Love Sincerely Yours, Page 2

  my brain forever. And I doubt insulting him will bode well for me in the slightest. Talk

  about not wanting to burn bridges . . .

  But he didn’t even let me get a word in edgewise.

  Well, maybe a few—a stutter here and there.

  Good job, Peyton. Way to represent the future of Fresh Minted Designs by losing your

  backbone when you needed it the most. How is that going to help you succeed?

  “How’d it go?” I breeze past Lauren, Rome’s assistant, but her stage whisper stops me. She’s leaning

  over the cold stone counter, glancing up and down the hall—then back at me, crooking her

  finger so I’ll come closer.

  “Well? How did it go? You weren’t in there long.”

  I glance toward Rome Blackburn’s office, my face defeated. “Not as I expected. And now

  I know where he gets his last name from.”

  His personality is as black as his soul.

  Wincing, Lauren motions with her finger for me to come closer, still. I have nothing

  better to do since I just quit, so I follow her little command, resting my hip against her

  granite counter with a loud sigh.

  She grimaces. “That bad, huh?”

  “Worse.”

  “I didn’t hear any shouting. How bad could it have been?”

  My brows shoot up. “Shouting?”

  “Well, yeah—you’re leaving. You quit. Rome Blackburn doesn’t take kindly to people

  leaving the company.”

  As if I needed to be told; I just witnessed it firsthand.

  “Were you able to give him your two-weeks’ notice?”

  “No. The conversation tanked when he started talking about my noncompete.”

  Lauren laughs, clicking away at her keyboard. “Yeah, he usually has people clean out

  their desk on the spot when they intend to leave. Don’t be surprised if there’s a box already

  packed by the time you reach your desk.”

  “Oh really? I never would have guessed.” The words drip from my mouth, coated in

  sarcasm I can’t conceal, but my stomach drops. I hope he lets me stay; I need these last two weeks.

  “He’s built this company on blood, sweat, and tears from the ground—”

  “Sweetie, I know.” I lean over to pat Lauren on her shoulder. “You don’t have to defend

  him. I get it. It’s nothing personal. It’s business. I just wish he’d have given me more of a

  chance to—”

  Down the corridor, a door opens.

  His door.

  Lauren’s back goes rigid; her fingers immediately begin flying faster across her

  keyboard.

  I freeze.

  My shoulders stiffen, back straightens, senses kick in, and I’m suddenly on high alert.

  His cologne is sharp and masculine—with an air of power—mixed into one

  unmistakable and ridiculously intoxicating scent, and what the hell am I even saying?

  Rome Blackburn is woods and rivers and adventure.

  He is excitement.

  He is an asshole.

  Rome Blackburn is a freaking prick.

  The energy in the entire room shifts in the hallway. Commanding steps move toward

  Lauren and me, stopping just behind me.

  “Ms. Lll—” The tool isn’t even going to attempt to try and pronounce my last name. Like

  it’d be too hard? “What are you still doing here? Don’t you have two-weeks’ notice to give to

  your supervisor?”

  He’s not making me clean out my desk. He’s not making me clean out my desk.

  “It’s Lévêque.” It’s pronounced le -veck. “What is?”

  “My last name.”

  Sharp, intense silver eyes narrow, five o’clock shadow covering his strong, chiseled jaw.

  Rome crosses his arms, biceps straining against the expensive fabric of his blue button

  down shirt, feet a shoulder-width apart. The stance makes the room feel smaller, tighter,

  sucking all the air.

  “Le-veck,” he repeats, testing it on his lips. His gorgeous, pouty lips.

  “Yes.”

  “Then why the hell don’t you spell it that way?”

  “It’s French.”

  His eyes narrow even farther—if that were possible—jaw ticking, thrumming an

  irritated beat as he sticks his hand in his pocket.

  “Lauren, please show Ms. Fancy Pants Le-Veck to the elevator. The clock is ticking on

  her time here.”

  “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.

  “At least it’s a pretty mouth,” my friend teases.

  “He didn’t even know my last name, which means he had no idea who I was. Awesome.”

  That gathers a chuckle from Genevieve. “He seems so refined. How could he mess up

  your last name?” “He couldn’t pronounce it, so he didn’t bother saying it.” I shrug. “Or maybe it was his

  way of jabbing me with one last insult before I left.”

  Dutiful and supportive, my friend rubs my back.

  “All it did was make him look like an ass.” Her high-heeled shoe bounces up and down.

  “Hey. Listen. Forget about him. You’re leaving, and you’re going to kick some serious ass

  when you’re out there, hustling all these companies, making a name for yourself, that he’s

  going to be sorry he passed on you.”

  I shake my head mirthfully. “He is not. You’re so stupid.”

  Genevieve considers that a compliment. “I’m telling you, he’ll be sorry.”

  Picking up a paperclip, I play with the metal and undo its shape—a nervous tick of

  mine. When I was younger, I used to shove the metal in my mouth against my teeth and

  pretend I wore braces. I’m older now, so I set the bent metal back on my desk. “Any gossip

  lately I need to know about?”

  Genevieve knows everything. And, in my opinion, has the best job in the company.

  She monitors the instant messaging accounts, watching for any kind of misconduct or

  misuse of time. Creates new employee accounts and emails. Deletes old ones. Takes random

  screenshots of coworkers’ desktops.

  Basically, she is the eyes and ears of Roam, Inc.

  The best part of her job? No one knows exactly what she does; they think she sets up

  work phones and fixes their computers every now and again, which means she can dig up

  some real dirt on people.

