Love Sincerely Yours Read online

  Published by Hot-Lanta Publishing, LLC

  Copyright 2018

  Cover Design By: RBA Designs

  Cover Model: Fabian Castro

  Photo Credit: Rafa Catala

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. To obtain permission to excerpt portions of the text, please contact the author at [email protected]

  All characters in this book are fiction and figments of the author’s imagination.

  www.authormeghanquinn.com

  Copyright © 2018 Meghan Quinn

  All rights reserved.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  PEYTON

  Vivian: God, why is he such an asshole?

  Kimberly: Don’t you think the better question is, “Poor George, why is he never prepared?”

  Peyton: George spends more time at the latte machine than his computer. That’s why. And look how jolly he is. Like a cute little Santa Claus . . .

  Vivian: Sigh. George’s wife makes the best apple pie.

  Kimberly: Oh crap, Vivian, look out. He’s coming for you.

  “Vivian, what came out of your test study?” A man’s voice cuts into our group chat and, unprepared, our coworker stumbles to pull her notes up on her iPad.

  Kimberly: Shit. Viv is a goner.

  Peyton: Oh I feel bad. She’s turning red.

  Kimberly: Yeah, Viv. You’re turning SO red.

  Peyton: Viv, you should see your ears . . .

  Kimberly: Maybe if the devil himself wasn’t breathing down her neck, she wouldn’t be sweating so much.

  Peyton: To be fair, we are in the middle of a meeting. She should be prepared, not pretending to take notes white chatting online.

  Kimberly: Look how irritated he is. His nostrils are flaring.

  Peyton: Yeah . . . look at his face. He looks like a dragon tempted to light the entire room on fire.

  I turn to study him from my position at the conference table, the long wooden slab a monolithic buffer between my boss and me. He’s at the head of the table, brandishing control and his silver tongue over the room like a sharp sword.

  No one is safe from his contempt.

  I watch as he reprimands my friend from the marketing department—her small office is two down from mine—laying both palms on the desk and leaning toward her.

  “I have no new ideas to work with here. How the fu—” He stops himself from cursing mid-sentence, pausing to take a deep breath and starting over. He then runs one of those large, masculine palms through his dark hair. “What the hell is it you do in your office all day? Stare out the damn windows waiting for inspiration? I want you outside for fuck’s sake. Go climb a goddamn mountain. This is an outdoor adventures company, for fuck’s sake. Go outdoors.”

  He pins a mammoth, brawny guy named Branson with a hard, emotionless stare. “Innovation is one of your jobs, Branson. Take a tent out, set the fucking thing up, and find a way to improve it.”

  He’s breathing hard. Pissed off.

  “Look. I know we’ve just come off the holiday season and everyone is beat, but if we don’t get some advances with our designs to boost sales, this fiscal year will end up being complete shit.”

  He drones on, his deep voice reverberating off the walls as we all sit silently, holding our breath.

  Vivian: Uh, hey guys? Do you think he still wants my notes?

  Kimberly: Fuck your notes, Viv. Don’t say another word unless your “notes” are actual notes.

  Peyton: Pretty sure you lost your moment before he stood up and starting pacing like a tiger at the zoo.

  Vivian: Thank God. I had nothing new to add.

  I watch across the table as Vivian slouches with relief, a sly smile playing across her bubblegum-painted lips. Her lithe fingers tap away at the iPad propped up on the table, and I know her next message isn’t to us.

  Kimberly: Do you not have notes because you were so focused on flirting with the guy online that has—how did you put it . . .

  Peyton: Meat steaks for pecs?

  Kimberly: Yeah, that guy. “Meat steak guy.”

  Vivian: I can’t be accountable for my actions. I have to flirt.

  Peyton: You don’t even know if he’s real.

  Vivian: Who cares if he’s real? He’s the perfect distraction.

  “I want everyone to crawl back to their hole of an office and pull an idea out of their ass by noon. This is the summer of ‘roughing it.’ Our target demographic—Harry can provide the data—is the millennial and the yuppy. If you don’t know what a yuppy is, google it. If you can’t figure out how to do that, clear the shit out of your desk.”

  At the mention of his name, Harry blanches, an unattractive contrast to the muddy-green color of his short-sleeve plaid shirt. His neck turns a muddy burgundy, which only serves to highlight the stubble his razor missed when he shaved this morning.

  Kimberly: Did you guys just see that? Harry wiped his brow. He’s legit sweating.

  Peyton: Yeah, I saw that—gross. He looks like he’s about to barf. You heard what happened though, right?

  Vivian: No, what happened?

  Peyton: Rumor has it, the ad copy he proofed for Mountain Man Magazine had three errors in it.

