Virtually. Virtually impossible does not give me confidence.
“What about you? You created the email address.”
She shrugs. “Don’t worry about me. I have ways around all of that.”
Taking a deep breath, she says, “What’s important here is that we silence Kimberly and
Viv, since they were there when you wrote it, and act as cool as possible.”
“Silence them? What are you, the mob?”
She shrugs. “You can never be too careful.”
“Genevieve.” I laugh, the action hurting my temples.
I cringe. “I forgot about Viv and Kimberly, but we’re not going to silence them.”
“They gossip about everything. Which is why we need to make sure they don’t
remember anything from last night.”
“You’re really scary right now. Knock it off, you weirdo.” Nonetheless, I sit up and right
my suit dress, smoothing down the many wrinkles. “I’m going to grab some more coffee and
swing by Viv’s desk. Will you check with Kimberly for me?”
“On it.” Standing, Gen turns to leave when she says, “What if”—she pauses and bites her
bottom lip—“what if he writes you back?”
I laugh at the absurdity of the thought. Rome Blackburn emailing me back? As if. “Trust
me, Gen, he’s not going to write back.” I snort. “That’s not anything we have to worry about.
It’s never going to happen.”
CHAPTER 6
ROME
“What the hell was that memo about?” Hunter barges into my office without even
knocking—not all that unusual, but still pretty damn obnoxious.
He has no fucking manners.
Frantically, I click out of my email inbox and adjust my tie, doing my best to appear
normal, as opposed to the way I feel.
Disgusted.
Intrigued.
Casual and businesslike—that’s what I am—not someone trying to figure out who sent
me the email. No fucking way. I won’t even dignify that piss-poor excuse for an email by
giving it any more attention. Sure as hell haven’t been dissecting it, word for word, line by line.
This has nothing to do with me being turned on by it and everything to do with the
welfare of the company. Not one fucking bit.
I cough.
Divert. “When are you going to learn to knock?”
Instead of being affronted, Hunter plops his ass down in the chair across from my desk
and takes up his usual position: boots propped on the edge of my desk, hands behind head,
brows raised, and mouth curved into a cocky smirk.
“Tell me what the deal is with that memo.”
I straighten an already straight stack of paperwork. Move a pen into place. Click my
mouse.
My lips purse. I tap the desktop with an index finger. “Do you have the data for the beta
testing done on the new tents? Why are you in here?”
“Pffh, nah.” He laughs. “Didn’t have time last night to put it in a spreadsheet. I was
otherwise occupied.” Hunter wiggles his dark brows.
The holes in his jeans and the dark coffee stain on his plaid shirt—coupled with the
work boots—break the dress code, and should have me sending him home to change, but
right now I couldn’t care less.
“I need those beta tests, Hunter.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know.” He waves me off. “I’ll get to them to you. Relax, man. Did
someone get caught looking at porn?”
“No.” Thank God.
“Did someone sext someone?” Wiggles his eyebrows.
“Not exactly.” Leaning back in my chair, I grumble unhappily. “But close enough.” Fascinated, Hunter claps his hands in front of him. Rubs them together gleefully. “Tell
me more.”
Hunter is my best friend and confidant; I know if I show him the email, he’ll keep his
loud mouth shut—at least to other people—but there is no doubt in my mind he’d give me a
giant rash of shit about it if the opportunity arose. Dirt on me doesn’t come along often, and
this is solid roasting material.
Fuckin’ A.
I adjust my shirt collar. “Someone sent me a highly improper message through
company email. Very out of line.”
I sound like a goddamn prude.
Like—my grandmother.
“Improper?” Rising to his feet, my best friend rounds the desk in two seconds flat,
leaning greedily over my shoulder to see my screen. “Show me. Show me right fucking now.”
“Quit breathing down my neck.”
“The email is anonymous.”
“Even more fun. Let me see, let me see.”
He shoves me with his elbow—begs like a five-year-old—probably because the two of us
don’t have secrets.
“This stays between us,” I warn sternly.
He nods. “Yeah, yeah, yeah.”
I level him with one more hard stare before cracking open my laptop and giving him
room to ogle the glowing screen and the inbox displayed.
Gleefully, Hunter’s gluttonous eyes bounce back and forth just as mine had, a smirk forming on his face as he reads. I read along with him, and there’s that sentence I keep
getting stuck on: I want to bang you so hard.
Jesus Christ, who even says that anymore?
Fuck. Screw. Have sex.
But bang?
Hunter practically vibrates beside me. “Well, shit, this is—”
“Appalling? I know. I’m going to have to—”
“Fucking awesome.” Standing back, Hunter lets out a howl. “Dude. How lucky are you?”
I can’t w ith him right now . . .
“Jesus, go sit down.”
For once, the asshole listens. Thank. God.
His hand scratches the stubble on his jaw as he walks back to his chair. Dumping his
giant body into the leather seat, he crosses one leg over the other and studies me.
