Love Sincerely Yours

by Meghan Quinn

  quiche.

  Ahh, this is life. Did I mention I’m a sucker for playing cribbage? I have an app on my phone, and there

  is nothing I want more than to kick my legs back and play a few games.

  I open the app just as an email sounds off on my phone. An email from Rome.

  An email for LSY.

  Oooo, someone is working late.

  Snuggling in close, quiche plate resting on my knee, I open up the email.

  To: HandsRomingMyBody@RoamInc.com

  From: RomeBlackburn@RoamInc.com

  **Flexes Fingers** I would be nervous if I were you, LSY. Do you know why? Because

  I’m relentless and the moment you open the floodgate for questions is the moment I figure

  out who you are, and I’m still partial to firing your sexy little ass.

  Are you sure you want to tempt me?

  I bite on my finger, reading his message over and over. He’s so playful, that it makes my

  heart skip a beat and my common sense fly out the window.

  I open the company messenger app on my phone and scroll through the executive

  names, knowing full well I’m about to break a policy. It’s the company’s phone, and the

  company’s app, and I’m about to use it for personal use. To flirt.

  With my boss.

  I close my eyes, find his name—next to it is a little, green dot, which means. . .

  He’s on the app.

  I’ve never talked to him live before so this is a huge step, but then again, it might be

  more fun to get his initial reactions to my comments.

  Debating it for all but two seconds, I type out a message to him, making sure I’m signed

  on under my LSY persona.

  HandsRomingMyBody: Hey you.

  My text turns into a new message on the app and I wait on bated breath to see if he will

  respond. Nerves prickle up my spine, my fingers feeling numb, my mind playing mutiny

  with my heart just as little dots appear letting me know he’s typing.

  Oh God, I don’t think I’ve been more excited.

  I stuff a giant bite of quiche in my mouth as his message comes across the screen.

  God, I am so giddy seeing his name pop up, it does all kinds of things to my body.

  RomeBlackburn: Christ, messenger box pop-up scared the shit out of me when it

  dinged.

  I laugh out loud and hunker down to message him back.

  HandsRomingMyBody: Concentrating a little too hard?

  RomeBlackburn: Hunter O’Rourke’s fucking reports (pardon my French) are going

  to be the death of me. Why are you still working late? If I go to each floor, will I find you

  hunkered down in your cubicle?

  HandsRomingMyBody: Don’t get too excited. I’m home. Just checking my work

  emails like a good employee would. **pats self on the back**

  RomeBlackburn: Yeah? And what kind of work emails are you answering?

  HandsRomingMyBody: Yours. If you want a break, I’m free to answer any

  questions you might have.

  RomeBlackburn: Why don’t you call me? That will be more fun.

  There is no way in hell I’m going to let him call me—he would totally recognize my

  voice.

  HandsRomingMyBody: Nice try. It’s either questions here or no questions at all.

  RomeBlackburn: It’s almost like you want to get caught.

  HandsRomingMyBody: Maybe I do . . .

  RomeBlackburn: Fine. What’s your name?

  HandsRomingMyBody: Don’t be dense. You know I’m not answering that. Come

  on, be creative, Rome. I know you have it in you. Drop the CEO title for a second and be a

  guy who’s just talking to a pretty girl.

  RomeBlackburn: Way to hit me in a soft spot.

  HandsRomingMyBody: Well . . .

  RomeBlackburn: What are you wearing?

  HandsRomingMyBody: Typical guy question. **rolls eyes** But if you must know,

  a vintage Whitney Houston shirt that touches me mid-thigh and panties. It may or not

  have a few holes.

  RomeBlackburn: I’m going to need proof.

  I inwardly roll my eyes and think about it for a long, hard second. Should I send him a

  picture?

  If I lay back a little bit more, I probably could get a good shot of my legs barely covered

  by my shirt.

  Just enough to drive Rome Blackburn crazy.

