middle school dance. I begged Hunter to call her and tell her I had a wart on my lip that was
highly contagious and didn’t want her to see it. Spent the entire rest of the dance hiding in
the shadows like a pussy, because I was too chickenshit to dance with her.
Hunter and I were always doing crap like that—swapping places when we could and
causing mischief. It’s a good thing we were neighbors and best friends, and not identical
twins, because, Jesus, we’d have gotten into so much trouble.
I fiddle with a corn chip, breaking off one end and popping it in my mouth, chewing to
buy myself some time.
“You’re being really weird about this,” Hunter grumbles. “I have a right to know. It’s my company, too.”
God, I hate when he’s right.
“Fine. I found her at a coffee shop. She needed a job, I offered her one, end of story.”
Hunter scoffs mid-sip, shooting strawberry margarita into the air. “Stop acting so blasé
about it. We both know you had to convince her.”
“Not true.” Nope. She forced my hand by being a hard-ass, because that is the sassy,
strong-willed woman she is. And with every fucking unrelenting word from her mouth, I
wanted to kiss her. Devour her. And I am not telling Hunter that. “Technically I could have
figured a marketing plan out without her help.” Eventually.
I casually take a sip of my drink while Hunter shoves his mouth full of chips.
“God, do you actually believe your own bullshit? You know we can’t do it without her.”
A smile plays at his lips as he chews. “When is our first meeting with her?”
I cock a brow. “What do you mean, our?”
“I have skin in this game, too. I want to make sure we’re on the right track, keep you in
line.”
The last thing I want is him meddling. “I can handle it.”
What is Hunter up to?
He’s never interested in the marketing campaigns—I can’t recall one damn meeting he’s
attended. What he is interested in is tents; he has some weird obsession with the innovation
of new tent designs, and whenever we come out with a new style, he wants to be a part of
every aspect of it.
He’s the one that tests them all out. He has no hand in how they’re advertised,
produced, or sold.
That’s my area of expertise. Hunter shakes his head and brushes his hands off into the black napkin resting on his
lap. “From here, it doesn’t seem like you have a handle on anything. It actually seems like
you’re drowning.” He makes a fish face. “Blub. Blub. Blub.”
“I’m not drowning. My marketing department is incompetent.”
“Our marketing department.”
I roll my eyes.
He points his rigid finger at me. “This is all on you, boss, I’m out in the field pitching
tents.” He pops another chip loaded with salsa in his mouth. “I have her info, I’ll set up a
meeting.”
“Please don’t.”
“But I’m gonna.” He rubs his hands together. “I’ve been bored, and this is gonna be so
fun.”
Why do I get the feeling this is going to be more than a meeting about a women’s line?
***
“Nice place,” Hunter says, looking around and pulling out a wooden chair in the back of
the coffee house, away from everyone else. “Very modern with the urban country décor. Oh
look.” He points behind me with a giant smile. “Shiplap.”
Jesus H Christ.
I drag my hand over my face; this is not going to end well.
Sliding into the booth next to Hunter, he scowls down at the seat.
“What the hell are you doing?” he asks, eyeing me up and down.
What is his problem? “Taking a seat, what the hell does it look like?”
“If you sit there, it’s going to look like we’re one of those weird couples who sit next to each other rather than across.”
“The fact that you think we’d even make a decent couple repulses me. You’re not my
type.”
He’s nonplused. “I’m just saying; I hate those people. They make me sick.”
“We have to sit next to each other; this is a meeting. When she gets here, she’ll sit
there.” I point to the seat across from us. “And we can talk easier.”
“Well, she’s not here, and we both look like idiots.” He motions to the other side of the
table. “Sit over there for fuck’s sake.”
“Now it just looks like we’re having a lover’s squabble.” I laugh as he nudges me with his
hip, trying to edge me off the booth bench.
“You think I want a woman to see me jammed in a booth with you? I’ll lose all
credibility.”
Whatever. I’m not in the mood to argue with him, so I scoot out, taking the seat in the
corner, placing my iPad on the table in time to see Peyton rounding the corner from the
small entry of the coffee house.
Her dark, shoulder-length hair is wavy and mussed today—as if she spent the morning
on the beach, soaking up the salty air. Long, summery skirt in a neutral shade of gray, it
hugs her swaying hips. Her tight tank top is gray; necklace, silver and hanging between her
breasts.
I bet those tits are perfect.
Goddammit, she’s so hot.
And those lips? They’re glossy and natural, shimmering in the sunlight streaming
through the window, begging me to do naughty things with them, or maybe I’m just a
horndog knowing she wanted to sleep with me.
Christ.
Scanning the coffee house, Peyton spots Hunter and me in the back, a slow smile
curving her lips when we make eye contact. Then her gaze flickers to Hunter.
She gives us a curt wave before making her way toward us.
