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)
“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-year-old.”
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 Three
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 dirty-thirty 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.