Love Sincerely Yours Page 4

  They must be really drunk.

  “Who are you three yammering about?” I take another sip, blissfully unaware.

  “Pey, cover your damn face.” Kimberly scowls at me, tossing her drink straw in my direction. “It’s moody boss pants.”

  Moody boss pants?

  “It’s freaking Rome, you drunken idiot,” Gen says with a whack to my leg under the table.

  His name leaves her lips, igniting a gleeful spark deep in my belly.

  Rome . . .

  Rome is here.

  I turn around and spot him.

  There he is.

  All two of him . . .

  Both of him are so good-looking, I can barely stand it.

  Wait. Two of him?

  That can’t be right, and oh God, I’m so drunk.

  Planted on a bar stool, Rome has one foot propped on the wrung, while the other is rooted firmly to the floor. A glass tumbler is suspended from his hand; grip firm, yet casual. His tie is nowhere to be seen, leaving the top few buttons of his crisp white shirt undone.

  Guh.

  God, he’s so ridiculously hot. Why do I have to find the one man in the world I cannot have so freakin’ gorgeous?

  A rigid set in his jaw, lips pursed, he peruses the crowd, a crease in his brow, his eyes never really pausing, just observing.

  Is he waiting for someone or just enjoying the atmosphere?

  “Why aren’t you hiding?” Kimberly asks me, true fear in her voice. “Are you nuts? He’s going to see us.”

  But that’s the thing you don’t realize, I want to say. I want him to see me. I’m practically desperate for it. Which really isn’t like me—not at all. Yes, it has been a while since my last bang, as my friends so eloquently said earlier. But there is just something mysterious about Rome Blackburn that gets my heart beating. That sends my skin tingling. He’s an enigma, and I want to unwrap his many layers. I admit that his clothing is the first layer I wish to unwrap . . . but still.

  I want him to see my little black dress, designed with a deeper neckline than I ought to have worn to the office today. Deeper than what’s considered workplace appropriate.

  I want him to notice the length of my hair; how the wavy ends reach the swell of my breasts.

  I want him to see the bright red lipstick I wore and reapplied often, hoping and praying that maybe, just maybe he’d come to my floor and catch a glimpse; wonder what my mouth might look like planted and smeared all over his body.

  Red kisses on what promises to be a beautiful, powerful chest.

  Abs.

  Collarbone.

  I sigh—drunk, eyes wavering—and watch as my boss scans the crowd critically. He takes everyone in, sipping slowly from what looks like rum or brandy on ice, his head slowly swiveling toward our direction.

  My body freezes; lips part. Chest puffs with bated breath, willing him to give me one glance. Just one.

  Look at me.

  See me sitting here.

  Look at me.

  But he doesn’t.

  His eyes miss me completely—of course they do—as his cool, assessing gaze passes me by as if I meld with everyone else in this place. Nothing special, never standing out amongst the crowd.

  Just like at work.

  Downing the rest of his drink and slamming his glass onto the bar top, Rome tosses a few bills on the bar and buttons his suit jacket before heading toward the door, leaving me in an aroused and embarrassed state.

  Staring after him like a puppy dog stares through the window at its retreating owner.

  So dramatic.

  God, I’m drunk.

  It’s the alcohol, I tell myself.

  Still hiding and trying to blend in with the booth, I let out a heavy breath and take a sip of my drink. “He’s gone, you guys. No need to hide anymore.”

  Peeking over their pitiful excuses for cover, my friends confirm the coast is clear before resuming their normal positions.

  “I thought he’d never leave,” Gen breathes.

  I hoped he’d stay . . .

  “Close call. He almost saw us.” Vivian wipes at her forehead.

  I wanted him to see me . . .

  “Yeah, no thanks to Peyton,” Kimberly snaps, tossing popcorn in her mouth. “She was staring.”

  I couldn’t help myself . . .

  “Maybe I wanted him to see me,” I blurt out, and it seems the booze is making my lips loose.

  “What did you just say?” This from Gen.

