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)
Fucking imbecile.
I run my hand through my hair and stare at the picture one more time, her words ringing through my head.
I like it when you roll your sleeves up.
It makes me want to bang you even more.
Hell . . .
Is Hunter right? Do I need to loosen up more?
I do spend a ridiculous amount of my time at the office, but I justify it because I don’t have a girlfriend or a family—so what else am I supposed to do with my damn time? Sit at home twiddling my thumbs? No. I pour that time into my company.
I used to be fun. Sort of.
Used to go out more, but that was before the company blew up and I had employees to take care of. Jobs to create and a brand to build. A brand I freaking love.
Love.
Something I haven’t thought much of—until now.
Until those damn emails have me up at night, and now I’m thinking about stupid shit like loosening up and having some fun. Which is so unlike me.
My laser like focus is for shit. Lately, I’ve been spending more time at a little coffee shop by my house, watching people. Hell, I’ve even thought about getting a dog.
Jesus, Hell really has begun freezing over.
Giving in, I lean forward in my seat and decide to take Hunter’s advice and send a reply—a scary decision I know—but at this point, he’s right, what do I really have to lose?
* * *
From: RomeBlackburn@RoamInc.com
To: HandsRomingMyBody@RoamInc.com
Miss WhatEverYourNameIs,
I regret to inform you that there will be no butt shots coming your direction. Being the CEO of this company, I like to keep all my body parts private, including pictures of my ass. I suspect you were expecting such a response from me, but I will tell you this: that ass of yours is officially the wallpaper on my desktop. Thanks for that.
Postscript: Still trying to find out who you are while I stare at your inappropriate ass cheeks.
* * *
From: HandsRomingMyBody@RoamInc.com
To: RomeBlackburn@RoamInc.com
Did you hear that? That was my mouth hitting the floor from your response. Allow me to do a quick recap here:
You think my ass is sexy (Thanks, I do lunges.)
If my ass is your wallpaper, I’d love to see the proof.
You’re warming up to me.
Admit it, you look forward to these emails. If you didn’t, my ass wouldn’t be parked on your laptop screen.
Postscript: What does your middle initial stand for? Humor me. I’m a details kind of girl . . .
* * *
From: RomeBlackburn@RoamInc.com
To: HandsRomingMyBody@RoamInc.com
Miss—
You realize, in addition to dealing with this situation with you, I also have to keep this pesky little Fortune 500 company afloat? Flirting and evading your prying questions should be the last of my worries.
For your edification: see attached picture of my desktop. I will admit your ass isn’t all that bad to look at.
Postscript: RMB – Rome Michael Blackburn
* * *
From: HandsRomingMyBody@RoamInc.com
To: RomeBlackburn@RoamInc.com
You know, Rome, the more details you share with me, the more I want to . . . you know. Bang you. Sorry for putting it that way, but I was drunk and impulsive and the word stuck. The more details you share, the more I want to cuddle you. Thoughts on snuggling on the freshly cleaned copy machines? Or a freshly cleaned set of white cotton sheets?
Postscript: Your middle name makes you human. I like to know the middle names of people I want to yell at. **shrugs**
* * *
From: RomeBlackburn@RoamInc.com
To: HandsRomingMyBody@RoamInc.com
First of all, the word “bang” doesn’t bother me—I’m a man, I can handle words like bang, screw, and fuck. Make love? No. Cuddling? Hell no. I haven’t done that since my . . . never mind. I don’t like cuddling. Cuddling is for sissies. Real men DO NOT CUDDLE.
Confession time: were you one of the people who had sex on the copy machine in the supply closet? I’ll be sending the cleaning bill your way.
* * *
From: HandsRomingMyBody@RoamInc.com
To: RomeBlackburn@RoamInc.com
No. I’m not the one who “got it on” (cue Marvin Gaye) on top of the copy machines, but I know who did. Send me the cleaning bill, and I’ll pass it on to the guilty parties. Yes, plural. It happens more regularly than you’d probably like. Maybe you should tighten up that no fraternizing policy you’re so fond of?
And for the record: if I were to screw in the office, it sure as hell wouldn’t be in the copy room. That’s so tacky. Gross. It would be in your office, pressed against one of your big windows. Better yet . . . bent over that massive . . . desk of yours.
Postscript: I probably shouldn't tell you this, but what the hell? I’ve had daydreams of office sex with you in each and every board meeting.
Chapter Ten
PEYTON
A man is standing next to my table at the coffee shop near my apartment, casting a shadow over my paperwork and blocking my light.