Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 86573 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86573 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Your boss,
Rome Blackburn.
Postscript: You were obviously inebriated when you composed the email, and it was the result of alcohol.
There.
Professional. To the point. Authoritative?
I’m the boss; I’m in control, not some mystery woman who probably works in the damn mailroom.
* * *
What the hell am I doing here?
I tell myself it’s because I need a firmer grasp on my company.
Not for any other reason.
None.
I don’t usually find myself on the lower floors; mostly because I hole up in my office, head down, hands clicking away at my keyboard. Or I’m on the phone, taking important calls.
I have no reason to venture anywhere but my office, bathroom, boardroom, or break room for coffee—and it’s Lauren’s job to fetch that for me.
But here I am.
And I feel like a tiger, pacing the aisles of the marketing department, slowly stalking up the middle of cubicles, tight-lipped smile and a nod to anyone who glances in my direction.
Anyone scattering like a rat to move out of my way.
“Hello, Mr. Blackburn.”
“Oh. Oh, uh, Mr. Blackburn. Uh, Rome. Uh. Mr. . . .”
“I’m just preparing that file for you, sir. I . . . I didn’t forget, I . . .”
A few papers go flying.
Loud coughing.
More than one folder rises as a disguise.
What am I dealing with here? A department full of pussies? Christ.
I scan the aisle, thirty-something cubicles—some empty, most of them occupied—one by one, examining every face staring back at me. Staring for . . . anything.
A sign.
A tell.
Glimmer of a guilty expression.
For her.
She’s here, in this department, I can taste it.
I wet my lips, smiling at George Flanders, my longest in-house ad exec. George might be a floundering old-timer, but his wife makes fucking great pie.
A perverted joke Hunter once told me about “slicing pie” comes to mind and I chuckle, rounding the corner to the break room. Every floor has one; a nice-sized tile room with a fridge, a few booths, sink, counter, microwave, coffeepot, and Keurig. Plenty of snacks and bagels brought in every Friday by a vending distributor.
I shove through the heavy door and pop my head in, then settle my eyes on the young woman in the corner, magazine raised to her face, one hand holding a sandwich. Her oversized dress is a hideous hue of olive-brown, an outdated article I’ve only seen in old movies. A can of sparkling water is on the table in front of her, and she doesn’t hear me enter the room and lean against the counter.
I regard her, my gaze sweeping up her crossed legs, to the puffy fold of her giant dress sleeves circling her elbows. Who the hell is she?
And why is she dressed like that?
I’ve walked around my company enough to know no one dresses like this.
Not that it really matters . . . but . . . shoulder pads.
She doesn’t acknowledge me when I clear my throat.
I push off and make a show of brewing a quick cup of coffee. I don’t need one; I’ve had three already, but it’s busy work. To get her attention.
Still.
Nothing.
What the hell do I have to do to get this chick’s attention? Detonate a bomb? And why the hell am I even trying?
“Nice weather we’re having.” Lame.
“Mmm . . .” she mutters.
“I could pitch a tent right here in this room,” I groan.
Her magazine rustles as she flips a page. “Yeah . . .”
“Man, Mr. Blackburn sure is a prick.”
Snort. Laugh. “Yeah.”
Ah. Now we’re getting somewhere.
“Did you see that tie he had on yesterday?”
She takes a drink from her water. “He wasn’t wearing a tie yesterday.” The magazine flutters.
Well. That’s interesting. “He wasn’t?”
She ignores me in a way that only Hunter does.
“What do you think was in the email that got him so fired up?”
Slowly, the pages of her magazine still, and it lowers, her dark eyes boring holes into me as they come into contact with mine. I watch as her cheeks flush, eyes widen in horror, and teeth nibble at her bottom lip.
Peyton?
Peyton in a way I haven’t seen her before: messy and rumpled, looking a little worse for wear, makeup slightly smudged—or what makeup she does have on—clothes wrinkled. I don’t know what the hell that dress is, or where she would have found it, but it’s fucking horrible and should be lit on fire.
I let this awkward moment between us stretch, giving her an opportunity to string a sentence together and salvage the moment.
She doesn’t.
She sits there, stunned.
Gawks.
Mouth open wide in disbelief like a carp fish.
I suppress my smirk. “Good morning.”
“Morning.” Her voice croaks.
“Rough night?”
Her reply is a wane smile that only tips one side of her face. Wobbly?
She’s definitely hungover.
She should be drinking coffee to wake herself the fuck up, not water.
“I’d appreciate in the future if you call in and take half a personal rather than come to the office looking like . . .” I let the implication settle, noting with satisfaction that she squirms in her chair. “Then again, you’re leaving in . . . what’s the countdown at now? Seven days? Six?”