across the office common area, I pivot to face her.
She’s shorter, even in heels, so I have to dip my head to glare at her. “Want to tell me
exactly what the fuck is going on in there?”
A shrug. “They threw me a party.”
“I can see that.” I’m so annoyed. “I’m asking why?”
Peyton is unperturbed. “’Cause I’m leaving?”
“You quit. Parties should be reserved for employees who are celebrating birthdays or
monumental occasions—not young women who leave for greener pastures.”
Or better yet, parties should not happen at all. She wilts under my bark, her eyes shifting back and forth over mine.
“Sir, I’m not using this as an excuse, but I had no idea they were planning anything.”
Sir.
That gives me pause, and I want to fucking laugh.
Wow, she’s good at pretending—not giving away any hints of her being
HandsRomingMyBody anywhere. Not fidgeting. No signs of distress on her face. Not a
flinch or a blush.
I cross my arms, shirt stretching across my chest. “How long is this party supposed to
last?”
“I’m not sure. Lauren was in charge. They haven’t done games yet.”
“Games,” I deadpan, because—are you fucking kidding me?
“Just a few fun ones, like, What’s in your desk drawer?”
Paper. Staples. Post-it Notes. Tape.
Yellow notepad. That’s it—that’s what’s in my desk drawer—and I mentally facepalm
myself for playing along in my head.
My lips stay sealed closed.
Peyton prattles on. “And then Donna in accounting made Pin the tail on the Bo—” Her
lips clamped shut.
Obviously my brows shoot up when she fails to finish her sentence. “Pin the tail on
what?”
“The . . . um. Beaver.”
She’s so full of shit. “Is that so? You’re playing pin the tail on the beaver.”
“Yup. Mm-hmm.”
“Are you sure it’s not something else?” Her lashes flutter innocently. “Like what?”
“Oh, God—I don’t know. Pin the tail on the boss?”
When her face flushes, I know I’ve nailed it. “I fucking knew it.” I get even closer, a
sneer on my lip. “And you know what else I know, Peyton?”
She backs against the wall, pressing her spine to the gray, textured partician. “What else
do you know?”
She gulps. Licks her lips. Holds her breath.
I lean in—get in good and close. I sniff her hair . . . because it’s impossible not to. Lower
my voice. “I know you sent that email.”
Her eyes widen uncharacteristically large. Wide. “What email?”
“Don’t be coy. You’re HandsRomingMy . . .” I actually choke on the damn words.
Embarrassed. “Body.”
I give her credit though; she presents a stiff upper lip and doesn’t immediately cave.
Lifts her chin a notch. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“And I’m sure you do.”
One of her shoulders rises in a shrug. “Sir, the only emails I’ve sent you were
regarding—”
“Wanting to bang me.”
Peyton chokes on her surprise. “Sir, I assure you—”
“Stop calling me ‘sir’ and cut the bullshit, would you? It’s not doing you any favors.” All
it’s doing is pissing me off even more. “Did you or did you not send me that email?” I press a
hand against the wall behind her, getting in even closer, letting her feel my palpable anger,
letting it smother her.
At first, I’m not sure she’ll admit it and assume she’s going to do one of three things: 1. Cry because she’s embarrassed and humiliated, although now I’m looking at
her, it doesn’t seem like she’s either.
2.Lie and say it was a joke.
3.Continue denying it.
Her mouth puckers before it opens, no sound coming out as she gathers her words,
thinks them through, and strings them together.
“Rome. I . . .” Peyton looks at the carpet, then back at my face. Blows out an exasperated
puff of air. “Fine. You’re right. It was me.”
Was. Not. Expecting. That.
“Are you happy now? You figured it out. And I’m leaving, so you can live in peace. I’ll
never bother you again. You won’t have to even look at me. Not that you did anyway,” she
mumbles, crossing her arms.
“You don’t even realize how unprofessional sending me those emails were, don’t you?”
The snort that comes out of Peyton’s nose is anything but ladylike. “Please. Of course I
realize it. Why do you think it was anonymous? I’m not an idiot. You and your propriety are
the only things you give a shit about.” My eyes widen. “Oh. Look. Big guy doesn’t like it
when I swear. Well, too damn bad.”
“You watch your mouth when you’re talking to me. I’m your boss.” I sound like a real
dipshit, but I have no idea how to handle this woman. Not a single clue.
She’s confident, she’s not confident. She’s so up and down, and I can’t pinpoint exactly
what to say to make an impact.
Peyton’s laugh is loud. And when she tips her head back and lets it hit the wall behind
her, the smooth column of her throat contracts with the motion. Her smile would rival that
of the Cheshire cat. “You’re not my boss. I’m done. I can say or do whatever I want.”
“Not if you want to use me for your portfolio.”
She flips her hair. “My portfolio speaks for itself. I don’t need your company in it.”
My body inches closer. “Is that so?”
“Yeah.” Her body is so close to mine. “That’s so.”