  A flush of red stains my cheeks.

  I just hinted toward one of my deepest and darkest secrets: I have a majorly inappropriate crush on Rome Blackburn.

  “Holy crap. You have an inappropriate crush on Rome Blackburn?” Viv repeats my drunken confession verbatim.

  “Did I say that out loud?”

  Kimberly laughs. “You did.”

  “Wait . . .” Vivian holds up her hand to silence the rest of the group. “Do you like Rome, Peyton?”

  And there it is, the truth has been revealed. Even though I have a good amount of liquor coursing through my veins, I still feel raw and exposed.

  Because when I say no one, I mean no one in the office likes Rome. He’s not there to make friends; he’s there to make money, to grow his company.

  Playing with my napkin on the table, pushing it around, my eyes cast down, I answer, “Well, you know . . . he’s really handsome.”

  “Handsome?” Viv is incredulous. “I mean—he’s hot, but . . . he’s Satan.”

  He can be an ass, yes.

  But maybe that’s what I like about him.

  In unison, not having the decency to take turns, my friends get loud, shouting to be heard, brandishing me with opinions how horrible Rome is:

  He is rude.

  He is an arrogant prick.

  He is a tyrant.

  Yup, well aware. But there’s also something about him that no one else sees—a vulnerable side that I want to know.

  I gravitate toward him like a moth to a flame, and for the sake of me I cannot figure out why.

  But I do.

  I don’t just have a crush on him; I have the hots for him. And God, I hope that stays inside my mind—please don’t let me word vomit secrets out of my mouth.

  “Let’s just drop it, okay? And drop the guy search as well. I don’t want to sleep with anyone in this place.”

  “Because you want to sleep with the boss,” Gen practically shouts.

  “Maybe.” My answer is delivered shyly, receiving a round of grumbles from the peanut gallery—they cannot help them-damn-selves. Ugh.

  “Look, I think he’s hot, and one passionate night wouldn’t kill either of us. God, his hands . . . I want them all over my body . . .” Fueled by alcohol and wishful thinking, I blab on. “I want to know what it feels to be gripped by those powerful giant paws. Ugh. I want to feel his lips sucking on the side of my neck, right? What it’s like for that asshole to command my body.” I glance around at everyone’s stupefied expressions. Shrug. “I don’t think that’s too much to ask, do you?”

  No one says a word.

  Gen’s mouth falls open. “You want to bang the boss?”

  I nod.

  I do want to bang the boss.

  So hard.

  “Wow.” Vivian gives me a dreamy look, Kimberly’s lip is caught up in a very unladylike snarl, and Gen . . .

  What the hell is Gen doing?

  Head down, typing away on her ever-present iPad, she’s got the biggest grin on her face, smiling to herself and no one else. A tech geek, she pounds away at the pad, tapping quickly on the screen, the warm glow reflecting light on her red lips and pretty face.

  Seconds pass.

  Until.

  She turns the screen toward us, presenting us with a blank email ready to be typed up.

  “I don’t get what you’re doing,” drunk me says. “Why are you sending work emails on my birthday?”

  “It’s for your birthday. Your gift from me. So, happy birthday,”
she announces, handing me the iPad.

  Drunk me looks in my lap, seeing the iPad glaring up at me. Blinding. I blink, focusing my eyes.

  “Uh, what’s this?”

  As I stare her down, the screen lights up her way too pleased expression. “I set you up with an anonymous email address at Roam, Inc.” I get a nudge with her forefinger. “Go ahead, Pey, tell him how you feel.”

  “What?” My eyebrows shoot up to my hairline. “Are you insane?”

  “Yeah, that is one bad idea.” Kimberly downs the rest of her drink. “Like, really, really bad.”

  “Why?” Gen crosses her arms, affronted.

  “Because she could get fired, that’s why.”

  Gen pops a piece of popcorn in her mouth. “She gave her two weeks’—who cares? He’s not going to know who it’s from, and that’s the best part.” More popcorn gets stuffed down her gullet. “Besides, it’s not like he’s going to give her his business once she’s gone—not that asshole. He’s too stubborn.”