  I mean—who doesn’t love vintage Whitney? This shirt is a classic.

  Setting my dinner to the side, I lean back on my couch, position my legs to make them

  look as sexy as possible, and point my toes in the air, giving them a wiggle even though he’s

  not getting a video. Blue, sparkly polish. Cute dainty toes.

  I’m adorable. And braless.

  Who could resist this?

  I snap a few pictures, pick the sexiest before hitting send, a secretive smile tugging at my lips the entire time.

  HandsRomingMyBody: There is your “proof.”

  He takes a second to answer, but when he does, pure female satisfaction courses

  through me.

  RomeBlackburn: Fuck. Don’t send me any more pictures.

  HandsRomingMyBody: Are you going to make that your wallpaper now?

  RomeBlackburn: Maybe.

  HandsRomingMyBody: It’s the legs, isn’t it?

  I have really great legs; they’re my favorite body part.

  RomeBlackburn: It’s the legs. And the toes. And the legs. God, it’s making me

  hungry . . .

  HandsRomingMyBody: I’m nibbling on the best quiche; should really try it. It’s

  from this little shop around the corner from where I live—Edith’s Treats. You’d never

  know how fantastic everything was until you step foot inside. It’s so freaking good.

  RomeBlackburn: I know where that place is. What’s in this magical quiche you’re

  panting over?

  HandsRomingMyBody: Spinach, roasted peppers, and broccoli. **Kisses fingers**

  magnifique.

  RomeBlackburn: I have a package of Saltine crackers in my desk. That’s my dinner,

  so I guess your quiche is better than what I’m having.

  HandsRomingMyBody: Saltine crackers? Those are for sick people. Are you sick?

  Why the hell aren’t you getting some food delivered like a normal person?

  RomeBlackburn: No time to call in anything.

  HandsRomingMyBody: But you have apps. And time to talk to me? But you didn’t get food . . .

  As he’s typing, I quickly pull up a blank text message and text my friend Tony, who

  works at the pizza place across from the office. They deliver to the office for me all the time

  and have access to the building. I order up a pepperoni calzone, have it sent to Rome’s office

  ASAP, and charge it to me. The delivery guy responds back with a simple text: Give it fifteen

  minutes.

  I love those guys.

  I love any guy that feeds me.

  RomeBlackburn: Priorities. I’m trying to figure out who you are; that takes

  precedence over my stomach.

  HandsRomingMyBody: Okay, wanna play a game? You ask me anything and I’ll

  answer honestly?

  RomeBlackburn: Sure, we can do that: What do you like most about working for

  Roam, Inc.?

  HandsRomingMyBody: That is NOT the kind of question I was going for, but

  okay—I’ll answer. Despite the tyrant of a boss I work for (ha ha) I really like the image the

  company portrays, supporting the active lifestyle, and honestly . . . the free stuff too.

  RomeBlackburn: Your favorite part of working here is the FREE stuff? Not the hot

  guy who sits on the top floor and signs your paycheck?


  HandsRomingMyBody: Maybe. We’ll call “him” an added bonus. Can I ask you

  something?

  RomeBlackburn: Fire away.

  HandsRomingMyBody: Ever flirt with an employee before?

  RomeBlackburn: I don’t shit where I eat—it’s not my style and it shouldn’t be anyone else’s either. So, no. I haven’t ever flirted with an employee before.

  HandsRomingMyBody: Yet here you are, talking to me.

  RomeBlackburn: Because apparently I’ve lost my fucking mind. How do you take

  your coffee?

  HandsRomingMyBody: At work? With loads of that Irish creamer, because the

  coffee at work is disgusting—no offense. When I’m not at work, I prefer lattes. I float back

  and forth to what I order that day.

  RomeBlackburn: So it isn’t just me? I’m going to have Lauren switch up the coffee,

  because drinking that basically amounts to “roasted grounds and a heavy dose of shit”

  and that’s not on the top of my list.