It isn’t until she’s seated beside me, and the waft of her citrus perfume hits me. I should
have stayed on Hunter’s side of this tiny table.
I’m a fucking moron.
Hunter—that dickhead—stretches one of his jean-covered legs over the spare chair,
forcing Peyton to fill the space next to me. As she slides in, her firm little rear end doing a
shimmy to get comfortable, I shoot my best friend a look that only garners a perverted
wiggle of his eyebrows.
Asshole.
God, I hate him sometimes.
“Well hello, boys.” Peyton’s greeting is flirty and cute, and her slim shoulder brushes
mine as she situates herself. Squirms her ass. The last time I’d been this close to her was
four weeks ago. Christ. Just thinking about how soft her skin had been as I’d grazed my
nose and lips over her neck and cheeks. How much I’d wanted her to turn her head a
fraction so I could taste her lips. Every part of me—and I mean every part of me—was tuned
into her body. The softness. Her scent. And yet she hadn’t taken the chance I’d thrown at
her. Get it together, Blackburn. Business. Meeting. “Hunter, I’m so glad you could make it. I
would love to get your perspective on the line.”
He drapes his arm over the empty chair. “Mr. Tightpants here threw a mighty stink
about it, too. Went on and on about how he wanted to spend time with you alone, didn’t
you, grumpkins?”
What?
“No, I didn’t.” I sound like a freaking child and clear my throat. Starting over, I use a
more even tone. “I did not say that.”
“Well, maybe not those words exactly, but you did insist
I stay home.” He takes a slow
sip of the ice water in front of him. “I think he has a crush on you, Peyton.”
“Hunter,” I snap, because Jesus Christ, why is he like this? Why is he talking? “Be a
goddamn professional.”
The bastard shrugs. “When have I ever been professional?” If he had gum in his mouth,
he would have snapped it just to piss me off.
We stare each other down, silently communicating:
I’m going to kill you.
No, you’re not. I’m your best friend.
I don’t care if you’re my best friend. You’re a dead man.
You like her. Admit it.
Never.
Peyton taps her pen on the table like a judge bangs his grovel. “Sorry to disrupt this
staredown, or pissing match, or whatever it is you two are doing—but I think we should get
to work. It’s seven, and this place closes at nine . . .”
From the corner of my eye, I catch a blush on her cheek when she pushes her silky hair
behind her delicate ear.
Huh, have I ever noticed that she wears earrings?
And from this angle, her lips are fuller than I expected, her eyelashes long, fluttering
open and closed as she sifts through her papers.
My eyes travel down the column of her neck, smooth and long, the perfect length for me to explore. Her collarbones are prominent, guiding my eyes to the tops of her breasts.
I shift in my seat.
From where I’m sitting, the neckline of her shirt is low enough for me to ogle the lace of
her white bra supporting her perfectly sized tits. A handful. That’s all I need.
I bet her nipples—
“Yo, lover boy. Her eyes are up here, and the ad campaign is on the table,” Hunter says,
a nod to the table, a giant smile on his smug face as I’m caught red-handed.
I adjust in my seat, sit farther from Peyton, and take in the ad copy she’s spread across
the table.
Fuck, they’re good.
They’re so much better than what we’ve received from every other agency, including our
in-house team.
The colors are vivid and strong, yet feminine. The typeface bold and inspiring, and the
photographs she chose from the photo shoot really show off the angle we’re going for; active
wear for all types of women.
“So I was hoping to set Roam, Inc. apart from all the other outdoor companies by
highlighting its best attributes.” She turns to me and wiggles her eyebrows. Fuck, she’s cute.
“Meaning, look at all these gorgeous women.” She lays down picture after picture. “What do
all these women have in common?”
“They’re real,” I answer, noticing every shape and size.
“Exactly. They’re real. It was one of the things I loved about this line at first. How you
showcased women from every walk of life: old, young, short, tall, curvy, petite. You covered
all your bases and put them in all different outdoor gear highlighting their best features.
When I saw the pictures for this photo shoot, I kept thinking, this was a social media campaign I was excited to work on because the possibilities of promoting were endless, but
along the way, I feel like you lost the vision. You put it on hold, lost momentum, and now
that it’s time, you’re at a loss.”
Nailed it. That’s exactly what happened.
“But,” she continues. “Not only can I bring this ad campaign back to life from the dead,
we can have one hell of a launch.”
Turning away from me, bent over enough on the bench that her pert little ass is directed
right in my line of sight, Peyton digs through her bag on the floor.
I take that moment to observe her backside—the same backside that is still the
wallpaper on my computer. Firm and heart-shaped, begging for my fingers to press into it.
Squeeze.
From the other side of the table, Hunter coughs loudly, covering his mouth and kicking
me under the table like he did when we were in middle school.
Busted again.
