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)
“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 we 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 Two
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 would 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.