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)
“The marketing position at Roam, Inc.”
They’ve never had a consulting position. Of course they create one once I’m freaking gone.
“Oh.”
“That’s all you have to say?”
“What am I supposed to say?”
“You’re supposed to ask if you can have it.”
“But I don’t know what it is.”
“It’s the new women’s campaign. It needs direction and a fresh set of eyes.”
Is he saying what I think he’s saying? “What is it you’re saying, Rome? Be specific.”
In typical Rome Blackburn fashion, he’s tight-lipped again, choosing his words slowly, one at a time before spitting them out like most people do.
Then. He rolls his eyes. “Just ask.”
I want to. But I’m afraid to.
It’s been a really long, shitty day, and I just spilled water all over my damn self, and the floor, and sent out a jillion emails that are sure to be rejected, and I don’t know if I can handle him rejecting me, too.
Nonetheless, a sliver of hope springs up in my chest. It leaps when he raises his brows expectantly.
“Rome. Are you willing to give me a chance at designing a campaign for your new women’s line?”
He pretends to think about it, mulling over an answer. “Maybe. I’ll think about it.”
Eyes widen in annoyance.
“You jerk.” The words fly out of my mouth before I can stop them because—what the hell? He did that on purpose.
But the room seems to still because Rome Blackburn does something I’ve never seen him do in the five years I worked for him.
He laughs.
A belly laugh so deep and throaty . . . holy shit, does it sound incredible, I mean—wow.
Just. Wow.
He laughs—at me, no less—shoulders shaking a little, white teeth flashing. Perfect lips tipped into an actual smile that has me staring rudely at his mouth.
I don’t know what to even say; he’s that good-looking when he laughs. And the sound . . .
“The look on your face right now.” He chuckles. “It’s priceless.”
That’s because you’re so damn hot, I want to say. It has nothing to do with the job he’s clearly going to offer me.
“Is that why you’re here? Did you come looking for me?”
His head tilts. “Possibly.”
My chin notches up a bit. “Don’t waste my valuable time by playing games or I’ll say no based on principle.”
His smile fades back into the impassive mask I’m used to seeing. “Fine. You’re right. I’m here to offer you the contract.”
Holy shit.
Holy shit.
Breathe, Peyton, breathe.
Why am I so uncool? Why can’t I hide my emotions and feelings better, because right now I want to leap out of my chair and do fist pumps in the middle of the coffee shop—and I have no idea how much the contract is even worth.
I want it.
I need it.
The job I mean—not sex.
Did I say sex? Why would I be thinking about that? This is a business meeting, clearly.
“So, let me get this straight; you’re here to offer me the contract. You came here, hoping to reel me in.” I’m baiting him to see what he’ll say.
Rome scoffs. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
“Then why are you here?”
His lips purse. “You need a job.”
“Oh, you’re a philanthropist now, helping the newly unemployed and gainfully climbing their way to the top from the ground up? How magnanimous of you. No thanks, I’ll pass.”
“Suit yourself.” His mouth says the words, but his ass doesn’t leave the chair.
My eyes narrow. “Why are you doing this? Why can’t you just suck up your pride and admit that you need me, and that’s why you’re here?” I take a deep breath and collect myself. “You’ve got a lot of pride, but I do, too. And it’s not going to allow me to take a job that you couldn’t even bring yourself to offer me. I refuse to force your hand—so if you need me—like I suspect you do, then now is the time to say it.”
I give my head a little tip. Go on, I encourage him as if he’s a child. Say it, don’t be shy.
Mr. Grumpypants is slow on the uptake, but he considers my words. I can see them spinning in his brain, his jaw ticking and moving as he thinks. Maybe he’s even grinding his teeth a little. It’s so hard to tell.
“Peyton.” Just my name.
One word.
“Yes, Mr. Blackburn. Sir.” I give him my sweetest smile, knowing he hates being addressed as either.
He moves his jaw back and forth, and then it hits me hard in the chest. “You need me more.”
Shit.
Can he see the desperation in my eyes, the nerves shaking my hands? Does he know I’ve contacted company after company looking for business without a response?
Either way, I’m pulling an Elizabeth Bennet and putting on my too-proud pantaloons.
“Maybe”—I tilt my chin in the air—“but I’m willing to turn you down just to prove a point. You’re not willing to sacrifice your new line. That’s why you’re here.”