Love Sincerely Yours

by Meghan Quinn

  I shoot the barista another awkward smile and wave, certain she’s been judging me for

  being cheap. But I’m self-employed. Every penny counts, and I’ve been counting mine all

  weekend.

  Technically, I could afford to quit working for Roam, Inc.— but the numbers staring

  back at me from my bank account scare the absolute shit out of me, and I’m desperate for

  them to grow, not deplete.

  If I don’t get a contract soon, I don’t know what I’ll do.

  No way can I go back to Roam, Inc. if this venture fails. He would never in a million

  years hire me back—he made that clear enough when he kicked me out of his office, and

  essentially out of his life.

  I have to make Fresh Minted Designs succeed if it kills me.

  I raise my water glass, the ice having melted hours ago, ring of condensation dripping

  onto the corner of my laptop.

  “Shit.” I scrub at the keyboard with the sleeve of my long-sleeved shirt, trying not to hit

  a key and send my entire document out of whack.

  I’ve done that before and it’s horrible. Once, I wiped down my computer monitor with

  Windex, turned it a sick shade of green, and had to get the entire monitor replaced. My luck with technology is clearly abysmal.

  Ugh, where is a damn napkin when I need one?

  I twist my torso, elbow inadvertently taking up too much space, skimming across the

  surface of the tiny table, knocking into my cup, and tipping it. Water spills in one quick fall

  over the side, and thank God I got a medium cup and not the large one I’d wanted.

  Plus, it was half empty so there’s not much on the floor.

  Your cup is half full, Peyton. Half full. Positive thoughts only.

  Nonetheless, when I stand to clean it, and my foot slips, yanking the cord out of the side

  of my computer and earbuds from my ears, I curse.

  “Goddammit!” I spin, grabbing for cords and my laptop so that doesn’t come careening

  down, too.

  Fuck my life.

  I swipe a few napkins from the neighboring table, giving the girl seated there an

  apologetic, awkward cringe, and bend to mop up my mess. Back and forth I run the brown

  napkins across the tile, sopping up the puddle.

  Left with only a handful of soggy napkins, an expensive pair of black tennis shoes steps

  into the space I’d just painstakingly dried so no one would slip if they treaded past. Tennis

  shoes attached to a hairy set of tan legs; masculine and long, my gaze trains on muscular

  calves. Knees.

  Up, up, my eyes trail.

  Blue mesh shorts.

  Crotch. Ahem . . . a nice crotch.

  “Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” a deep, familiar voice mocks, big hand extending.

  I take it, climbing to my feet, embarrassed. Rome.

  Of course he’d see me making a mess.

  God, I hate myself right now.

  “Thanks.” I brush the hair out of my eyes, swiping it away, face flaming red. When and

  if I bumped into him again, this was not the impression I would have wanted to make.

  “Busy being productive, I see? That six-month clock is ticking.” He’s referencing to the

  amount of time he thinks it will take me to fail; go out of business.

  Ugh, what an unsupportive asshole. I have tried, tried and tried, to wipe his unfair

  assessment to myself. If there was anyone I wanted to be in my corner, it was this man who

  built his own business from the ground up incredibly well. But alas . . . asshole.

  Rome hands me another napkin from another table, just as I’m wiping my palms on the

  leg of my yoga pants. Awesome, I’m a mess today.

  Our fingers touch when I take the linen from his hands, our eyes meeting briefly.

  “Thanks.”

  He has no reply, damn him, so I sit back down, rearranging my little corner of the coffee

  shop, folders on the verge of falling off the table, too. I know he’s probably watching me

  with one of his unreadable expressions, as I fumble around, spine straight, determined to

  ignore him.

  Rome watches with an unreadable expression as I fumble around, spine straight,

  determined to ignore him.

  But also win his business.

  “Just come from working out?” He’s decked out in athletic apparel; the man is seriously

  a walking advertisement for what looks hot in athletic apparel. Just like he is in jeans. And

  in his gorgeous navy-blue suit.

  “Heading there after this pit stop.”

  “Caffeine before a workout? Isn’t that frowned upon?”

  What is he up to?

  He’s not holding a coffee, and he’s making no move to head toward the cash register.

  Plus, him standing here, looking so damn delicious and ready to get sweaty is getting me all

  hot and bothered.

  “Would you like to sit down?” There is one empty chair at this teeny table, and I give it a

  little nudge with the toe of my shoe as an offering.

  Surprisingly, he takes it, pulling it the rest of the way out and parking his firm ass

  opposite me.

  Huh. Imagine that.

  His platinum eyes survey the coffee shop before settling on me, his irises steely and

  unnervingly astute. I have a feeling he’s noticing everything about his surroundings,

  including me.

  “Other than you dropping shit all over the floor, how’s it been going?” Rome crosses his

  arms and leans back in the chair; not far enough to tip it, but more casual than I’ve ever

  seen him before.

  I like this side of him.

  He seems . . . at ease. And he’s asking me questions about myself—which is so unlike

  him.