  HandsRomingMyBody: Roasted shit? As in . . . poo? Yeah, I won’t be able to get

  that out of my head for the rest of the night.

  RomeBlackburn: Hold up. Why is there a guy in my office holding a bag of food?

  Did you just have food delivered? Are you FEEDING me?

  HandsRomingMyBody: Can’t have Sexy McBossyPants going hungry. **wink**

  Enjoy, the calzones are among my faves and TO DIE FOR.

  RomeBlackburn: Taking care of me. I’m actually in shock. And thankful. And to be

  honest? A little stunned . . .

  CHAPTER 14

  ROME

  Where the hell is everyone? One glance out my office window and I see no one.

  I don’t have time to lift my ass out of this seat to know there isn’t any noise coming from

  the common area outside my door where most of the cubicles on this floor are. The place is

  a dead-zone and I have no goddamn idea why.

  And instead of caring enough to find out, I find myself rooted in my chair, staring at my

  computer.

  Last night, I learned a little detail, a little nugget of information that could help me

  figure out who LSY is.

  And I don’t think she even realized . . .

  She slipped up.

  Even though I was smiling like a damn fool the entire time talking to her when I should

  have been looking through Hunter’s reports, I smiled even wider when I realized she gave

  me the golden ticket I was looking for.

  My cursor drags along my computer screen, lands on the icon for a search engine, my

  fingers deftly typing out the words, “Edith’s Treats.” Enter.

  She was so excited about her damn quiche that she didn’t realize she gave me a radius of

  where she lives.

  Fucking sleuthing it up this morning.

  An image appears of a small bakery on a corner about three short blocks from my

  apartment building—and just one over from the spot where Peyton in the marketing

  department was having coffee.

  Interesting.

  Peyton.

  I stare off into the distance, my mind wandering; today would be her last day if I’m doing the math correctly—wouldn’t it? I pull up her file, noting the photograph attached.

  She’s pretty.

  Sexy, if I’m being honest.

  Smiling at the camera for a picture taken for the website of our staff. Navy blouse. Hair

  down. Red lipstick.

  Jesus, Peyton is . . .

  Hot.

  Why did I wait so damn long to pay serious attention? Do I really have a stick so far up

  my ass that I haven’t noticed her? Or is that why every time I’ve interacted with her in the

  last week or so, I’ve found it hard to pull away and leave her?

  My eyes scan the details provided by human resources: Age, twenty-seven. Position,

  President of Social Media Marketing and Acquisition. Address looks vaguely familiar, and

  curiosity has me googling the area.

  My area. My neighborhood.

  My coffee shop.

  My head starts to spin. Every interaction I’ve had with her running on repeat as I lean

  forward and stare intently at the computer as if it’s supposed to verbally confirm exactly

  what I’m thinking.

  Edith’s Treats is right on the corner, perfectly spaced between her place and mine. “It’s

  from this little shop around the corner from where I live . . .”

  Jesus Christ.

  I lean back in my chair, drag my hand over my face, and blink a few times.

  No. There is no way.

  I lean forward again, match her address with the bakery and the coffee shop. Fuck.

  FUCK!

  Peyton is HandsRomingMyBody.

  Peyton is the employee who wants to bang me.

  Peyton has been fucking around with me this entire time, lowering my defenses, making

  me talk about personal shit, sending me goddamn food.

  I glare at the desktop, anger billowing in the pit of my stomach, the heat in my body

  skyrocketing to inferno levels.

  She’s been lying to me this whole time. She’s been right under my damn nose, playing

  with me . . . tricking me. Probably laughing behind my back with those friends of hers I

  always catch her with. Look at me, fooling the boss.

  Not okay.

  I rise, slamming my chair back into the windows, skirt around my desk and yank open

  the door.

  Silence.

  Well. Except for the low buzzing sound of modems and computers humming in tandem.

  The fluorescent lights flicker. A printer scanner at the far side of the room beeps.