“You’re going to reply.” He says it casually, yet it detonates the statement in my office.
“Reply? Are you nuts? No. I’m not dignifying that with a response.”
“Why the hell not?” His voice raises an octave; an impossible feat given how deep it is.
“Are you insane?”
I give my eyes a healthy roll. “Yes, O’Rourke, I’m the insane one here.”
“Yeah—you kind of are.”
“You’re crazy if you think for one second I’m going to message back an employee.” I’m
hissing and I don’t care.
He has lost his damn mind. I literally just sent a company-wide memo warning people
about offensive behavior; I’m not going to fucking perpetuate the behavior myself.
His hands go up in retreat. “Relax. Relax. Just hear me out for two seconds, okay?” “You have two seconds.”
“Well. What if it’s that girl in logistics who wears that pink cardigan every Wednesday?
She’s kind of cute in a ‘I have cats and no boyfriends’ way.”
“I have no clue who the fuck you’re talking about.”
“That, my friend, is your problem. You don’t spend any time on the lower floors. You
have no clue who any of your employees are.”
“And I suppose you do?”
Hunter snorts. “Of course I do.”
“I know who the important ones are.” Even to my own ears, I sound like a complete
asshole.
He chuckles. “You’re such a pompous windbag.”
He’s not wrong. Not even a little.
“I don’t have time to know all my employees or to respond
to inappropriate emails.”
“Right, I get it.” He nods knowingly. Patronizing? I can’t tell.
“Get what?” A dull ache starts to throb behind my eyes.
“You’re afraid it’s a guy.”
Oh shit.
I hadn’t even considered that, but now he’s mentioned it, a seed of doubt pricks at my
brain.
Brow pinched, I narrow my eyes at Hunter. “Are you fucking mental? That note was not
written by a guy.”
“It could easily be a guy. Haven’t you ever caught an episode of Catfish? Someone could
be catfishing you. That’s all I’m saying. Like, a dude. Oh.” He snaps his fingers and sits a
little taller. “Could be one of your competitors trying to throw you off. Write them back, ask to see a dick pic.”
I rub my temples, willing this nightmare to end. “You can slither out of my office now.”
“Okay, okay, let’s not ask for a dick pic just yet. There’s an easy way to discover if it’s
female. Read me what the drinks were again?”
“Are you serious?”
“Yes, hit me with them.” He makes a gesture with his hand, asking for the info.
Sighing, I scan the email and say, “Uh, three margaritas, Swedish fish shots and a beer .
. . because it was free.”
“Bingo.” Hunter holds up his finger. “Total chick. No self-respecting gay man would
pack on the sugar with Swedish fish shots, and women are the only ones who get free
drinks. You’re in the clear, probably not a catfish situation.” He looks smug. “Although, now
we’re in a whole new ballgame. Who’s the sex-acholic who wants to bang you? My money is
still on pink cardigan. She seems like she’d be kinky out of the workplace.”
“Based on what?”
“She makes eye contact every time I walk past.”
“How often do you walk past?”
“Often enough.”
“And she’s kinky because she looks you in the eye,” I deadpan.
“She doesn’t just look me in the eye—she looks me in the eye, if you know what I mean.”
“Can you stop talking for a goddamn minute?” He’s giving me a fucking headache. My
head is pounding.
Elbows on my desk, I rub my temples back and forth.
I want to bang you so hard.
I can’t imagine someone who wears a pink cardigan every Wednesday sending me a note like this.
“You’re definitely firing back a note. It’s the only way to find out who she is.”
Oh, someone is getting fired all right.
“How about I don’t and instead get back to my fucking job.”
“Nah, I like my idea better.”
Of course he does, because he’s a horny moron.
Once again, he gets up and crosses to my desk, shoving me aside and strong-arming his
way to the computer. Once on his knees, he jacks me in the rib cage until he has room to
type. Fingers poise at the keyboard, hovering.
As he begins typing, he talks out loud.
“Dear Foxy Lady—”
“What? No. I would never fucking say that.” I try to move him out of the way, but he
stays put and continues to type.
“Dear Yours. Thank you for your correspondence.”
My nostrils flare. “Are you fucking serious?”
He ignores me. “As you’ve noticed, my underwear is twisted tightly and shoved so far
up my own ass that I’m often rather unpleasant to be around.”
Rolling my eyes, I sit back and let the douche have his moment, but there is no way in
hell I’m sending an email.
“But let me assure you,” he pauses, “my sensible cotton briefs (probably in a boring
white) are untwisted because of your email, and I’ve never felt so free. Freeballing, one
might say.” Okay, that part makes me laugh. Idiot. “Your email might be the thing I need to
bang the bastard right out of me; I’d like to return the favor. How about a seat on my lap
during the Staff Update meeting—which are a complete waste of everyone’s time when an email would serve the same purpose.” He gives me a sidelong smirk and I flip him off.
“Please RSVP with a Xerox copy of your ass so I know whose ass to park in my lap.