  “It’s been good.” I sound way too chipper and have to tone it down a notch or he’ll know

  I’m full of shit. “I mean, it’s a little slow to start, but I’m just starting to reach out to people.”

  Sixty—give or take—with zero replies, because I had no leads going into this “self-

  employed” gig. Just a leap of faith and some money in the bank to get me started. Obviously I don’t mention this.

  Rome nods. “Economy might be on an upswing, but starting from the ground up always

  is a disadvantage.”

  Now I nod—like I know what the hell he’s talking about.

  “That’s true.”

  “It’ll get better. Just don’t take the first no at face value.”

  “Is that so? Because you were my first no.” And second no, and third. Probably my

  fourth no, too, if I put him on the spot right now and ask him for a chance at his marketing

  department.

  I’m not a sadist, so I don’t bother to ask.

  Not yet.

  We sit in silence and Rome’s attention turns toward the window, out toward the street

  he just came from and together we watch the people outside on the busy street.

  I adjust myself in my seat, waiting for him to say something.

  “You’re not even going to ask, are you?”

  “Ask what?”

  He directs his steely gaze in my direction. “About the job.”

  “What job?”

  “The marketing consulting position.”

  I repeat those four words in my head, drawing a blank. “I have no idea what you’re

  talking about. Is someone hiring? Because I’m done working in an office, you know that.”

  “The marketing position at Roam, Inc.”

  They’ve never had a consulting position. Of course they create one once I’m freaking

  g
one. “Oh.”

  “That’s all you have to say?”

  “What am I supposed to say?”

  “You’re supposed to ask if you can have it.”

  “But I don’t know what it is.”

  “It’s the new women’s campaign. It needs direction and a fresh set of eyes.”

  Is he saying what I think he’s saying? “What is it you’re saying, Rome? Be specific.”

  In typical Rome Blackburn fashion, he’s tight-lipped again, choosing his words slowly,

  one at a time before spitting them out like most people do.

  Then. He rolls his eyes. “Just ask.”

  I want to. But I’m afraid to.

  It’s been a really long, shitty day, and I just spilled water all over my damn self, and the

  floor, and sent out a jillion emails that are sure to be rejected, and I don’t know if I can

  handle him rejecting me, too.

  Nonetheless, a sliver of hope springs up in my chest. It leaps when he raises his brows

  expectantly.

  “Rome. Are you willing to give me a chance at designing a campaign for your new

  women’s line?”

  He pretends to think about it, mulling over an answer. “Maybe. I’ll think about it.”

  Eyes widen in annoyance.

  “You jerk.” The words fly out of my mouth before I can stop them because—what the

  hell? He did that on purpose.

  But the room seems to still because Rome Blackburn does something I’ve never seen

  him do in the five years I worked for him. He laughs.

  A belly laugh so deep and throaty . . . holy shit, does it sound incredible, I mean—wow.

  Just. Wow.

  He laughs—at me, no less—shoulders shaking a little, white teeth flashing. Perfect lips

  tipped into an actual smile that has me staring rudely at his mouth.

  I don’t know what to even say; he’s that good-looking when he laughs. And the sound . .

  .

  “The look on your face right now.” He chuckles. “It’s priceless.”

  That’s because you’re so damn hot, I want to say. It has nothing to do with the job he’s

  clearly going to offer me.

  “Is that why you’re here? Did you come looking for me?”

  His head tilts. “Possibly.”

  My chin notches up a bit. “Don’t waste my valuable time by playing games or I’ll say no

  based on principle.”

  His smile fades back into the impassive mask I’m used to seeing. “Fine. You’re right. I’m

  here to offer you the contract.”

  Holy shit.

  Holy shit.

  Breathe, Peyton, breathe.

  Why am I so uncool? Why can’t I hide my emotions and feelings better, because right

  now I want to leap out of my chair and do fist pumps in the middle of the coffee shop—and I

  have no idea how much the contract is even worth.

  I want it.

  I need it. The job I mean—not sex.

  Did I say sex? Why would I be thinking about that? This is a business meeting, clearly.

  “So, let me get this straight; you’re here to offer me the contract. You came here, hoping

  to reel me in.” I’m baiting him to see what he’ll say.

  Rome scoffs. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  His lips purse. “You need a job.”

  “Oh, you’re a philanthropist now, helping the newly unemployed and gainfully climbing

  their way to the top from the ground up? How magnanimous of you. No thanks, I’ll pass.”

  “Suit yourself.” His mouth says the words, but his ass doesn’t leave the chair.

  My eyes narrow. “Why are you doing this? Why can’t you just suck up your pride and

  admit that you need me, and that’s why you’re here?” I take a deep breath and collect

  myself. “You’ve got a lot of pride, but I do, too. And it’s not going to allow me to take a job

  that you couldn’t even bring yourself to offer me. I refuse to force your hand—so if you need

  me—like I suspect you do, then now is the time to say it.”

  I give my head a little tip. Go on, I encourage him as if he’s a child. Say it, don’t be shy.

  Mr. Grumpypants is slow on the uptake, but he considers my words. I can see them

  spinning in his brain, his jaw ticking and moving as he thinks. Maybe he’s even grinding his

  teeth a little. It’s so hard to tell.

