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)
I hate to admit it, but I’m going to miss this commute. A little. There’s something about stopping by the corner bodega to pick up your favorite bagel and coffee on the way into work, scanning your key card to make it through the doors, and then making your way into an overcrowded elevator to join the hustle and bustle of the city.
But on the other hand, there’s nothing like working in your underwear, on your couch, in your home.
Thankfully my favorite bakery isn’t too busy, so I’m in and out in minutes, warm quiche in hand. I waste no time in slinking out of my dress, slipping off my bra—yes, that feels good—and throwing on my Whitney Houston T-shirt that falls to mid-thigh.
I hop on my couch, pop open a La Croix I got from the bakery, and break open my quiche.
Ahh, this is life.
Did I mention I’m a sucker for playing cribbage? I have an app on my phone, and there is nothing I want more than to kick my legs back and play a few games.
I open the app just as an email sounds off on my phone. An email from Rome.
An email for LSY.
Oooo, someone is working late.
Snuggling in close, quiche plate resting on my knee, I open up the email.
To: HandsRomingMyBody@RoamInc.com
From: RomeBlackburn@RoamInc.com
**Flexes Fingers** I would be nervous if I were you, LSY. Do you know why? Because I’m relentless and the moment you open the floodgate for questions is the moment I figure out who you are, and I’m still partial to firing your sexy little ass.
Are you sure you want to tempt me?
I bite on my finger, reading his message over and over. He’s so playful, that it makes my heart skip a beat and my common sense fly out the window.
I open the company messenger app on my phone and scroll through the executive names, knowing full well I’m about to break a policy. It’s the company’s phone, and the company’s app, and I’m about to use it for personal use. To flirt.
With my boss.
I close my eyes, find his name—next to it is a little, green dot, which means. . .
He’s on the app.
I’ve never talked to him live before so this is a huge step, but then again, it might be more fun to get his initial reactions to my comments.
Debating it for all but two seconds, I type out a message to him, making sure I’m signed on under my LSY persona.
HandsRomingMyBody: Hey you.
My text turns into a new message on the app and I wait on bated breath to see if he will respond. Nerves prickle up my spine, my fingers feeling numb, my mind playing mutiny with my heart just as little dots appear letting me know he’s typing.
Oh God, I don’t think I’ve been more excited.
I stuff a giant bite of quiche in my mouth as his message comes across the screen.
God, I am so giddy seeing his name pop up, it does all kinds of things to my body.
RomeBlackburn: Christ, messenger box pop-up scared the shit out of me when it dinged.
I laugh out loud and hunker down to message him back.
HandsRomingMyBody: Concentrating a little too hard?
RomeBlackburn: Hunter O’Rourke’s fucking reports (pardon my French) are going to be the death of me. Why are you still working late? If I go to each floor, will I find you hunkered down in your cubicle?
HandsRomingMyBody: Don’t get too excited. I’m home. Just checking my work emails like a good employee would. **pats self on the back**
RomeBlackburn: Yeah? And what kind of work emails are you answering?
HandsRomingMyBody: Yours. If you want a break, I’m free to answer any questions you might have.
RomeBlackburn: Why don’t you call me? That will be more fun.
There is no way in hell I’m going to let him call me—he would totally recognize my voice.
HandsRomingMyBody: Nice try. It’s either questions here or no questions at all.
RomeBlackburn: It’s almost like you want to get caught.
HandsRomingMyBody: Maybe I do . . .
RomeBlackburn: Fine. What’s your name?
HandsRomingMyBody: Don’t be dense. You know I’m not answering that. Come on, be creative, Rome. I know you have it in you. Drop the CEO title for a second and be a guy who’s just talking to a pretty girl.
RomeBlackburn: Way to hit me in a soft spot.
HandsRomingMyBody: Well . . .
RomeBlackburn: What are you wearing?
HandsRomingMyBody: Typical guy question. **rolls eyes** But if you must know, a vintage Whitney Houston shirt that touches me mid-thigh and panties. It may or not have a few holes.
RomeBlackburn: I’m going to need proof.
I inwardly roll my eyes and think about it for a long, hard second. Should I send him a picture?
If I lay back a little bit more, I probably could get a good shot of my legs barely covered by my shirt.
Just enough to drive Rome Blackburn crazy.