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)
“Yes, Mr. Blackburn.” Flicking an apologetic look my way, his assistant stands, hastening to do his bidding, guiding me hastily to the elevators twenty feet in front of her desk, hands on my shoulders, propelling me forward.
“I’m so sorry. We’ll talk more later,” she whispers, her ruby-red nail poking at the down button; the doors automatically slide open, revealing the interior black and chrome walls.
Stepping in, I turn around and press my floor button, four levels down.
“Human Resources first, Ms. Fancy Pants,” Rome calls out the reminder with a smirk. “It’s that way.”
He points toward the ceiling.
Jerk.
Tall, with wide shoulders and a tapered waist, the best part about him is his broody demeanor. I am attracted to it like bees to honey; it intrigues me to no end.
As the doors of the elevator begin to shut, Rome steps into view, hands tucked into the pockets of his perfectly pressed trousers as he watches me, scowl etched across his beautiful dark brows.
Just because I feel the need to be pleasant—despite how rude he’s treated me—I mouth the words, “Thank you, Mr. Blackburn,” as the door slides closed in front of me.
I smile to myself, knowing I had the last word.
Smile as the door shuts me in.
Only when they close do my shoulders slump, and I lean against the wall for support, letting out a ragged breath.
Giving your two-weeks’ notice is difficult enough—giving it directly to a man like that?
Harder.
That could have gone better.
It went nothing like I imagined when I played out the scenario in my mind. Or when I rehearsed the speech I was going to give to my dog, a rescue mutt I named Scott, because I think it’s hilarious giving my pets people names.
“Scott and Mr. Blackburn. Thanks so much for seeing me today, I know your time is valuable.” I cleared my throat. “Oh, what’s that? You like my skirt? (giggle) Thank you so much. I picked it out just for you.”
But he hadn’t liked my skirt; he’d made fun of it. I’d stuttered over myself, hadn’t been able to give him my pitch, and fallen flat on my face.
I had visions of how much better that could have been. Dreams actually.
Praise and gratitude were supposed to be thrown my way. Excitement for a new partnership. For growth. Maybe some high fives, a few professional handshakes, or a fist bump to seal the deal.
I adjust my tweed tight-fitting pencil skirt, feeling the hug of the fabric—and slit up the back, allowing for some breathing room—then I pluck open the top two buttons of my stifling shirt.
Embarrassed from the gauntlet I just ran through, I make my way back to my small office, which is really just a glorified cubicle, passing many onlooking and incredibly nosey coworkers.
Leave the door open.
Squeaky wheels adjust against the plastic chair mat that protects the carpet of the office, rolling forward as I sit down. Leaning forward, I grip my forehead with one of my hands and replay the meeting over and over in my head.
Rome Blackburn’s casual, yet intimidating stance. The pinch of his long fingers as he fiddled with that damn pen. The taper of his waist of his well-tailored pants as he watched the elevator doors close on me. The simple mess of his hair, pushed in all different directions, as if moments ago he was pulling on the silky brown strands, making a decision for the Fortune 500 company he’s created from the ground up.
And those eyes.
Dark brows hooded over pools of complex silver—not blue, not gray . . . silver—that for once, I’d been close enough to discover the color of.
They grew a darker mossy color as he became more irritated with me.
With me.
Ugh.
Rome Blackburn is callous, brash, and calculating. Yet, in that brief moment we stared at each other, I saw it—a fleeting look of vulnerability behind his tough exterior.
A glimmer of—
Knock, knock.
Before I even look up to see who’s tapping on the wall of my cubicle, I know it’s my best friend, Genevieve.
“Well. How did it go?” Genevieve works in IT, the technical side of Roam, Inc and has been incredibly supportive of me leaving the company to start my own branding and consulting firm.
Gen sits on a small filing cabinet in my office, smooth legs crossed and ready to listen.
Spinning slowly in my chair, I angle toward her. Purse my lips. “How do you think it went?”
Her face contorts. “I’m going to guess not so well?” She phrases it like a question. “Mr. Blackburn doesn’t seem like an understanding guy. He’s too pissed off all the time.”
Understatement of the year.
“God, Gen, I wussed out so hard. I’m so embarrassed—and I didn’t even get to talk about my idea or my plans.” I shake my head. “What the hell was I thinking? Rome Blackburn legit cut me off before I could even get my words out of my mouth.” I laugh some more, finding the meeting more comical with each passing breath.