  Kimberly nods slowly, warming to the idea. “Yeah . . . yes. I love it. Yes. Do it, Peyton. Send him an email. Tell him you want to screw his brains out.”

  “I’m not—I don’t want to screw his brains out.” I want him to screw mine.

  My fingers trace the cursor blinking on the screen, just waiting for a command. I stare at it, biting on my bottom lip, then glance at the door.

  The one he just blew out of without a backward glance.

  “Do it, Pey.”

  “Do it.”

  Do it.

  I want to.

  I want him to know how I feel.

  My finger hovers over the keyboard; I inhale a steady breath, again biting on my red bottom lip.

  Skin warm.

  Brain muddled.

  And type.

  Chapter Four

  ROME

  Fucking O’Rourke.

  I’m going to kill him the next time I see him.

  I’m going to shove one of those stupid fucking caramels down his throat and force him to choke on it.

  Come out with me. Come hang out. You need to get some action. Let me help you get laid.

  Not that I need help, but I fell for it, for O’Rourke’s crap, and then the prick stands me up.

  Me.

  Fucking leaves me at the bar, looking like a chump as I scan the less-than-stellar establishment he chose, searching for my friend.

  But nothing.

  No sign of the bastard.

  Instead, I got a text saying he met some woman at another bar and was on his way to her place. Suggested a raincheck. His exact words: Dude, you’ll never believe this, but I met a twin and she’s DTF. Have a drink on me. Take it out of my next paycheck.

  Out of his next paycheck? Over my dead body.

  Instead of going out, I could have been at my desk, tackling the mounting pile of papers and figuring out how to stay ahead of the curve; ensuring my company creates the next best thing for the outdoor world.

  Once I got home, I sent a text to my assistant, Lauren, telling her to come into the office early, to bring coffee, and to be prepared to work.

  Lauren wasn’t happy—that was clear by the way she abruptly placed my coffee on my desk, brown liquid spilling out the little hole and onto the white lid—then narrowed her eyes before turning her back.

  Fake, tight-lipped smile and a nod of her head, she was out the door, leaving me to my overflowing emails.

  Fuck, I’m not in the mood for her attitude today.

  I massage my temples with my forefingers, scanning my monitor.

  Scrolling my inbox, I delete all the crap email messages. Spam. Mark a few urgent that I already know need replying to, skim down the column, new and unfamiliar emails getting my attention first, subject lines varying to stand out:

  Looking for your next big marketing ploy?

  Let me have your business.

  Check out this new investment.

  Rome, I want to bang you so bad.

  Denver: the new adventure hot spot.

  Stocks are high.

  My lips sneer as I begin deleting all the spam that infiltrates my inbox every day, eyes skimming back up the subject column so I don’t accidentally delete anything that’s an actual priority.

  Hold up.

  Rewind.

  My hand hovers; ceases clicking delete.

  I scroll back up and scan the subject lines again, as coffee passes the taste buds of my tongue, searing down my throat.

  I want to bang you so bad.

  Did I read that shit right? It’s addressing me specifically, from a Roam, Inc. email address.

  My eyes narrow on the subject line again, unable to get that one word out of my head. Bang.

  Bang.

  Screw.

  Fuck.

  Jesus, I’m hard up.

  Leaning back in my chair, I casually glance around my office as if someone is watching me, then lean forward, still debating if I should click on the email.

  From the preview, all I can see is To Whom it May Concern.

  Twist my lips to the side, debate, should I open it?

  Far too curious, I chew the inside of my cheek just as I click the email open, scooting in closer to get a better look.

  To Whom It May Concern:

  You don’t know how nervous I am writing this, but it has to be said. Because I can’t stand it anymore. Can’t go another day without telling you how I feel when you walk past me.

  But . . . full disclosure, I would like it to be known that I have consumed an adequate amount of alcoholic beverages to intoxicate myself tonight. Three margaritas, two shots, and one beer—because it was free, and because it was a celebration. Not that you care.

