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)
Tsk-tsk.
Man, he is so stubborn.
“Force you? Me? I’m a little pussycat.” I’m practically purring—and at the word pussy, Rome Blackburn’s face turns a pinkish hue I’ve only seen on myself in the mirror.
Rome Blackburn, blushing.
Interesting.
I flip open my notebook and pull out a glossy, square business card, tucked away in a side pocket. Set it on the table and slide it forward with the tip of my index finger.
“You know where to find me when you need me.”
And he does need me.
Rome snorts, the card staying in its spot on the edge of the wood.
“Take it. Don’t be shy,” I prod. “It won’t bite.”
His hands remain in his pockets, where they’ve been this entire time.
“Don’t be so stubborn. We both know you’re going to come crawling to me in seven days when I leave the company.” Preferably on his hands and knees.
“I never crawl.”
“Ugh, don’t be so literal.”
“I won’t beg you to come work for me.”
“I already work for you.”
“You know what I mean.” The man is practically rolling his cold, platinum eyes. “It’s not going to happen.”
“Okay. If you say so.” Sip.
Sip.
Slurp.
I smile.
“You . . .” he starts, clamping his mouth shut.
“Me . . .” I sass him back.
One hand comes out of the pocket of his dark jeans, and it points at me, accusing. His mouth is gaping, ready to shoot me a retort.
My gaze flickers toward the cash wrap.
“Line’s getting really long. You should put down your finger and get in it.”
“Are you handling me now?” I wish I was.
“Handling you? No.” Maybe just a little. Testing my boundaries? Absolutely. “I’m just suggesting you get in line before the wait is too long.”
“I’m going to.”
Another patronizing smile. “Then go.”
His feet remain rooted to the concrete floor, liquid gaze narrowing. “Stop doing that.”
“Doing what?” My lashes flutter.
“Whatever it is you’re doing.”
“Drinking coffee and outlining my business?” My smile is saccharine; innocent as can be as I mentally pat myself on the back and thank God I’m sitting down—I don’t know if my knees could withstand the look he’s shooting me right now.
Confused.
Like he’s trying desperately to figure me out.
A perplexed Rome Blackburn is a sight to behold.
Irritated, obviously, because the man is always pissed off about something, the big baby.
“I can grab your drink if you want? They know me here, maybe—”
“I don’t need you buying my drink.”
My chuckle is low, hidden by the white insulated cup in my hands.
I shrug at him, slender shoulders moving up and down slowly. “Suit yourself.”
“I will, thanks.”
God, it’s taking every ounce of self-control I have not to bust out laughing—he takes himself way too seriously.
“Well . . .” My sentence trails off. Eyes flicker to my business card on the table. “Are you going to take that?”
“No.” He is so rude. “I have one already.”
It was in the packet I gave him. Which he looked at and read.
Which makes me want to jump up and do hip thrusts into the air—a victory dance.
“What’s that look on your face for?”
“What look?”
“You look like a cat that just ate a plate full of cream.”
The tang of victory is so strong I want to lap it up.
“Do I? Mmm, tastes amazing.”
Rome Blackburn is going to give me a chance, whether he knows it yet or not.
Like a total brat, I lick my lips.
“Don’t do that.”
“Don’t lick my lips?”
“It’s unprofessional.”
“But it’s Friday . . .” As if that explains everything away. My flirting. My behavior.
But then something else occurs to me at the exact same time: if Rome hires me, he’s going to be my client.
My. Client.
I won’t be working for him. He’ll be contracting my company, and I’ll have to handle myself with the professionalism he demands . . .
A pit forms in the hollow of my stomach.
Which means . . .
The emails to him have to stop.
The flirting.
The inappropriate banter I throw in when I message him.
“Sorry. I . . . I had some foam on the corner of my mouth.”
His steely eyes slowly move to my lips. Land there, hesitating a few heartbeats before those giant hands of his get stuffed back inside his pockets. “I should get going.”
“Right. Well. Have a good weekend.”
Instead of going to the counter, like I expect him to, Rome Blackburn walks back out the door.
Completely empty-handed.
And it almost reflects how I feel. After flirting and practically throwing myself at Rome, I’m beginning to see it might be a complete waste of my time. He won’t give in. He won’t give me my one night of passion. In fact, he probably won’t even consider me for future work. All our interactions of late have been . . . rough. Not once has he taken me seriously as a viable resource in marketing. And if I truly want his business, which I know I do, that needs to change. He expects professionalism at all times. And really? He actually deserves it.