  “Hmmm,” she hums, tapping a finger against her chin. “Calvin in finance has a

  girlfriend getting implants this Monday, and he’s paying for the entire thing.”

  “You’re lying.” She shakes her head.

  I quietly laugh, slightly jealous, my shoulders shaking. “What about Rose and

  Blaine?”

  She takes a mint from my candy dish and pops it in her mouth, the crinkle of the

  wrapper rolling in her fingers before she tosses it in the trashcan next to my desk.

  “Still in a standoff. He won’t admit to crushing on her, and she won’t admit to kissing

  him when they were drunk at the last office party. Looks like good old-fashioned

  stubbornness is going to get in their way of true love.”

  “Such a shame.” Tossing my paper clip in the trash, I grab another one. “And Sally in

  payroll? Is she still talking shit about me to Jessica?”

  Genevieve rolls her bright blue eyes. “Always. Said you were dressed like a tramp today

  and went to the boss’s office to try and fuck him.” She emits a soft snort. “As if anyone

  would want to go near that icicle dick.”

  I bite the corner of my lip, eyes cast down. Someone might want to fuck him.

  In fact, I could name one person off the top of my head in an instant.

  Me.

  Me, me, me.

  I would do Rome Blackburn in a heartbeat.

  My friend chatters on, oblivious. God, if she knew the thoughts I’ve had about our boss?

  She would die.

  “Hey!” She perks up, sitting up ramrod straight on the filing cabinet. “Are w e all still on

  for tomorrow night? Thirtieth birthday celebration?” She claps her hands, excited.

  Some people might dread turning thirty, but not me. I’m excited to be out of my twenties, and I’m ready to be taken more seriously. I’m

  ready to have my own business. I’m ready for this new chapter in my life, despite the slightly

  negative start to it.

  “We’re on. I need a stiff drink.”

  My friend snickers. “A stiff drink and a stiff cock inside you.”

  “Trust me, that’s not going to happen.”

  “Why not?”

  Because. For some unknown reason, my vagina and I want one man. The man who

  most definitely doesn’t want me: Rome Blackburn.

  CHAPTER 2

  ROME

  “Can you get your feet off my desk?” My friend Hunter rolls his eyes, not giving a shit

  that his muddy boots are leaving gravel on my carpet and desktop.

  He ignores me. “What’s got your panties in a twist? You’re bitchier than usual.”

  I ignore that, too. “The meeting this morning was a joke; I could have used you there.”

  “What w ould I have done?”

  “I don’t know. Lent moral support? Kept me from losing my shit?”

  Hunter O’Rourke is the CIO: Chief Innovations Officer, and it’s his primary function to

  test the new ideas our development team create. Innovate. Or in this case—fail to develop.

  Create a new tent? He’ll take it into the wild and sleep in it. Invent a new rock-climbing

  tool? O’Rourke is the guy who will scale the wall.

  Jump from a bridge on a new cord? O’Rourke.

  He’s my best friend and voice of reason. Fucked up, but true, since he rafts down raging waters for a living.

  “You lost your shit in a meeting? That’s so unlike you.” He rolls his eyes, then leans

  forward and digs into the stash of Brach’s candy I keep in a small silver galvanized pail.

  Unwraps a caramel loudly, crinkling the paper—on purpose—to annoy the
shit out of me.

  I narrow my eyes. “Fine. That might be a slight exaggeration, but I swear to fucking

  God, I don’t know who hired some of these people . . .”

  He smirks, popping the candy in his mouth and chewing. “Uh. You?”

  I make the sound of a buzzer. “Wrong. Human Resources. These are supposed to be the

  best of the best, and none of them had a single fucking idea.”

  “Then I had a meeting with Peyton Lévêque, which was another fucking disaster to my

  already shit day.” Obviously it doesn’t escape my notice that I pronounce her damn last

  name correctly—fluidly—each syllable rolling off my tongue the way it rolled off hers. Silky.

  Exotic.

  “You’ve just cursed four times.”

  Jesus, he’s a pain in my ass. “Would you listen?”

  “I’ll try, but I have no idea who this Peyton dude is.”

  “Peyton is a female. And she quit this morning.”

  Resigned. Quit.

  Same thing.

  “Damn, dude, that sucks. Did you pack up her shit and have security escort her out?”

  “No. She’ll receive her full two weeks’.”

  My friend’s dark brows rise. “Do you have a fever? Should I take your temperature?” He

  rises half out of his seat, reaching across the desk, aiming for my forehead with his palm.

  I slap it away. “Knock it off.” O’Rourke laughs—popping another one of my candies—chews, tilting his head to study

  me. “I have to see this chick.”

  No, he does not. “Why?”

  His brows go up at my tone. “She’s obviously affected you, or you’d be kicking her ass to

  the curb like you’ve done with anyone else who bailed.”

  I scoff, turning my attention to the computer monitor. “What the hell are you talking

  about?” She has not affected me. I don’t even know her. “This is a business, not a goddamn

  dating service. Don’t shit where you eat—that’s what the no fraternizing policy is for.” I

  narrow my eyes at him. “Have you read it?”

  His hand waves through the air. “That policy is bullshit and you know it.”

  Now my eyes narrow. “Why? Because you’re breaking it?”

  Another laugh. “Trust me, if there was someone here I wanted to screw, no stupid No

  Banging policy would stop me.”

  Charming.

  But Hunter isn’t done; not with stirring up shit and not with the idiotic comments. “So

  this chick left you hanging . . . you had no fucking clue who she was before your meeting. So