  But I think it’s important to be open and honest with your coworkers, don’t you? And full disclosure, Rome?

  I work for you.

  And I’m finally being honest. Drunk but honest. Or just drunk with lust? You decide.

  I like you so much, and it’s clouding my judgment, making me do things I never would sober. Like write this ridiculous email.

  I have a hopeless, foolish crush on you, when you are the last person on earth I should be crushing on. Did you know people around the office call you a sadist? An egomaniac? An insensitive, arrogant prick? Your bark is worse than your bite, and you don’t scare me. The fact is, I’d love that bite of yours to nip at my bare skin while we’re both wearing nothing but sheets.

  For once, I want you to look at me as more than one of your employees.

  And as long as we're being honest, that navy-blue suit you wear? With the crisp white shirt? It really makes me want to loosen your tie and show you who’s boss.

  I want to bang you so damn bad I can taste it.

  Love,

  Sincerely,

  Yours.

  I do a double take.

  My lips press into a hard line. What the hell is this, some kind of joke? If so, it’s not one damn bit funny. I have rules in place for this sort of misconduct.

  I read and reread the email, glancing up from my desk, I pivot my chair so I can stare through the large picture window on my far wall.

  Push back in my chair and rise, pull down the shade to the glass wall that’s the only thing separating myself from everyone else in the office.

  I don’t need anyone to see the shocked look on my face right now, and I don’t want any of the women out there watching me . . .

  Shit.

  Someone out there has been watching me.

  Could it be Lauren? I narrow my eyes into slits, examining her irritated movements. Still salty from this morning.

  Definitely not Lauren.

  I think she’s more likely to twist my balls off with one swipe than write me a love letter.

  Wait, was that a love letter?

  I want to bang you so hard.

  Most certainly not a love letter, unless that’s how millennials wax poetic now.

  This is why I have a no fraternizing policy. This shi
t right. Here.

  Indignant, I sit and lean back in my chair, making the font larger so I can read it reclined with my hands behind my head, eyes dragging across one ridiculous line after the other.

  What the shit is this?

  Did you know people around the office call you a sadist? An egomaniac? An insensitive, arrogant prick?

  Yeah, I fucking knew that, thank you very much.

  I’m not deaf, I’m not blind, and I don’t give a shit what anyone thinks about the way I run my company. I am who I am, and no one is going to change me.

  And as long as we're being honest, that navy-blue suit you wear? With the crisp white shirt?

  I drag my hand down the lapels of said navy-blue suit—another meeting this afternoon requires it—my fingers straightening the starched collar of my dress shirt. Bright blue tie.

  I want to bang you so bad.

  My eyes dissect that little sentence; the cock in my pressed trousers stirs.

  Bang you so bad.

  Bang.

  Jesus Christ, this is not happening to me right now.

  I rake a hand through my hair, an exhausted breath expelling from my lugs. A few more lingering stares and I’m reaching forward, finger hitting the intercom button for Lauren’s desk.

  “Yes, Mr. Blackburn.”

  How many times have I asked her not to call me that?

  Dozens.

  “Can you come in here with a notebook? I need you to take a memo.”

  This email is so highly inappropriate, bordering on sexual harassment, it needs to be addressed company-wide. No. No bordering—it is. And if this has been sent to anyone else in this company, heads would roll.

  Heads will roll.

  Someone will get fired.

  I give the email address a hard stare. HandsRomingMyBody@RoamInc.com

  Not only is it unfamiliar, it’s bloody internal. Fabricated. Entirely sexual. Hands roming my body. Rome—not roam.

  And a familiar play on my first name.

  This is how companies get sued. The last thing I need is bad publicity because of a bad joke bankrupting my company.

  It only takes Lauren a few minutes to bustle into my office—attitude adjusted—thank fuck. She closes the door behind her and perches on a chair, just as she’s always done when she’s about to take dictation, iPad in hand ready.

  “I need you to take a memo.”