  No sign of life.

  “Where the fuck is everyone?” Seriously, it’s in the middle of the goddamn workday, not

  a Saturday—and as far as I know, it’s not a national holiday.

  I don’t think.

  Asses should be in those seats.

  Heads should be down, fingers flying across the thirty or so computers wired into these

  desks. Papers should be flying out of the printers, and the phones should be ringing. Something.

  But not this.

  I pace around the long corridor, glancing into offices, one by one, checking for signs of

  life. Any stragglers that can tell me what the ever-loving fuck is going on around here.

  Make my way toward Lauren’s desk, float around the granite counter to look for any

  clues. If anyone would know what’s happening, it will be here.

  One sheet of paper, lying limply across her keyboard, with a message printed in black,

  bold letters: WISH PEYTON FAREWELL ON HER LAST DAY! Cake and ice cream, break

  room on the third floor. Ten o’clock.

  I glance at my watch.

  Ten thirteen.

  I punch at the elevator button—like one of those assholes who hits it ten times hoping to

  make it come quicker—stuff my hands inside the pocket of my gray dress pants (no fancy

  meetings today, so I’m casual, sans tie), button-up shirt brushing my chest as I stab one

  more time at the illuminated button. Bounce back on the balls of my feet, agitated.

  They threw Peyton a going-away party when she quit? What the actual fuck?

  Throwing a party for someone who has been deceiving their boss, all for a laugh? I don’t

  fucking think so. Not at my office, not during business hours.

  Not happening.

  My jaw ticks when the elevator doors finally slide open and once I’m inside, I stab at

  those buttons, too, with my knuckle. Hit the third floor.

  My jaw is clenched, because the noise level when I arrive is as l
oud as it should be

  upstairs, only there are people congregated around the entrance to the break room, spilling

  out and standing around, holding cups and plates of cake, and laughing.

  Peyton isn’t even a power player here. What the hell is everyone doing celebrating? It’s

  not like she’s retiring. She fucking quit. She created a new job, and she’s leaving, and that is

  that.

  End of the fucking story.

  As soon as I’m spotted, a few hushed whispers fill the air; I take in a nudge. A few

  coughs. My employees moving aside to create a narrow path in front of the door for me to

  enter through.

  And I do.

  I stalk toward the break room like a man on a mission, plowing through like a dump

  truck, eyes scanning for one person: Peyton Lévêque. It takes me a few seconds to settle on

  her—there are shit tons of people crammed into this room, which is probably a fire hazard

  or health code violation.

  Then.

  There she is.

  Like a goddamn ray of sunshine, light streaming behind her from the window, a halo

  shining above her pretty head.

  Her lying, beautiful head.

  Dark hair, wavy and glossy, down around her shoulders, the rich color picking up red

  from the sun.

  She’s holding a glass—it’s poised at her lips and she’s about to take a sip—when our eyes

  meet. She lowers it, her mouth parts, and her smile spreads.

  Until I scowl. Then, her face morphs from happy to concerned in a second. Damn right

  she should be concerned.

  I nod. She nods.

  My eyes trail down the front of her and I note her dress—it’s baby blue, wrapped and

  tied at the waist, and shows off her curves while highlighting her legs in those sexy-as-shit

  heels.

  Stop thinking about her curves and legs. You’re not here to admire her.

  The pile of gifts in the corner pisses me off, bringing me back into the present, back to

  my rage, and has me lifting my arm; crooking my finger.

  Peyton’s brows go up at the same time her head cocks and she pokes a finger into her

  own chest. “Me?”

  “Yeah. You.” I know she can’t hear me, but I say it anyway—and if she’s any good at

  reading lips, she’ll haul her ass over here right quick.

  Her cup is passed. Skirt gets smoothed out. Chin tilts high.

  She heads over.

  Good girl.

  “Follow me,” I order her when we’re on the outskirts of the room. When we’re clear