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)
Rome Blackburn looked . . . interested.
Or maybe that’s just the fog from the alcohol that hasn’t lifted?
Guh.
Or maybe he was interested in the little diddy I put on today. I smooth the thick fabric across my legs cringing from polyester blech that is hugging me in all the wrong places.
Yup, pretty sure he was more interested in what the hell I was wearing than in me.
I pound away at my laptop, configuring pixels and tweaking target audiences on a few posts. Yawn. Check the clock, then check my email.
Like I do every morning, I scroll through them, my finger running down the left side of my monitor, fingertip touching on every new message so I don’t miss anything important. I go through them one at a time, deleting the ones that are trash, or assigning them to a file folder.
From: Rome Blackburn.
I pause.
Heart immediately kicks into overdrive.
What the hell . . .
Oh shit, Gen added the fake email address to my Outlook profile.
Wait.
Holy shit—he replied.
He freaking replied.
Relax, Peyton, he’s delivering a scolding.
Don’t open it, don’t open it, don’t open it . . .
No good can come of this.
None.
If he found out the original email came from me, my shit and my ass would be on the front sidewalk.
Going out on your own requires money, and I need these next eleven days. I need this extra paycheck.
I shouldn’t open it. Maybe he has a tracking device on the email that will announce who opened it. Is that a thing? No, can’t be. Gen would have thought about that, right?
My teeth rake over my bottom lip, contemplating.
Should I?
No, you really shouldn’t.
But . . .
Fuck it.
I click open the email, face flaming hot red as I read. Neck too. My skin is on fire.
But . . .
My eyes can’t read fast enough. A typed-out lashing full of reprimand, the type of email that should scare me.
And yet, I latch on to his very last sentence—the postscript—rereading it with a smirk: You were obviously inebriated when you composed the email, and it was the result of alcohol.
How very wrong he is.
I was drunk, but I knew damn well what I was doing when I wrote that email—at least I think I did. The alcohol gave me the courage to do what I’ve been wanting to do for ages.
What do you say to that?
You’re drunk, so you didn’t mean it . . . is that what he’s alluding to?
I was drunk last night—I think everyone on the marketing floor has realized that given my appearance today—but what I said, I meant.
I want to bang him so bad.
Accurate. So freaking accurate. Even in the break room, when insults were rolling off his tongue with ease, I wanted to tear that tie from his neck and lick his collarbone, straight-up gnaw on the damn thing.
I bite down on my bottom lip, taking off half the gloss Gen smeared on my mouth to make me look presentable. My cursor floats above the REPLY button.
I really shouldn’t.
Click it.
Ooops. Slippery finger.
Hesitate.
Linger.
Picking up my phone, I dial Genevieve, because what the hell am I doing, flirting with writing him back? It’s unprofessional, and he already made his feelings on the subject loud and clear.
Gen answers on the first ring. “Hold on.” I hear her chair creaking and then it’s quiet, the sound of her door clicking closed in the background. “Okay. Go. Talk to me.”
“He answered back.” I whisper so no one can hear me in the cubicle next door.
“Read it to me. Slowly.”
“To Whom It May Concern . . .”
She interrupts with an undignified sputter. “To Whom It May Concern? Who says that?”
“Well, I did, in my first letter.”
“And I didn’t agree with it then either. It sounds stupid.”
I sigh, irritated. “Are you going to keep interrupting? Let’s just assume you’re going to hate the entire letter, okay?”
Jeez.
“Fine. Continue.”
“To Whom It May Concern.” I clear my throat. “As you’ve probably realized, you’ve caused quite a stir with your little declaration. It was unprofessional and could be misconstrued as assault, which I’m sure wasn’t your intention. I’ve held off responding, mostly because there is nothing to say; this nonissue will be dealt with by human resources in partnership with IT, and when they find you . . . you’ll be fired. Your boss, Rome Blackburn.
“Postscript: You were obviously inebriated when you composed the email, and it was the result of alcohol.”
She’s silent for a moment before saying, “Did he actually write the word postscript? Or did you read it as that?”
A small smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. Freaking Rome and his formalities. For some reason, it’s endearing that he actually wrote out the word postscript.
“He wrote it out.”
“What a tool.” She lets out a long sigh.
“He’s not a tool.” My voice is a harsh whisper. “He’s refined.”
Looking back at it, there is no real content in his email, just a basic HR response, very political, very . . . bossy pants Rome.