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)
Peyton clears her throat. “Eleven.”
I lean against the counter while my coffee brews, arms crossed. “Eleven.” I let the number roll off my tongue. “From the hungover look you’re sporting this morning, seems like you’re regretting your decision of leaving such a powerful company.”
That straightens her shoulders . . . her well-padded shoulders.
“I have zero regrets.” She folds her magazine, sets down her sandwich, and clasps her hands together. Folds them neatly in front of her. “I’m quite excited for my new endeavor, if you must know.”
I shake my head and snag my coffee. “I don’t want to know actually. What I do want to know is why you’re lounging in the break room, reading a magazine, and eating a sandwich when it’s not”—I glance at my gold watch—“even ten in the morning.”
Her eyes bounce back and forth. Caught. Red-handed. She bites on the side of her cheek and just when I think she’s about to apologize profusely, she straightens her shoulders, brings her sandwich to her mouth, and takes a huge bite from the middle.
Mustard decorates her upper lip, and a piece of turkey dangles past the bread as she speaks. “If you would really like to know, I fancied myself a mid-morning turkey sandwich snack.” She stands and folds her magazine under her arm. Picking up her water, she addresses me with a shake of her sandwich. “Now, if you don’t mind, I need to down the rest of this delightful turkey yum-yum and make my way to my cubicle. Someone has to do some marketing around here.”
Full of confidence, looking prideful as fuck, she brushes past me, water dripping from loose strands of her hair as if she just emerged from a shower.
I watch her retreat, a bit of a hot mess if I’m being brutally honest.
What the hell was she doing this morning, getting dressed in the damn dark?
And why is she owning it like she’s working the runway?
Ass swivels.
Shoulders sway.
Then there’s a hitch in her step, and she stumbles over her own damn feet.
But, she catches herself. Shoulders high again, she disappears behind a wall.
I twist my lips to the side, remembering her words. Someone has to do the marketing around here.
Fucking cocky woman.
If I wasn’t intrigued to find out what she might wear on Monday—another ankle-length trench coat perhaps—I’d fire her ass.
She’s not the only one in the marketing department.
Taking a sip of my coffee, I turn out of the break room and head the opposite direction, one thought weighing on my mind: when Peyton leaves, will I be losing an insulting hot mess, or is she actually a vital part of my company?
Chapter Seven
PEYTON
I can’t believe the bastard insulted me.
Okay, fine—yes, I can—I just can’t believe he did it to my face. That’s another lie. The guy is an asshole; of course he’s going to insult me to my face.
I hustle to the desk that’s only mine for eleven more days, roll the chair out, and plop down and settle in, hands already poised at the keyboard before sliding my chair in.
A resentful “hmph” leaves my throat as I listen to my computer purr, going through the motions: check the company’s social media; add hashtags to a Facebook post; three more to Instagram, and a new photo to the story; add buy links for a sleeping bag to the swipe-up feature.
I make myself a note to have a photo shoot scheduled for the new women’s apparel line; they’re ridiculously cute layering pieces that leave me disappointed I won’t be receiving a discount when the brand offshoot launches.
My lower lip pouts for a few seconds.
I’m going to miss this place—not just my friends and the people I work with, but the actual job. It’s been a great place to work, despite upper management.
Or because of him?
Rome Blackburn might be a dick, but he’s created something wonderful here, which means he actually does give a shit, despite the blasé attitude and biting remarks. Roam, Inc. is innovative, modern, and fast-paced. The facility is beautiful; rustic without being over the top. Sleek without being sterile. Break rooms on every floor. Clean. Food delivered every week and stocked in the fridge. My favorite thing to do is sit at a table in the corner break room and graze.
Except this morning; what the hell was Rome doing? He was the last person I expected to see when I set down my magazine, although shame on me for not recognizing his voice. I’m supposed to have a huge crush on him. How did I not know it was him?
Shameful.
He was as stunned as I was to see me sitting there; I could see it in his eyes. Oh, he hid it well enough with a practiced neutral expression, but there was no disguising the flicker of shock when our eyes met.