“And you expect to get my business? You’re the most unprofessional woman I’ve ever
met in my entire life.”
This does not faze her. “Is that so?” She mimics my tone of voice and condescending
attitude.
“Yeah.” I mimic her stance and tone of voice. “That’s so.”
“I disagree.” Her eyes rake down my body, and I feel it from the center of my chest
where she’s staring, down my stomach and to the tips of my damn toes. Shit. “You’ve never
complained about my job performance before.”
“That’s because I had no idea what you were like to work with.”
“And what am I like to work with? I’ve never been written up.” She gestures toward the
break room at all the people. “Clearly my coworkers like me.”
I can’t stop the snort from leaving my nose. “They just like free food.”
A diminutive shrug, and Peyton chuckles at me.
Her smug attitude infuriates me. “That’s all you have to say?” I ask, my teeth grinding
together.
“I haven’t technically said anything.”
“Don’t get smart.”
“You’re not the boss of me.”
My mouth curves into a smirk. “That’s right, I’m not.” “Nope.” Her mouth pops the P. “Not even a little. Not anymore.”
The space between us couldn’t be any smaller, and the only thing stopping me from
shoving my greedy tongue down her throat is the flash of movement in my peripheral
vision.
Everyone is watching.
It’s like we’re a bad accident on the side of the goddamn road, and no one can take their
eyes off it, instead going slower to inspect the damage.
No one moves.
No one speaks.
No one but Peyton. “Go ahead and do it.
”
Her voice is small, but it carries just enough to reach my ears.
“Do what?” I spit out almost sarcastically.
“Kiss me.” She’s daring me, but I’m not an idiot.
I rear back like she’s kicked me in the nuts, putting space between us, hissing, “Are you
fucking insane?”
Another laugh. “That’s what I thought. McBossypants and his proper, Mr. Goody-Two
Shoes manners.”
“We. Are. At. Work,” I bite out, words halted.
“I’m not at work—I only came in to clear out my desk. You’re the only one at work here.”
So glad she can be nonchalant. “You just cannot help needling me, can you?”
“Needling you? What are you, seventy?” She’s laughing at me. “No, I’m not needling
you—obviously not.” She taps her chin. “You’re adorable when you get yourself worked up
into a snit.”
A snit.
What the fuck.
No. I do not get myself worked up into snits; I’m commanding and in control of my
impulses—unlike some people, apparently.
“I like it,” Peyton adds, crossing her arms.
“You need to stop.”
“Does it make you uncomfortable when I’m honest?”
“No. I prefer when people lie.” I haven’t rolled my eyes this hard since I was thirteen
years old.
“Well, if it’s opposite day, I love that I’m not working for you anymore, and I’m glad I
never get to see your grumpy face again.”
Wait. Huh?
I have no idea what to fucking say; but she’s in my face, staring expectantly—and so is
everyone else.
Through my clenched teeth, I say, “People are watching.”
She tilts her head. Smiles. “They are.”
“You should probably go back to your party.”
I’ve said nothing that I came down to this floor to say—that she quit and doesn’t deserve
a fucking farewell party. That she’s unprofessional—well, okay. That part I did say—that her
blue dress makes her look smoking hot to the point of distraction.
And I think about her way more often than I should, even before I realized
RoamingHands was her.
And I think about her way more often than I should.
And that I’m so goddamn mad at her for putting me through the wringer, for making
me feel more than is appropriate for an employee, and that because I’m equal parts furious and turned on—because she’s fucking hot—I’m tempted to cause a scene. And I never cause
scenes.
How has she made me behave like someone I'm not? I barely know myself anymore.
And why is it that not only am I flustered, but I want to bend her over a chair and spank
her to teach her a lesson?
CHAPTER 15
PEYTON
“You should probably go back to your party.” Rome’s voice is clipped and commanding,
hell-bent on being a hard-ass. Hell-bent on being in charge.
But I don’t want to go back to the party.
Not even a little. I’d rather stay rooted to this spot and volley insults back and forth with
him. With Rome. Who’s staring me down like I’m the last person on earth he wants to be
seen standing with.
The fire in his eyes gives him away.
He can’t take his eyes off me.
Good.
I fold my arms over my chest and say, “Or maybe I stand here and argue with you some more.”
Leaning even closer, he whispers, practically hissing, “My office in fifteen minutes, Miss
Lévêque.”
With a turn on his heel, he heads toward the elevator, his well-tailored jeans showcasing
his firm and yummy backside as he walks away. They look expensive—as if he had them
custom-made for his body.
Ten bucks says he irons them.
Shoulders tense, he sifts his tan fingers through his thick hair, stretching the back of his
shirt, while he stands impatiently waiting for the elevator, not giving me a second look.
It takes two seconds for the vultures to attack.
“Holy hell, what was that all about?” Gen asks, scaring the crap out of me, a cup in
hand.
“Yeah,” another voice intones, this one deep and definitely male. “What was that all
about?”
