by Meghan Quinn
“My office in fifteen minutes, Miss Lévêque.” His words ring in my ears.
“Oh my God,” I gasp. “I’m totally going to get bent over.”
“You sound dreamy—like you can taste it now, too.” She shakes her fists in the air,
excitement pouring out of her. “As God as my witness you, my friend, are about to get
banged.” Her gaze trails down my torso critically. “I hope you shaved your legs.”
“I always do.” I bite my bottom lip and say, “Wait. What if having sex with Rome is a
bad idea?”
Genevieve makes a buzzer sound with her throat. “Merp! Wrong question. No second-
guessing yourself.”
“I know, but—”
“But what?” Her perfectly shaped brows pinch together, ala Frieda. “How on earth is
this a bad idea? This is all you wanted, your birthday wish. All you need to do is get up there
and flash him that smile. Oh, and unbutton your dress.”
“Genevieve.”
She shrugs and takes a sip of whatever’s in her cup.
My sigh is loud, filling the hallway where we’re hiding.
“I have a business to think about now, Gen. I can’t just do whatever I want without
thinking. I’m trying to contract Roam, Inc.”
Like a temporary high, the excitement of heading to Rome’s office begins to wear off as
soon as I realize this is all coming to an end.
I quit.
I won’t be here tomorrow.
I won’t see my friends, and I won’t see Rome.
No more exciting emails, no more late-night chats with the boss, no more flirting and sending him food. I’m going to miss this.
I’m going to miss working for Rome.
The only way I can work with him ever again is by keeping things professional between
us—just like he prefers it.
Her brow is skeptically raised. “No offense, babe. You know I love you and totally
believe in you. But do you really think you can get Rome Blackburn—the most stubborn
man on the freaking planet—to hire you to do outside marketing? You know he doesn’t do
outside hires. He does everything inhouse. That’s how he’s able to pay us so well.”
She’s so right, he does hire within and self-performs most things company related.
Marketing. Design. Quality control. Advertising and new product development. Everything
within reason, except the actual manufacturing of what we sell.
Gen might be right; he probably won’t hire me.
He’s already told me no twice.
Fortunately for him, I’m tenacious. I might hear the word no, but I’m always plotting—I
want this job, and I’m willing to do whatever it takes to get it.
I mean. Almost anything.
I cough, shooting Gen a smile.
Straighten my skirt, because . . . I am heading up to Rome Blackburn’s office.
My former boss.
The man I have a schoolgirl crush on.
He needs me—he wants me.
I can see it in his eyes. All I have to do is force him to recognize it . . .
*** “Would you get the hell out of here? I have a meeting.” I hear my former boss grind out
between clenched teeth as I approach his office, the floor completely devoid of any humans
besides him and Hunter. Lauren is still at the party along with the rest of the company.
“What meeting?” Hunter sounds amused. “Come on, be honest. The meeting is with
your right hand, isn’t it?”
“Sod off, for fuck’s sake.”
“Sod off? Are you British and didn’t tell me? What else don’t I know?”
I swear, I can hear Rome fuming and he isn’t saying a single word in reply. I imagine
that his lips are drawn into a thin line and he’s biting back his temper.
“Secrets, secrets, everyone has them.” It sounds like he’s rising. “You wound me, you
know that? We’re blood brothers, and if you know who your little pen pal is, you should tell
me. It’s only fair.”
“I’m not telling you who it is.”
“Aha! So you admit that you know who it is. I fucking knew it. Is it Peyton, whose moist
cake I just devoured?”
“Jesus Christ.”
“So you’re not denying it.”
“She’s on her way up, so can you get the fuck out of here?”
“Blink once if she’s the one who wants to bang you.”
Silence.
“Are you blinking once or having a seizure? What is that shit you’re doing with your
face?”
I can’t help the laugh that escapes my lips, hand flying to my mouth. “Tell me to get the fuck out if it’s Peyton Lé—”
“Get the fuck out! And shut the door.”
Suddenly, Hunter O’Rourke backs out of the office, doing a weird little dance—it’s more
of a jig, actually—red plaid shirt bold and bright against the dreary gray the walls are
painted. His arms are above his head and he’s pumping his fist in the air when his eyes land
on me, standing square in the middle of the corridor, eyes wide.
I can actually feel how wide my eyes are.
He stops dancing, giant smile spreading like the Cheshire cat across his face. “Well,
well, well, if it isn’t Rome’s resident pen pa—”
“O’Rourke! Leave. Now.” Rome fills his doorway, a deep edge creeping into his voice
and an even deeper crinkle in his brow.
Our eyes lock.
My stomach drops.
Uh-oh, he’s not happy—not even a little bit, and I curse Hunter O’Rourke for giving him
shit. The last thing I needed was for him to be in a bad mood when I wanted to pitch to him
one last time before I left.
Dammit, dammit, dammit.