  “Peyton.” Just my name.

  One word.

  “Yes, Mr. Blackburn. Sir.” I give him my sweetest smile, knowing he hates being

  addressed as either.

  He moves his jaw back and forth, and then it hits me hard in the chest. “You need me more.”

  Shit.

  Can he see the desperation in my eyes, the nerves shaking my hands? Does he know I’ve

  contacted company after company looking for business without a response?

  Either way, I’m pulling an Elizabeth Bennet and putting on my too-proud pantaloons.

  “Maybe”—I tilt my chin in the air—“but I’m willing to turn you down just to prove a

  point. You’re not willing to sacrifice your new line. That’s why you’re here.”

  I hold my breath, my boldness getting the best of me.

  Boldness or stubborn personality?

  Maybe a little bit of both.

  His lips thin into a contemplative line as he lets out a long, irritated breath. “You really

  know how to push my buttons, do you know that?”

  “I do.” I do indeed. Don’t smile. Don’t you dare smile.

  Rome’s nostrils flare. “I’d like to offer you the marketing position for the women’s

  outdoor collection.”

  “Me?” I demure.

  “Jesus Christ, could you—”

  “I’m joking. Relax. Man, you’re wound up so tight.”

  He’s not amused, and pushes himself up out of the wooden chair across from me, rising

  to his full height. “I’ll have Lauren email you the details.”

  I stand too, thinking it would be a good idea to end our impromptu meeting with a

  handshake.

  I stick my hand out.

  He stares at it. I wiggle my fingers until he takes the hint, and slides his palm against mine. Pumps my

  hand once and releases it, stepping back to leave—but not before a thousand bolts of

  electricity shoot through my entire body.

  Whoa.

  He shivers.

  “Uh, just one more thing before you go.”

  He turns toward me. “What’s that?”

  “I . . . work remotely, so I wouldn’t be coming into the office unless it was for meeting

  with the entire marketing staff. I think creative juices flow better in a creative environment.”

  “Places like”—he gestures around—“this?”

  I grin. He’s such an ass. “Exactly.”

  “So you’ll be taking meetings here, with whom exactly?”

  Whom. He’s so adorably stiff.

  “Why . . . I’ll be taking my meetings with you.”

  CHAPTER 18

  ROME

  “How’d the meeting go? Did you lure her in?”

  “I didn’t need to lure her in; she was happy to have the opportunity.”

  Hunter laughs—he knows I’m full of complete crap. “Bullshit. She probably told you to

  fuck off.”

  Not in those exact words, but yeah. Basically. “It did take some convincing.”

  “Well, what the hell happened?” Hunter pops a salsa-coated chip in his mouth. With my tequila pinched between my fingers, I lean back in my chair and think back to

  my conversation with Peyton.

  She was a hot mess, knocking d
rinks over, pulling out her cords while tripping

  everywhere—but fuck if her ass framed in those black yoga pants didn’t do something to me.

  I was reminded just how much I want to bang her.

  How much I want to shut that sassy mouth of hers with my lips.

  How much I want to pin her against the wall and pop open one of her godforsaken

  blouses just to finally see what’s underneath.

  I might have been pissed about the emails; I might have been pissed that I succumbed

  to admitting that Roam, Inc. needs her help, and I might hate that I still want her just as

  badly as I did before—but what’s making all of this tolerable is the knowledge that she needs

  me, too.

  She needs me.

  It’s a heady aphrodisiac. I wish I could bottle it up and sell that shit along with my tents,

  gear, and travel products.

  Peyton needs me. I could see it in her eyes as she studied me warily; the concern, the

  disillusionment, the overcompensation. I saw past the smoke she was trying to throw at

  me—she could try and sell the fact that her life is so much better after she’s left Roam, Inc.,

  but I fucking know better.

  Her business is already tanking and needs me.

  A small part of me wanted to teach her a lesson by getting up from the table and

  walking away—not offering her the job at all. “I’m willing to turn you down just to prove a

  point. You’re not willing to sacrifice your new line. That’s why you’re here.”

  I hate that she’s right. Annoys the absolute shit out of me.

  “I’m waiting,” Hunter singsongs, taking a sip of his giant frozen margarita, rimmed with

  sugar rather than salt. It’s a good thing the guy tests out adventure equipment for a living.

  “What?”

  “You were about to tell me how Peyton told you to fly a kite, and how you had to beg.”

  “When was the last time I begged for something?”

  Hunter pauses, giving it some serious thought. Snaps his fingers. “Eighth grade—you

  begged me to call Savannah Goodrich and pretend to be you, so she’d leave you alone at the

  dance.”

  “Savannah Goodrich was a clingy bitch.”

  “Dude, speaking of bitchy; you were so whiny.”

  “Whatever—we were thirteen, let it go. I don’t remember you calling anyone pretending

  to be me.”

  Which is a crock full of shit; I remember it like it was yesterday—me, being afraid of a

  teenage girl that had a huge crush on me, and not wanting her to follow me around the