Love Sincerely Yours, Page 3

  you’re keeping her around because why? She’ll be done in two weeks, why not just kick her

  ass to the curb?”

  I sigh, leaning back in my chair, loosening the tie I only wore to impress my investors.

  It’s shocking blue against my blue shirt with its sleeves rolled and pushed to my elbows.

  Shoving my keyboard to the side, I lean forward, resting my forearms on the wood

  surface in front of me. Clasp my hands.

  Shoot Hunter an impatient glare. “I have no one to replace her with. Have you not been listening? This morning’s meeting

  was a fucking shitshow. If she leaves, I’m fucked. We’ve been pitching to Outdoor

  Ecosphere, and I need her for marketing.”

  “But you said the marketing people sucked.”

  “She’s not on the marketing team; she’s been doing all the social media, and she’s

  good.” I admit this last part begrudgingly, my lip actually curling.

  How would I know? I stalked our online presence the better half of an hour, like a

  moron, clicking through our website, Instagram, and Twitter. Clean, branded, and timely,

  her posts are clever and funny—yet professional.

  Just as her personal pages are.

  And I would know, because I scoped those out pretty damn hard, too.

  Shit.

  Shit.

  Shit.

  “So you’re just going to let her stay.” Chew. Swallow.

  Chew.

  The squishy sound of gooey caramel being masticated makes me want to reach across

  the desk and strangle him.

  “Yes.” I flip a pencil to occupy my hands until it rolls off the desk and falls to the floor.

  “And you have zero interest in banging her.”

  I raise my eyes and glare. “Why are you like this?”

  Hunter O’Rourke shrugs beneath the plaid flannel of his shirt. “Why are you being so

  bitchy?” Hunter and I have history; only he gets away with calling me bitchy, mostly because I’m

  aware I’m acting like an asshole. I am, in fact, being bitchy.

  It’s no secret that I’m an unrelenting asshole; I don’t like cheerful people. Or being

  cheerful.

  Or people.

  Yeah—definitely don’t like people.

  But I love O’Rourke like a brother, even though he’s nothing but a giant asshole most of

  the time.

  We met in middle school when his family moved in next door, a big moving van pulling

  up to the front of a house that had been empty an entire four months a few weeks before

  school started.

  He climbed out of the cab with the movers, stood on the curb, shielding his face with his

  hands, staring at the house. Climbed inside the cab and came back with a baseball mitt.

  He pounded the leather a few times before catching my eye, then he raised it up,

  shrugging.

  I had a ball and ran to retrieve it.

  Lobbed it at the little bastard hard as I could.

  And when he caught it?

  The rest was history.

  In high school, we both played baseball. Got in trouble for all kinds of shit, ranging from

  busting our parents’ windows to sneaking out, to getting shitfaced and staying out past

  curfew.

  In high school, Hunter broke up with my girlfriends for me; in college, I broke up with

  his. He became the sensitive one—giving an actual shit about people’s feelings. But me? Didn’t give a shit at all. Still don’t.

  I worked my ass off in school, carrying a full course load of credits and working one

  crap job after the next. Saved. Invested.

  I was the levelheaded one.

  I was the stiff collar.

  I was the buzzkill while Hunter partied. Fucked anything with a pulse.

  Business minded, I went on to get my master’s, while he dabbled in random, shitty side

  jobs. Honestly, I think he was waiting for me to hatch a plan that would put us both into

  business.

  And I did.

  Roam, Inc.

  A play on my name—O’Rourke’s idea (sometimes he has good ones)—I spent the two

  years busting ass on my postgrad, restless as shit. Wanted adventure but needed to fucking

  work. Loved the outdoors. Testing boundaries and limits and seeking an adrenaline high.

  Roam around the world is what I wanted to do.

  Rome.

  I’m synonymous with my brand; it’s who I am. The company is me, and I am the

  company. That’s why it pissed me off that little Miss Goodie Two Shoes quit without a care.

  To my fucking face. Who does that?

  “Why am I like what?” Hunter is staring at me, head cocked to the side, fingers steepled

  in front of his mouth, waiting.

  “Huh?” “You asked why the hell I’m like this.” He uses air quotes around the words “like this.”

  “Get your head out of your ass.” The bastard laughs, tipping his head back. “Who the hell is

  this girl?”

  Girl?

  Hardly.

  Peyton is all woman; a bashful, but somewhat ballsy woman.

  “Why is everything about women and sex with you?”

  “It’s not. I just know you’re not getting any. Maybe we should go out this weekend; get

  the lead out. Dude, I can see the sperm retention bulging out of the veins on the side of your

  temples. You need to get laid, man.”

  He’s right. I do.

  But unlike O’Rourke, I’m the discriminating sort. I require someone more polished than

  the cheap women he picks up at the bar. Someone classy, who won’t demand anything in

  return but a quick ride on my cock. A one-way orgasm to the front door of my townhouse

  afterward.

  Someone that not only rolls out of my bed immediately afterward but does it without

  talking to me.

  Try finding one of those in a town where everyone knows my name.