He shakes his head at me, disgusted. “You really do need a babysitter,” he hisses just as
she’s sitting back up.
For the next half hour, Peyton presents us with multiple campaign ideas—all varying
slightly, but centering around the main focus: outdoor adventures for every woman.
Novice. Intermediate. Expert.
Stay-at-home moms and cross-trainers. Hikers, backpackers, and someone wanting to
walk in their neighborhood.
I don’t know how she managed it, but the whole thing is fucking brilliant and it chaps
my ass that I didn’t think of any of this myself.
Or that no one else on my payroll did either. Smacking his hands together, Hunter stands—makes a giant production out of
stretching his hands over his head—yawns, and makes an audible sound. Why is he so damn
dramatic all the time?
“Damn, this is some good stuff, Peyton.” Another fake yawn.” I’m sure the boss already
has which one he wants to choose in his head. I approve all of them.”
Not that it matters.
His approval means jack shit to me right now, especially after the half-assed
performance reports he recently turned in. He can have an opinion when he gets his work
done properly.
He checks his watch—a Roam, Inc. brand with thick, waterproof leather wristband that
can be submerged up to one hundred feet—and declares, “Well, kids, playtime is over for
should take a nap.” He wiggles his eyebrows and taps the tabletop. “Nice work, Peyton.
Should have hired you for marketing, not all that social media bullshit. Now we have to
outsource you and really pay you the big bucks.”
He gives us a two-finger salute, clicks his heels, and takes off.
Smug bastard.
And because he left early, Peyton and I are stuck sitting awkwardly next to each other,
on the same side of the table. We look like that couple—if we were a couple.
Avoiding my eyes, Peyton takes a dainty sip of water. Caps the bottle. Sets it down.
Clears her throat.
Fingers a few pictures that have been laid out on the table in neat little rows, and finally
says, “Can you say something please? I’m kind of dying over here.”
I scratch the side of my jaw, my stubble coarsely scraping my fingertips. “Are you looking for more compliments?”
She turns toward me, vulnerability in her eyes, my approval important to her. She is
beautiful, extremely talented, witty, and dynamic, yet my approval is important to her.
“I’m looking to see if I did a satisfactory job. Did I present you with something you
would feel confident using? Did I give you any kind of idea that you could be excited about?”
Excited. Just the way she says it . . .
Hell, I’m excited about the tank top she’s wearing, how I’ve seen the cup of her lacy bra
five times in half an hour. Yeah, I counted. And yeah, I’m excited.
That she’s here and that she brought me a proposal we can definitely work with.
The campaign is going to be amazing.
Still, I cannot help giving her a hard time. “I’m going to have to think about it.”
She blinks a few times, shock registering across her face.
“Oh.” More blinking. “Yes, of course.”
She slowly and methodically begins gathering the materials laid out on the table, gently
placing each photograph in a folder labeled “visuals.” Takes a few hand-drawn commercial
boards and slides them into a leather portfolio. The papers go in yet another folder, along
with a few articles from our competitors and their ad campaigns geared toward women.
When she’s done collecting her materials, Peyton rises from the table, too, slinging her
bag over her shoulder and hands me a blue folder.
My fingers take it, keeping my gaze fixed on her down-turned head, all confidence
washed away in seconds.
I desperately want to tip her chin up, force her to look at me, to see that I’m just playing
hardball, but I don’t. This is business, and even though I’m going to easily hire her and take
her on, she needs to learn not everything comes so easily. If she wants to succeed, then she needs to see this side of the business, the desperation.
We scoot out of the tight corner and make our way out of the coffee house where we
both pause to say goodbye.
Like the professional she’s trying to portray, she holds out her hand to me. “Thank you
for letting me present to you today, Mr. Blackburn.”
Her formality makes me smile. At least she hasn’t sir’d me tonight.
I take her hand in mine, the feeling of her palm soft and slender, the perfect fit against
my large hand. “Thank you for taking the time to come up with these ideas. I’ll get back to
you soon.”
She nods and swallows hard. I can see she wants to say something else, but she holds
back, tamping down that wild tongue. That’s my girl. Shit. No. Not my girl. Professional.
Instead, she puts a few feet of distance between us. “I look forward to hearing from you,
Mr. Blackburn.”
Taking a step forward, cutting down the distance, I pinch her chin between my fingers
and force her to look at me headon. “Call me, Rome. I like the way it sounds coming from
your mouth.” More than I should.
With one last look in her eyes, I spin on my heel and make my way toward my
brownstone. I’m turned on and fucking horny as hell. I have some business to take care of,
and it doesn’t have to deal with Roam, Inc.
CHAPTER 19
PEYTON
I can’t breathe.
Even three hours later, tucked under my sheets, the meeting long over with, I still can’t breathe.
Why weren’t they sitting next to each other? Why did I have to sit next to Rome?