the bakery, and break open my