  My goddamn face is plastered on the side of a city bus with the company’s slogan. Last

  year, one of the marketing geniuses wanted to capitalize on my good looks, complete with a

  globe, a heart circling it, and my face. I must have been shit-faced when I signed off on it

  because, Holy Christ. The women.

  They’ve been relentless. I run one of my giant palms down my face, swiveling in my chair, face my best friend,

  and snort. “Do me a favor and don’t talk about sex at work. It’s unprofessional.”

  “It’s unprofessional,” he mimics, pinching the bridge of his nose so it sounds like he was

  sucking on helium. “Where is that in the code of conduct, anyway?”

  “Page eight,” I remind him with a straight face.

  “That’s right. You wrote the damn thing.” I’ve never seen a grown man roll his eyes

  more than he does.

  “No. The legal department did.”

  Hunter’s shoulders rise and fall as he inspects his nails. “Same thing.”

  “Not the same thing,” I grind out. “Why are you arguing with me?”

  He ignores me completely and plows on to a new subject. “When do you want to go out

  this weekend? Let’s head to Skeeters. I hear they have a band playing.”

  The last thing I want to do is listen to a fucking band play when I have voices screaming

  inside my head about deadlines. All I want is some damn peace and quiet, and he’s

  determined to make my fucking life miserable.

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “Think harder.” He pauses. “Better yet, think with your dick.”

  I snort.

  I haven’t let that appendage lead me around in years. Not sin
ce college, and only during

  a phase where I’d take study breaks to drink, party, and slake my sexual appetite.

  Hunter used to deliver willing girls to my dorm room so I wouldn’t have to leave; girls

  who willingly got down on their knees and blew me off. Efficient. Emotionless.

  “How long has it been?”

  Months.

  Who has the damn time?

  I scoff. “I’m not discussing this with you.”

  Hunter laughs again, and the sound grates on my last nerve. “Months, I bet.”

  He’s relentless.

  Which makes him the perfect business partner.

  Which makes him an aggravating friend.

  My hands go behind my head and I lace my fingers together. “Oh, and you have so

  much free time you’re getting banged on a regular basis?”

  His cocky grin falters. “I’ve been getting laid more than you have.”

  True.

  My thoughts drift to Peyton Lévêque and the last photo she posted of herself on her

  Instagram account. Hair in a messy pile atop her head. Smile wide. Hiking in the woods

  with a godawful-looking mutt, with a Roam, Inc. signature walking stick.

  I nodded with satisfaction at that small detail. Brand loyalty, I like it.

  “Are we done here?” I’m close to grinding my teeth.

  “Not until you agree to hit the bars with me this weekend. It’s been forever.”

  It has been.

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “I’ll pick you up tomorrow at nine.”

  “Nine?” Do I sound horrified? I’m in bed by then.

  “Jesus Christ, Rome, quit acting like a seventy-yearold.”

  I feel like I am sometimes, as the weight of responsibilities pile up on my broad

  shoulders.

  “Bro, admit it. You could use a drink.” I hate when he’s right, so I argue. “I have beer in the fridge under my desk.”

  “A real drink.”

  My mouth twists at the corners. “Fine.”

  Hunter cackles, finally removing his fucking boots from my walnut desk. “Man, that was

  easier than I thought.”

  Cocky dickhead.

  “Get the hell out of my office.”

  His loud laugh follows him out, and I catch Lauren hiding her smile as she ducks her

  head behind a file folder.

  Shit.

  CHAPTER 3

  PEYTON

  “To the birthday girl!”

  Clink.

  “To being single and ready to mingle!”

  Clink.

  We raise our shot glasses, brimming with a red concoction known as a Swedish Fish. I

  don’t know what’s in it, but after shot number two, who the hell even cares?

  I wouldn’t mind downing a few more.

  I throw up my finger to the bartender, ordering another round.

  “To Peyton.” Clink, clink, clink . . . and down the gullet they go. Smooth. Hot. Burning just enough to

  make it worth the while.

  My cheeks pucker; my lips smack together. I squeeze my blue eyes shut, the liquid

  washing down my throat, skin tingling—all inhibitions getting ready to fly.

  This is my night and after the week I’ve had, I’m going to enjoy it.

  The shot glasses hit the tabletop with the resounding glass-on-wood plunk, my little

  circle of friends grinning back at me as my gaze roams the table.

  Ugh, these girls—I love them so much.

  And . . . okay. So I’m feeling emotional tonight.

  Sentimental even?

  Definitely drunk.

  Drunk as a damn skunk.

  I giggle, watching Gen, Vivian, and Kimberly, three girls I feel like I’ve grown up with at

  Roam, Inc.

  Not just professionally, but personally.

  In the few short years I’ve been with the company, we’ve become close friends. Fast

  friends. Even closer confidants.

  God, I love these guys.

  Girls. Guys.

  Guh!

  You know what I mean . . .

  Genevieve and I started at the company at the same time, quickly followed by Viv and

  Kim, who both work in the marketing department—one of the toughest departments at Roam, Inc. Rome is very demanding about being innovative, thinking outside the box, and

  being at the forefront of promotion rather than being a follower.