I square my shoulders and clear my throat.
“All right, all right. I’m gone.” Hunter’s hands go up in mock surrender. “Hey, Peyton—
thanks for igniting the beast and then leaving us all high and dry.”
The bastard actually winks like he’s funny, does a small skip, and salutes, walking
briskly down the hallway.
Whistling.
Incredulously, I stare off after him. What the . . . “Lévêque, get in here. Now.” His head nods toward the interior of his office.
I stand my ground, nervously. “Say please.”
Rome glares. Flares his nostrils. “Please.”
I scurry through the door like a rat, feeling phony—all false bravado and twisted nerves.
My heart has never beat so erratically, and my nipples never been this puckered. I’m
scared, I’m nervous. I have no clue what to expect.
The door slams and Rome stomps to the front of his desk, leaning against the wooden
top. Hands behind him, I notice that his knuckles are white from the firm grip on his desk.
“Why? Why did you do it?” His head is tilted down, but his eyes are blazing a hole right
through my chest. “Tell me. I have a right to know.”
Wow. He’s not wasting any time.
My hands tangle together as tight as the knotted nerves in my tummy. This Rome in
front of me? I’m not used to him. I’m used to pissed-offboss Rome, who’s demanding and
insistent because he’s a perfectionist. Wants everything done right the first time. Demands
respect and commands a room.
This Rome is different. He’s vulnerable and unsure and guarded because he looks . . . a
little bit hurt, actually. Which is weird.
Like he took the whole thing personally.
Because it was personal.
But I never meant to
hurt him or humiliate him.
I owe him an explanation—it’s just having a hard time forming on my lips.
“I . . .” I clear my throat. “It was at my birthday and . . . I was drunk. Really drunk, like I
wrote in the email—more drunk than I’ve been in a while.”
I’m a lightweight; ask anyone. “So you decided to prey on me while intoxicated?”
“Prey on you?” I’m surprised. That’s what he thinks? “No. I wasn’t preying on you—not
at all. It’s just . . .”
I let out a long, ragged breath and take a step forward, farther into his dungeon of his
office. Its walls are a darker gray than the common area behind me, dark desk and silver
finishing. Masculine and hard. Like him.
“It was my birthday. We actually saw you at the bar that night, and the whole thing was
a blur, but there you were.”
“I don’t go to bars.” He doesn’t roll his eyes, but it’s close.
“Yeah, you did. The night of my birthday, we saw you. You were alone, but it looked like
you were waiting for someone who never showed up. You had one drink and then got up to
leave.”
I exhale, unclenching my fingers. “You never even looked in my direction—just like
every other day here in the office—and it was so disappointing. And I would have come over,
but it really did look like you were meeting someone, and I didn’t want to interrupt. Then
my ridiculous friends hid from you, ducking down in the booth, and it was too much for me
to handle with all the alcohol I’d had.” I can’t believe I’m admitting this out loud. “All I
wanted was a little bit of your attention.”
My voice is unexpectedly small, and I hate it.
Rome seizes the calm as an opportunity to study me, strong jaw moving back and forth
as he considers my confession.
I can’t stand the fact that he’s not saying anything—I never could, and crack within
seconds.
“You never looked over at me. And when you left, in a drunken stupor, I admitted to my friends that I had a secret crush on you.” My hands are now gesturing, animated while I tell
my story. Spill my guts. “Gen got this crazy idea to create a fake email address and had her
tablet in her purse because she’s always—”
Rome cuts me off. “Genevieve Porter in IT?”
Like an idiot, I nod.
He pushes off his desk and rounds the corner. “She’s fired.”
His long arm extends, fingers reaching for the phone cradled on his desk.
Holy shit.
“Rome! Please, no.” Oh my God, he cannot fire my best friend.
Tears are already welling in my eyes, panic racing in circles around the middle of my
gut. Gen cannot be fired. Why did I just say her name? Why? I’m so, so stupid.
“Please, Rome. Please don’t fire her,” I beg again, voice strangled from the tears. My
hand holds his down as it grasps the telephone.
He is unflinching as he begins ticking off Gen’s offenses. “She created a company email
account for personal use, on company property. Used that same company property for
personal gain. Created an email address to anonymously harass the boss and lied about it.”
He’s leaning against this desk, arms crossed. “Shall I continue?”
“She needs this job . . .” More than I do.
My hand is still pressed over his, holding it down, preventing him from picking up his
office phone and calling human resources. Or security.
“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t toss her ass to the curb with yours right this
second.”
Reasons why Gen shouldn’t be fired. Reasons why Gen shouldn’t be fired—there are a
ton, but my freaking brain can’t come up with a single one. I swallow hard, wracking my brain for something that might stop this relentless man
from firing my best friend.