  Kimberly: NO IT DID NOT

  Vivian: THREE?? Ohhhh shitttttt . . .

  Peyton: Yes, three.

  Our boss levitates Harry with a pair of eyes so grey I squirm, though they’re not directed anywhere in my direction.

  Thank God.

  Bossman holds up three fingers.

  “How could you let three god—” He stops himself again, pushing his large hand through his thick, ruffled hair. “How could you let three errors get through proofing? You had one job, Harry. One. Keep us from looking illiterate.”

  He has a point; an ad has no more than one hundred words in it.

  “I’m so sorry, Rome. I, uh, had a headache that day.” Harry fidgets with the handkerchief in his hand. It was given to him by his wife, embroidered with his initials and a heart that’s gag-worthy sweet. Too bad he’s using it to wipe the nervous sweat pouring from his temples.

  It’s not a good look for Harry—or anyone for that matter.

  “You’re giving me a headache.” Bossman surrenders to his chair, head in his hand.

  “I’m sorry, Rome, I—”

  “No, Harold, I’m the
one who’s sorry.” His meaning couldn’t be more clear: I’m sorry I hired you. I regret it. I intend to fire you if you fuck up one more time. “There will be no second chances.”

  He straightens to his full height, addressing the room of minions.

  “For the love of all that’s holy, someone give me something by noon.”

  My fingers, about to tap out another message to my friends, cease their mission.

  It’s ten fifteen.

  He wants ideas by noon.

  I have an appointment with him at eleven.

  Shit.

  When my eyes go up from the small screen cradled in my hands, they connect with a set of steel-gray ones. Dark brows, an expressionless line. Full lips, impassive.

  He is so good-looking.

  Beautiful, even.

  Such a waste on a man so emotionally unattached.

  Still.

  When our eyes lock—a little too long to be coincidental—heat rises up my chest, neck, and then cheeks. It colors my entire face and has me reaching to press a palm there.

  It’s warm, too.

  I shiver.

  I have an appointment with him at eleven.

  And he isn’t going to like what I have to say.

  Chapter One

  ROME

  Why the fuck is she staring at me like that?

  She hasn’t said a goddamn word in—I check my watch—three minutes.

  Allowing the seconds to tick by despite her discomfort, or possibly because of it, I let the silence stretch in front of us unpleasantly long. Uncomfortable and challenging situations are what I do best, and I thrive on them.

  Tic.

  Tock.

  No worries, my sardonic smile says to her. I have plenty of time. An entire twenty minutes penciled in just for her, per her request, to sit here pissing away my precious time. Waiting for her to open that pretty mouth and speak her mind.

  Instead, she shifts in her seat, the gray skirt she’s unable to tug down hugging her hips. It’s tight and prim, complemented by a stark, white button-down shirt. Black glasses rest primly on the tip of her nose, the dark slash of eyebrows above their rims, raised in surprise.

  She doesn’t look like any marketing coordinator I’ve ever met, and I certainly had no idea there was someone who looked like her working for me. Under me.

  Four floors down.

  She looks like a goddamn accountant. Or secretary. Or the principal of an East Coast prep school.

  I swivel in my leather chair before plucking a pen off my desk and pinching it between my fingers, studying it with half-hooded eyes.

  Feign boredom.

  I’m anything but.

  Click the end cap once, twice, watching this woman’s large brown eyes track my movements from the other side of my mammoth desk. Her brows pinch, thinly veiled patience wearing thin.

  Peyton.

  Shit, when I saw her name in my appointment calendar, I assumed the person walking through the door would be male. Imagine my surprise when the delicate wrist gently knocking on my doorframe belonged to the woman seated at my conference table this morning.

  She was on her cell phone during that meeting. I’ll bet my right nut sac on it.

  I glance at the sheet of paper and stare at each letter of her name; I’ve never had a sit-down, or meeting, with this woman since she’s been with my company.

  Five years.

  Even with a solid track record for results—according to my secretary’s snooping—she’s never been in my office. Peyton something-or-other, whose last name I can’t fucking pronounce and won’t bother to try.

  Why bother? She has one prissy foot out the door of the company I built.

  I part my lips and put us both out of our misery. “Does your supervisor know you’re here?”

  “Not yet,” she begins, spine straightening, breasts straining against the starched shirt. “I wanted . . .” She pauses, inhaling a nervous breath.

  “Why didn’t you go to HR first? That’s protocol.”

  I like being direct. Favor bluntness over candy-coated bullshit, no matter what flavor someone is trying to feed me.

  “I wanted to give you my two-weeks’ notice in person. I thought it would be personable.”

  Personable.

  Is she fucking serious? Who does that?

