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)
So, that’s that I guess. Time to . . . time to what?
Move on?
How the hell do I do that?
Chapter Eleven
PEYTON
To: HandsRomingMyBody@RoamInc.com
I stare at the notification in my inbox, confused at what I’m seeing—an email from Rome. From him first, not a reply to something I’ve sent him. I stare, shocked that he’s messaged me.
It would be thrilling if I hadn’t just decided I couldn’t keep this little game up; it could hurt me professionally.
I have to stop.
End whatever this is that I’ve started.
If only it wasn’t so difficult . . . and fun.
Bantering with him is fun, and it turns me on, and I’ve never wanted anyone more in my life than I want him, even when he’s being an asshole.
Curious, I click open my emails, scrolling to the only email I give a shit about. Rome’s.
To: HandsRomingMyBody@RoamInc.com
From: RomeBlackburn@RoamInc.com
I must be bored as hell if I’m sending you a note, or maybe because I have an employee driving me nuts, and I need to expel some energy. You, of all people, whose identity I do not know—and who has caused havoc in the office--tell me that isn’t the most fucked-up thing you’ve heard all week. Why do I keep messaging you? I don’t know you. I don’t know if I can trust you—you’re probably gossiping about this shit and showing all your work friends. Is that what you’re doing? Be honest; I’m the only one here with something to lose.
RMB
Shit.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I bite my bottom lip and sit back in my chair. I shouldn’t engage.
Do NOT engage, Peyton.
You need to be professional with this man. You need to keep him on your good side, because you never know when you might need him.
And yet, I’m almost ninety-five percent positive I’m the unruly employee he’s talking about. There is no doubt in my mind he left the coffee shop Friday only to go back to his fancy apartment and stew over our interaction.
Rome is a sharp and shrewd businessman with an amazing ability to find what’s working and what’s not, but lately, it seems like he’s been having trouble, and me sticking my nose into his new campaign hasn’t helped.
To be fair, he did ask my opinion.
I can see the uncertainty in his eyes and he’s never uncertain. Even though I don’t want to gloat about it, I know he’s finally figured out my departure is having an impact on the campaign, and I almost feel bad. I was mostly joking around Friday night, but now I’ve put all these little clues together: the uneasiness in his demeanor; how he already looked through my profile; the weird random meeting about the campaign; and the initiation of an email.
Let’s face it. The powerful Rome Blackburn has been knocked down a peg.
And I feel bad.
Gah, why do I feel bad?
Maybe because I can see the vulnerability in his eyes and in his words.
You’re probably gossiping about this shit and showing all your work friends. Is that what you’re doing?
I’m sure he doesn’t have many people to talk to other than Hunter. He’s reaching. And damn it, I can’t sit back and not respond. Maybe it’s my kind heart or my inability to let go of this crazy and fun journey, but even though I know I shouldn’t, I write him back.
To: RomeBlackburn@RoamInc.com
From: HandsRomingMyBody@RoamInc.com
No. I promise you, I am not gossiping about you with my friends. They had no idea that I even harbored a crush on you, if that’s what we’re going to call it. Crush. Lust. I let it slip that night I was drinking—and honestly, they tried to talk me out of it. You’re not the most popular guy in the office, even if you are the boss.
What did you do this past weekend? Anything interesting?
LSY
Annnd . . . send.
There. I did it.
It’s out there in the Interweb now, and I can’t take it back.
What’s really strange is that I’ve pretty much confessed to this man about everything I wish I could do to him in his office, from bending over on his desk to getting fucked against his office window and yet, the one thing that is making my stomach break out in a flutter of butterflies is my last question.
What did you do this past weekend?
Seems stupid to be so worried about a simple question, but it’s more personal. It brings these emails to a more intimate level rather than just flirty talk.
That’s terrifying to me because what if he doesn’t answer? What if he thinks—
Ding.
Quickly I look over my back to make sure no one is watching me and open the email.
It’s from Rome and my heart-rate accelerates.
To: HandsRomingMyBody@RoamInc.com
From: RomeBlackburn@RoamInc.com
Anything interesting? No. I lay low. For once, I didn’t work this weekend. Bumped into someone from work at the coffee shop where I hang out, which was kind of weird. What about you?