Startled, I turn to find Hunter O’Rourke staring at me, plate full of cake and ice cream
hovering balanced close to his mouth, forking a chunk as his gaze flicks back and forth
between the bank of elevators and me.
Chews. Swallows, one fork after another into his mouth.
He’s watching me expectantly, brows raised. “What crawled up his ass and died?”
I almost laugh. Almost. But Hunter is technically my boss, too, and I don’t want to
embarrass myself.
“Uh, we needed to tie up some loose strings.”
“What kind of loose ends?” Hunter looks me up and down as he shovels another
chocolate chunk onto his tongue. He licks it before raising his fork and pointing the tines in my direction. “He looked a little too agitated for loose ends. Did you piss in his Cheerios?”
Oh jeez.
“I might have pushed his buttons just a little.”
“On your last day. Imagine that.” He shakes his head. “I guess that’s one way to make a
dramatic exit.” Hunter takes yet another big bite of his bottomless piece of cake. “Thanks for
the slice. Good luck with life. If there are any leftovers, let me know. This is so fucking moist
and delicious.”
elevators, most likely headed to Rome’s office. With the way those two bicker and carry on,
there’s no doubt in my mind he’s heading up to give him a little shit.
Once he’s out of earshot, Gen—who’s been waiting patiently for Hunter to leave—can’t
hold it in any longer. “Okay, spill. What the hell was that thing with Rome Blackburn all
about?”
No one is paying us the least bit of attention, so I pull Gen to the side, around the
corner, and out of earshot. Gripping her shoulders, I look her in the eye, telepathically
trying to send her a message without saying the words.
“Why are you staring at me like that, you weirdo. Did he hypnotize you?”
I roll my eyes.
“For real though. If I say ‘whiskey tango foxtrot’ are you going to start jumping up and
down on one foot.”
“Gen. He knows.”
“He knows knows?” Her brows pinch together, momentarily confused. I nod, slowly,
lips thinned, waiting for her to comprehend. And when she does, her eyes widen.
“Stop it right now.” “I’m being serious.”
“Are you being serious?”
Honestly, why do I bother with her?
But Genevieve carries on caterwauling without me. “Oh my God, Peyton. He knows.
Holy crap-ola.”
“I know.” I’m freaking out, too. Somehow, I managed to hold it together when Rome
was right in front of me—in my face—when I could smell his delicious cologne, and see
every fleck in his gorgeous grey eyes. God, I wanted him to lean in and kiss me so bad. Yet,
held it strong . . . even when I told him it was me. Now? Now, I’m freaking the hell out. He.
Knows. It. Was. Me.
My friend grabs my shoulders, giving me a little shake. “This is nuts. He knows and
he didn’t make a scene. Wow. This is . . . wow.”
“I mean . . . he did have
smoke coming out of his ears, just a little.”
“How the hell did he find out?”
“I have no idea. All I know is that he busted in on the party to call me out on it. Now he
expects me to run up to his office in fifteen minutes, probably for another tongue lashing.”
Gen smirks. “A tongue lashing.” Wiggles her brows. “One can dream.”
I smack her. “Shut up.”
“Maybe he’s going to give you the kind of goingaway present that will rock your world.”
My nose scrunches. “What are you talking about?”
Gen sighs and flicks my forehead—actually flicks it. And it’s so freaking rude I’m about
to protest, but she cuts me off.
“Dude, he’s totally going to take you up on your offer to bang him.”
There is no way. Not Rome. “Do you think he wants to have sex?” Impossible. He’s so pissed at me.
“Uh, yee-ah,” Gen whisper-shouts. “Why else would he call you up to his office on your
last day? You’re done. There is nothing left for him to say. You did your exit interview with
HR, and your access has been revoked.”
That’s true.
I bite my thumbnail.
“Baby, you could have cut the sexual tension between you two with that cake knife; I
could taste the sex from here.”
“Ew, don’t say shit like that. What is wrong with you?”
“I’m serious.” She taps my cheek and I swat her hand away. “Fifty bucks says you’re
about to get bent over a desk by Rome Blackburn. Your dreams are about to come true.”
“Stop that.” But what if she’s right? My face is flaming hot, and I press my palms against
my cheeks to cool them off. “You’re making me nervous and sweaty. He’s not about to bend
me over a desk.” Although I wouldn’t hate it. “I’m sure there’s something else he wants to
talk about.”
Gen crosses her arms and taps her toe on the carpet. “Yeah, like what? You don’t work
here anymore.”
I pause, needing to give the question some thought. All my notes and day-to-day
schedules have been turned in to George in marketing. I sent my notes to the temporary
solution from another department, having typed out my daily task lists and giving her a
copy. Brief rundown and overview.
The ins and outs of managing social media. Passed over the “Social Media for
Dummies” that I found on Amazon for my replacement as a joke.
Gen is right; there is nothing left for me to do here but find the front door.