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)
“Goddammit!” I spin, grabbing for cords and my laptop so that doesn’t come careening down, too.
Fuck my life.
I swipe a few napkins from the neighboring table, giving the girl seated there an apologetic, awkward cringe, and bend to mop up my mess. Back and forth I run the brown napkins across the tile, sopping up the puddle.
Left with only a handful of soggy napkins, an expensive pair of black tennis shoes steps into the space I’d just painstakingly dried so no one would slip if they treaded past. Tennis shoes attached to a hairy set of tan legs; masculine and long, my gaze trains on muscular calves. Knees.
Up, up, my eyes trail.
Blue mesh shorts.
Crotch. Ahem . . . a nice crotch.
“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” a deep, familiar voice mocks, big hand extending.
I take it, climbing to my feet, embarrassed.
Rome.
Of course he’d see me making a mess.
God, I hate myself right now.
“Thanks.” I brush the hair out of my eyes, swiping it away, face flaming red. When and if I bumped into him again, this was not the impression I would have wanted to make.
“Busy being productive, I see? That six-month clock is ticking.” He’s referencing to the amount of time he thinks it will take me to fail; go out of business.
Ugh, what an unsupportive asshole. I have tried, tried and tried, to wipe his unfair assessment to myself. If there was anyone I wanted to be in my corner, it was this man who built his own business from the ground up incredibly well. But alas . . . asshole.
Rome hands me another napkin from another table, just as I’m wiping my palms on the leg of my yoga pants. Awesome, I’m a mess today.
Our fingers touch when I take the linen from his hands, our eyes meeting briefly.
“Thanks.”
He has no reply, damn him, so I sit back down, rearranging my little corner of the coffee shop, folders on the verge of falling off the table, too. I know he’s probably watching me with one of his unreadable expressions, as I fumble around, spine straight, determined to ignore him.
But also win his business.
“Just come from working out?” He’s decked out in athletic apparel; the man is seriously a walking advertisement for what looks hot in athletic apparel. Just like he is in jeans. And in his gorgeous navy-blue suit.
“Heading there after this pit stop.”
“Caffeine before a workout? Isn’t that frowned upon?”
What is he up to?
He’s not holding a coffee, and he’s making no move to head toward the cash register. Plus, him standing here, looking so damn delicious and ready to get sweaty is getting me all hot and bothered.
“Would you like to sit down?” There is one empty chair at this teeny table, and I give it a little nudge with the toe of my shoe as an offering.
Surprisingly, he takes it, pulling it the rest of the way out and parking his firm ass opposite me.
Huh. Imagine that.
His platinum eyes survey the coffee shop before settling on me, his irises steely and unnervingly astute. I have a feeling he’s noticing everything about his surroundings, including me.
“Other than you dropping shit all over the floor, how’s it been going?” Rome crosses his arms and leans back in the chair; not far enough to tip it, but more casual than I’ve ever seen him before.
I like this side of him.
He seems . . . at ease. And he’s asking me questions about myself—which is so unlike him.
“It’s been good.” I sound way too chipper and have to tone it down a notch or he’ll know I’m full of shit. “I mean, it’s a little slow to start, but I’m just starting to reach out to people.”
Sixty—give or take—with zero replies, because I had no leads going into this “self-employed” gig. Just a leap of faith and some money in the bank to get me started.
Obviously I don’t mention this.
Rome nods. “Economy might be on an upswing, but starting from the ground up always is a disadvantage.”
Now I nod—like I know what the hell he’s talking about.
“That’s true.”
“It’ll get better. Just don’t take the first no at face value.”
“Is that so? Because you were my first no.” And second no, and third. Probably my fourth no, too, if I put him on the spot right now and ask him for a chance at his marketing department.
I’m not a sadist, so I don’t bother to ask.
Not yet.
We sit in silence and Rome’s attention turns toward the window, out toward the street he just came from and together we watch the people outside on the busy street.
I adjust myself in my seat, waiting for him to say something.
“You’re not even going to ask, are you?”
“Ask what?”
He directs his steely gaze in my direction. “About the job.”
“What job?”
“The marketing consulting position.”
I repeat those four words in my head, drawing a blank. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Is someone hiring? Because I’m done working in an office, you know that.”