  He’s up their ass constantly.

  Rome’s strict and vigorous demands is one of the reasons we spend our girl nights in

  the same red-leather booth in the back of Skeeters in SOHO, snacking on their world

  famous smoked sea salt popcorn, and sipping our overpriced handcrafted cocktails, high

  heels piled into a mountain under the table.

  But today is different.

  Today we celebrate my thirtieth birthday. The big three oh.

  God, I wish I had more Os in my life.

  More sex. More banging.

  More orgasms.

  Thank God my loud sigh is drowned out by the noise of the bar. I don’t want to be that

  girl on my birthday night.

  “Welcome to the dirtythirty club,” Gen says, snagging a few pieces of popcorn from

  the center of the table and popping them between her ruby-red lips. “You’re going to love

  it.”

  The margarita I ordered off the cocktail menu is pinched between my fingers, and as I

  drink it, cherry rhubarb bitters hit the right spot, filling my flat stomach with a wave of

  warmth.

  There is a limit when I drink—three shots, one drink—and I’ve definitely exceeded it.

  My limit is a happy place; I can sit back, take in the people who are drunker than me

  and be entertained. My limit stops me from getting plastered.

  And from making poor choices. “I think thirty looks good on me.” I smooth my hands over a tight-fitting black dress,

  one that turned a few heads at work today. Unfortunately, the one head I wanted to turn

  never made an appearance on my floor.

  As usual.

  Man, do I have shitty luck.

  Why would he show his face though? He only calls us to his office if he wants to speak to

  us. Or reprimand us, and in the five years I’ve been at Roam, Inc., I’ve never been called to

  his office once.

  Maybe I’m a little bitter because I looked freaking good today. Would it have killed him

  to split from his office and catch a glimpse of me?

  “Thirty is the new twenty-five.” I give my dark hair a flip.

  “Thirty looks really good on you, babe,” Kim agrees, lifting her glass toward me. “So do

  your boobs, if you don’t mind me saying.”

  My chest pops out.

  Popcorn kernels fly every which way when Viv gestures toward my breasts—she doesn’t

  hold her liquor well—her sassy grin staring holes into the front of my chest.

  I raise my brows expectantly; waiting.

  Vivian’s next words do not disappoint as she slurs out loud, “Now we just have to get

  you laid for your birthday.”

  “Our gift to you.”

  Their gift to me . . . Oh shit, no.

  My already hot face burns. “You did not hire me an escort.”

  I’m hissing, leaning over the table so they can hear me, horrified.

  They are talking so loud, and now I am, too. “Shh, relax.” Vivian’s inebriated hands wave me off. “God, no—I don’t have the money

  for that—”

  “But if we did have the monies, we totally would have,” Gen adds.

  A wobbly nod. “Totally would have.”

  “We’re going to find you a man in here to bang.”

  Viv claps her hands
, hopping on the seat of the booth, making the whole bench bounce.

  “Yes, yes. We love that idea.” She pops her head up over the booth, determined to assess the

  pool of men flooding the overcrowded bar. “Let’s see, there’s a guy over there with some

  heavyduty sideburns that could be promising.”

  “Sideburns are for werewolves,” Kim announces, sitting on her knees so she can get a

  better view of the perimeter. “What about Mr. Sunshine State there with the blond hair and

  sunglasses? He looks fuckable.”

  Oh. My. God. “Would you keep it down?”

  “Relax.” Viv pats my hand. “No one can hear us.”

  “Sunglasses in a bar?” Genevieve scoffs, watching the guy wearing a pink polo and

  shades. “He’s either a total douchebag or he’s high as a kite and doesn’t want people to

  know. Next.”

  Vivian’s shrewd eyes hit the bar . . . move toward the pool tables . . . scan the tables

  along the back of the room. Then she raises her hand and makes an “ooo, ooo” sound like

  she’s waiting to be called on in class.

  Deadpanning, Gen says, “Yes, Viv, can we help you?”

  “What about that guy? The one in the dark suit?”

  She points; I push down her arm. “There are twenty guys here wearing dark suits, you’re going to have to be more

  specific.” Kimberly takes a sip of her drink, rolling her eyes.

  “You guys . . .” I begin weakly, defenseless against them.

  See, the thing is: I don’t like hooking up with random strangers—that’s Vivian’s gig, not

  mine. Another thing? I’m stupidly holding out for one passionate night from a certain

  someone who didn’t know I even existed until yesterday when I quit, despite the many times

  we’ve been in the same room together, no fraternizing policy or not.

  I glumly recite the rules from the Employee Handbook in my head:

  “No employee of Roam, Inc. may date another employee who is separated by more

  than one level in the heirarchy. This includes an employee who reports to their boss’s

  counterpart in another department.”

  And it got better, via an addendum memo send round only thirty days ago:

  “No employee of Roam, Inc. may date an employee who reports to their boss’s

  counterpart in another department.”

  I’ve read these rules no less than one hundred times.

  Wishful thinking.

  Daydreaming.

  “Employees of Roam, Inc. who disregard this policy will be subject to disciplinary