  “You’re quitting. Do you think I give a shit about being personable?” Or polite? Or her trying to be considerate?

  Those traits have no place in this office.

  It’s an office, not a daycare center; we’re here to make money, not pander to hurt feelings.

  Another pause from Peyton before she shakily says, “I thought since it was your company, it would behoove me to not burn any bridges.”

  Behoove.

  Isn’t she just fucking adorable? I suddenly imagine her from a small town in the middle of nowhere USA, where parents teach their children manners and spend quality time together on the weekends. Family movie nights and all that feel-good bullshit.

  I snort, clicking my pen.

  Peyton. What kind of a name is that?

  A man’s name, that’s what.

  “You didn’t want to burn any bridges,” I repeat with a sneer, thumbing the cream-colored paper she set on my desk when she waltzed in. Her letter of resignation printed on résumé paper. “I don’t just burn bridges. I drain the rivers and fill them with concrete.”

  Then I go camping along the banks of the rivers remains; I own an outdoor adventure company, so finding a tent would be easy.

  Peyton’s mouth puckers, surprised or shocked or disgusted by my candor, I can’t tell.

  I skim the paper in my hands. “It doesn’t say where you’re headed next. Do you not need a letter of recommendation? Because I must say, Peyton”—I lean back in my chair, letting it squeak on its rusted, old hinges—“quitting is a piss-poor way of wringing one out of me.”

  Her head shakes, and the dark hair pulled back in a tidy bun at the nape of her neck doesn’t budge an inch. All it’s missing is a hairnet.

  I let my eyes drift from the tips of her shiny leather heels to the collar of her starched dress shirt as she sits across from me.

  My eyes narrow. “Do you always dress like that for work?”

  She glances at her blouse, touching a pearl button fastened against her throat. “When I have an important meeting, yes.”

  “It’s a goddamn outdoor adventures company and you have a librarian bun in your hair.”

  She stiffens, eyes falling to the blue silk tie knotted around my throat, the broad shoulders of my suit coat, no doubt labeling me a hypocrite. Tough shit; it’s my company. I do whatever the fuck I want, and I too have an important meeting this afternoon with advertisers. I’m not about to show up in a goddamn lumberjack plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up to my elbows.

  Peyton fiddles with a gold hoop earring. “I thought our meeting warranted a little extra effort this morning.”

  “Well, you could have saved yourself the trouble. When someone quits on Roam, Inc., I no longer have use for their time.”

  “But Rome, I was hoping . . .” She uses my first name instead of my last, lifting an arm, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear that isn’t there; a nervous habit I’ve seen her do several times already. She can’t rake her fingers through her hair though because it’s pulled back in that damn matronly bun. “I came in to suggest that though I’m striking out on my own, my services could still be of use to you.”

  “Your services?” A chuckle escapes my lips despite myself, lips settling into a sneer.

  When I think services, my mind goes immediately into the gutter: escorts and blow jobs and loose women. Sue me for immediately thinking about sex.

  She must read my thoughts reflected in my eyes, because hers flutter and the skin on her exposed neck ignites to a hot red.

  “My design services, yes. I’m finally—”

  “We’ll manage just fine without you, I’m sure.” Agitated by the excited glint i
n her eye, I cut her off. She’s leaving and has the balls to begin a pitch for her subcontract work?

  I don’t fucking think so, sweetheart.

  I lean forward, hands folded on my desktop, sleeves of my dress shirt cuffed and rolled to my elbows. “I’m not successful because I spend my time sensitivity training the shit out of everyone who needs it. This is a business, not a hobby. And since you insisted on this little meeting, let me fill you in on something; a valuable lesson that might come in handy for your next job, if you will.”

  “I-Im listening.”

  I level Peyton with a hard stare. “If you think for one second you’re going to work for a competitor, think again.”

  I shift the papers on my desk, jabbing my finger at her non-compete contract; the one she signed the first week she came onboard at Roam, Inc.

  It’s ironclad and irrevocable for one year after the termination of her employment, and I’m not afraid to enforce it.

  Yup. I’ll take her for everything she’s worth if she works for the competition.

  Her chin lifts a fraction. “I would never.”

  My lip curls into a smile. “That’s what everyone says.”

  She stares at my mouth a few heartbeats before shaking her head. “I won’t be working for anyone again. I’m finally going to work for myself. And if you can’t respect that, I guess I underestimated you.”

  I lean forward, clasping my hands on my desk. “Underestimated me?”

  “I thought you were progressive. As someone that started their own company from the ground up, I thought maybe you’d give me a chance.” She stands, handing me a manila folder. “My graphic design work is good. Fantastic even. If you can’t see that, then, well. You . . . you’re a . . .”