“She felt bad for me,” I muster, feeling foolish. “I was so hung up on you, wanting you to
see me as more than one of the employees that sit in the cubices of this office building that
she tried to help me. This is on me, not her, please, Rome, please don’t punish her. I know
you’re upset, but be upset with me. Genevieve needs this job.”
“She should have thought about that before she broke company policies.”
“Please.” I’m whispering.
He doesn’t move. He doesn’t even flinch.
Holds his ground, stone like a statue.
I can’t help bristling at his unrelenting attitude.
It’s breaking my heart.
“Is that how this is going to be, Rome? You can’t fire me so you’re going to fire
Genevieve? That’s low, even for you.”
Oh God, did I just say that? I try to keep my eyes from widening, but honestly, I’ve
shocked myself, too.
“Excuse me?” He pulls his hand away from mine and rounds his desk, coming up short
a few inches from me.
My chin tips up. “You heard me.”
“Do you really think I grew this business by sweeping shit like this under the rug? No.
I’ve had to be ruthless from the beginning, weeding out the toxic, making sure this company
is a fine-tuned machine. Little word of business advice, Peyton—you’re going to have to
toughen up, or the sharks are going to eat you alive, and you’ll be out of business within six
months.” How dare he.
“You’re too nice.”
Too nice?
“Screw you.” I poke him in the chest as I shoot back at him, my voice stern and
unwavering. “You can be a ruthless CEO by having a little compassion and without being an
ass, and that’s what you’re being right now. An asshole. You have a problem with me
emailing you, and since you can’t punish me directly, you’re going after Gen. I get it. But it’s
no wonder people call you a tyrant.”
“Do you honestly think I give a shit what everyone says?”
“You should,” I spit back. “Maybe if you had half the respect I’ve earned from your
employees, they would work twice as hard, work smarter, and you wouldn’t have the issues
you have right now.”
His nostrils flare.
His jaw ticks.
“What issues?”
“Well. Take marketing for example. The department is a mess. George isn’t creative—
this place has sucked the artist flow right out of him.”
“Is that all?”
I huff. “No.” Pause. “The entire accounting department is so boring, I do a death march
when I have to walk past.”
“They’re accountants.”
He has a really good point, there.
“A brighter shade of gray on that floor would certainly make it less dull.”
His eyes blaze with heat and anger as he takes a step forward, trapping me against the wall. His cologne is the first thing to invade my space—spicy and masculine—then it’s his
chest, broad and rapidly falling up and down.
His hands find the wall behind me, straddling my body and closing in around me. The
pale grey of his eyes turns ice cold as they stare me down, his breath heavy as he speaks to
me.
Every last hair on my body stands to attention, awakening my nerves on an entirely
different level. How long have I wanted to be this close to him, to have his face inches from
mine, to have the opportunity to closely take in the ridges and sharp lines of his handsome
face?
So long.
And y
et, I wish it wasn’t under these circumstances.
I wish instead of the anger that’s coming off him, it was passion for me. Lust.
An unstoppable yearning.
“You think it’s easy running this company? Do you think it’s been easy trying to do my
job when I have you writing me every day telling me you want to bang me?”
Bang me.
When he says it, it sounds so dirty.
Rome’s eyes leave mine and travel down my body, fixating on the cleavage heaving
beneath my dress, because I can barely catch my breath.
Finally, our eyes meet.
He speaks. “Do you think it’s easy for me to get any goddamn work done when I have
you strutting around in a dress like this, enticing me with your smart mouth and sassy
attitude?”
“Excuse me? Strutting?” I don’t strut. I gulp—hard—trying to catch my breath as every nerve in my body begins to pulse, my
body feeling more alive than ever with him this close.
He bows his head forward, his cheek brushing against mine, the stubble scraping along
my sensitive flesh. What would it feel like to have that scruff scrape against my inner
thighs? To have that sharp-witted tongue pleasuring me? To have those lips pressing wet
kisses against my skin?
What would it feel like to have this man’s mouth on mine for just one kiss?
Just one . . .
. . . kiss.
My mind drifts; wanders.
What does he taste like?
What would it feel like to be owned by Rome Blackburn, for just one sex-filled night?
I shift against the wall, my legs rubbing together to ease the friction, a low throb inside
my center launching a crusade against my traitorous heart.
It wants more, damn her. It wants him.
Rome leans in.
Bends at the neck.
Breath nicking the bare column of my neck and finally, lips gently move across my skin,
setting off a wave of goose bumps up and down my arms, collarbone, and legs.
His hot whisper is in my ear now, low. “Something is bound to slip, Peyton.” Long,
dramatic pause as he runs his nose up the column of my neck. “Something is bound to
break.”
“W-what’s bound to break?” I whisper back, unable to keep my gaze steady. That
beautiful nose of his leaves my neck and grazes my cheek. Gently.
Lips inches away, Rome’s forehead rests against mine, and he takes a break to compose
himself, deft fingers millimeters from tangling themselves in my hair.