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)
He has a point; an ad has no more than one hundred words in it.
“I’m so sorry, Rome. I, uh, had a headache that day.” Harry fidgets with the handkerchief in his hand. It was given to him by his wife, embroidered with his initials and a heart that’s gag-worthy sweet. Too bad he’s using it to wipe the nervous sweat pouring from his temples.
It’s not a good look for Harry—or anyone for that matter.
“You’re giving me a headache.” Bossman surrenders to his chair, head in his hand.
“I’m sorry, Rome, I—”
“No, Harold, I’m the one who’s sorry.” His meaning couldn’t be more clear: I’m sorry I hired you. I regret it. I intend to fire you if you fuck up one more time. “There will be no second chances.”
He straightens to his full height, addressing the room of minions.
“For the love of all that’s holy, someone give me something by noon.”
My fingers, about to tap out another message to my friends, cease their mission.
It’s ten fifteen.
He wants ideas by noon.
I have an appointment with him at eleven.
Shit.
When my eyes go up from the small screen cradled in my hands, they connect with a set of steel-gray ones. Dark brows, an expressionless line. Full lips, impassive.
He is so good-looking.
Beautiful, even.
Such a waste on a man so emotionally unattached.
Still.
When our eyes lock—a little too long to be coincidental—heat rises up my chest, neck, and then cheeks. It colors my entire face and has me reaching to press a palm there.
It’s warm, too.
I shiver.
I have an appointment with him at eleven.
And he isn’t going to like what I have to say.
Chapter One
ROME
Why the fuck is she staring at me like that?
She hasn’t said a goddamn word in—I check my watch—three minutes.
Allowing the seconds to tick by despite her discomfort, or possibly because of it, I let the silence stretch in front of us unpleasantly long. Uncomfortable and challenging situations are what I do best, and I thrive on them.
Tic.
Tock.
No worries, my sardonic smile says to her. I have plenty of time. An entire twenty minutes penciled in just for her, per her request, to sit here pissing away my precious time. Waiting for her to open that pretty mouth and speak her mind.
Instead, she shifts in her seat, the gray skirt she’s unable to tug down hugging her hips. It’s tight and prim, complemented by a stark, white button-down shirt. Black glasses rest primly on the tip of her nose, the dark slash of eyebrows above their rims, raised in surprise.
She doesn’t look like any marketing coordinator I’ve ever met, and I certainly had no idea there was someone who looked like her working for me. Under me.
Four floors down.
She looks like a goddamn accountant. Or secretary. Or the principal of an East Coast prep school.
I swivel in my leather chair before plucking a pen off my desk and pinching it between my fingers, studying it with half-hooded eyes.
Feign boredom.
I’m anything but.
Click the end cap once, twice, watching this woman’s large brown eyes track my movements from the other side of my mammoth desk. Her brows pinch, thinly veiled patience wearing thin.
Peyton.
Shit, when I saw her name in my appointment calendar, I assumed the person walking through the door would be male. Imagine my surprise when the delicate wrist gently knocking on my doorframe belonged to the woman seated at my conference table this morning.
She was on her cell phone during that meeting. I’ll bet my right nut sac on it.
I glance at the sheet of paper and stare at each letter of her name; I’ve never had a sit-down, or meeting, with this woman since she’s been with my company.
Five years.
Even with a solid track record for results—according to my secretary’s snooping—she’s never been in my office. Peyton something-or-other, whose last name I can’t fucking pronounce and won’t bother to try.
Why bother? She has one prissy foot out the door of the company I built.
I part my lips and put us both out of our misery. “Does your supervisor know you’re here?”
“Not yet,” she begins, spine straightening, breasts straining against the starched shirt. “I wanted . . .” She pauses, inhaling a nervous breath.
“Why didn’t you go to HR first? That’s protocol.”
I like being direct. Favor bluntness over candy-coated bullshit, no matter what flavor someone is trying to feed me.
“I wanted to give you my two-weeks’ notice in person. I thought it would be personable.”
Personable.
Is she fucking serious? Who does that?
“You’re quitting. Do you think I give a shit about being personable?” Or polite? Or her trying to be considerate?
Those traits have no place in this office.
It’s an office, not a daycare center; we’re here to make money, not pander to hurt feelings.
Another pause from Peyton before she shakily says, “I thought since it was your company, it would behoove me to not burn any bridges.”