Respectfully yours, Romey Bear. P.S.: Let’s fuck.”
With a wide, satisfied grin, Hunter reads over his email and is about to move the cursor
toward the SEND button, when I leap out of my chair and smack his hand away.
“What the fuck were you about to do?”
“Hit send. Duh.” He shakes his hand, cradling it to his chest as he stands. “Why are you
so sensitive?”
“Why are you such a pervert?”
“I’m not a pervert. I’m normal. You’re the one who needs to loosen up. Relax, dude.
Chill. Have some fun. Jesus.”
“I can’t send an email like that.”
“But . . .”
I shift in my seat, uncomfortably. “But . . . nothing.”
He stands, swiping at any carpet dust that might have gotten on the knees of his dirty
jeans. “If you don’t send this one, think of sending a different one. What’s the worst thing
that could happen? You actually having some goddamn fun? Flirt? Get a hard-on for
something other than a spreadsheet?”
Shit.
He’s right; one time I did get a hard-on when I saw the company’s year-end fiscal
spreadsheet. It was gorgeous and sexy.
Sue me; money turns me on, okay?
It’s not a crime.
Hunter’s bear paw clamps down on my shoulder. Squeezes. “Just think about it.” “Right.” My eyes roll because I have nothing else to say.
I’m not writing that woman back.
Whoever she is.
The idea is ludicrous.
When Hunter leaves—finally—he has the good manners to close my door behind him
with a click, shutting me in with my thoughts.
No way am I getting any work done right now; I might as well pack up my shit and leave
for the day—but it’s only mid-morning.
Fuck.
His ridiculous email glows back at me in black and white, a parody of a love letter. A
cheap imitation of flirting. I’d never say any of those things.
What I would say is . . .
What would I say?
I scratch at the stubble on my chin, not having enough time this morning to shave. The
whiskers are dark and coarse, covering my strong jaw and under my chin. Bristly.
What would I say?
I delete the bullshit my friend just typed out, eyes fixated on that blinking, beckoning
cursor.
Say something . . . it tells me. Go ahead, you chicken shit.
Me? Scared?
That’s a load of horse crap. I’m not afraid of anything but squirrels, and not a single soul
knows about that except me.
Little beady-eyed bastards.
To Whom It May Concern: As you’ve probably realized, you’ve caused quite a stir with your little declaration. It
was unprofessional and could be misconstrued as assault, which I’m sure wasn’t your
intention. I’ve held off responding, mostly because there is nothing to say; this nonissue
will be dealt with by human resources in partnership with IT, and when they find you . . .
you’ll be fired.
Your boss,
Rome Blackburn.
Postscript: You were obviously inebriated when you composed the email, and it was
the result of alcohol.
There.
Professional. To the point. Authoritative?
I’m
the boss; I’m in control, not some mystery woman who probably works in the damn
mailroom.
***
What the hell am I doing here?
I tell myself it’s because I need a firmer grasp on my company.
Not for any other reason.
None.
I don’t usually find myself on the lower floors; mostly because I hole up in my office,
head down, hands clicking away at my keyboard. Or I’m on the phone, taking important
calls.
I have no reason to venture anywhere but my office, bathroom, boardroom, or break
room for coffee—and it’s Lauren’s job to fetch that for me. But here I am.
And I feel like a tiger, pacing the aisles of the marketing department, slowly stalking up
the middle of cubicles, tight-lipped smile and a nod to anyone who glances in my direction.
Anyone scattering like a rat to move out of my way.
“Hello, Mr. Blackburn.”
“Oh. Oh, uh, Mr. Blackburn. Uh, Rome. Uh. Mr. . . .”
“I’m just preparing that file for you, sir. I . . . I didn’t forget, I . . .”
A few papers go flying.
Loud coughing.
More than one folder rises as a disguise.
What am I dealing with here? A department full of pussies? Christ.
I scan the aisle, thirty-something cubicles—some empty, most of them occupied—one by
one, examining every face staring back at me. Staring for . . . anything.
A sign.
A tell.
Glimmer of a guilty expression.
For her.
She’s here, in this department, I can taste it.
I wet my lips, smiling at George Flanders, my longest in-house ad exec. George might be
a floundering old-timer, but his wife makes fucking great pie.
A perverted joke Hunter once told me about “slicing pie” comes to mind and I chuckle,
rounding the corner to the break room. Every floor has one; a nice-sized tile room with a
fridge, a few booths, sink, counter, microwave, coffeepot, and Keurig. Plenty of snacks and
bagels brought in every Friday by a vending distributor. I shove through the heavy door and pop my head in, then settle my eyes on the young
woman in the corner, magazine raised to her face, one hand holding a sandwich. Her
oversized dress is a hideous hue of olivebrown, an outdated article I’ve only seen in old
movies. A can of sparkling water is on the table in front of her, and she doesn’t hear me
enter the room and lean against the counter.
I regard her, my gaze sweeping up her crossed legs, to the puffy fold of her giant dress