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)
Behoove.
Isn’t she just fucking adorable? I suddenly imagine her from a small town in the middle of nowhere USA, where parents teach their children manners and spend quality time together on the weekends. Family movie nights and all that feel-good bullshit.
I snort, clicking my pen.
Peyton. What kind of a name is that?
A man’s name, that’s what.
“You didn’t want to burn any bridges,” I repeat with a sneer, thumbing the cream-colored paper she set on my desk when she waltzed in. Her letter of resignation printed on résumé paper. “I don’t just burn bridges. I drain the rivers and fill them with concrete.”
Then I go camping along the banks of the rivers remains; I own an outdoor adventure company, so finding a tent would be easy.
Peyton’s mouth puckers, surprised or shocked or disgusted by my candor, I can’t tell.
I skim the paper in my hands. “It doesn’t say where you’re headed next. Do you not need a letter of recommendation? Because I must say, Peyton”—I lean back in my chair, letting it squeak on its rusted, old hinges—“quitting is a piss-poor way of wringing one out of me.”
Her head shakes, and the dark hair pulled back in a tidy bun at the nape of her neck doesn’t budge an inch. All it’s missing is a hairnet.
I let my eyes drift from the tips of her shiny leather heels to the collar of her starched dress shirt as she sits across from me.
My eyes narrow. “Do you always dress like that for work?”
She glances at her blouse, touching a pearl button fastened against her throat. “When I have an important meeting, yes.”
“It’s a goddamn outdoor adventures company and you have a librarian bun in your hair.”
She stiffens, eyes falling to the blue silk tie knotted around my throat, the broad shoulders of my suit coat, no doubt labeling me a hypocrite. Tough shit; it’s my company. I do whatever the fuck I want, and I too have an important meeting this afternoon with advertisers. I’m not about to show up in a goddamn lumberjack plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up to my elbows.
Peyton fiddles with a gold hoop earring. “I thought our meeting warranted a little extra effort this morning.”
“Well, you could have saved yourself the trouble. When someone quits on Roam, Inc., I no longer have use for their time.”
“But Rome, I was hoping . . .” She uses my first name instead of my last, lifting an arm, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear that isn’t there; a nervous habit I’ve seen her do several times already. She can’t rake her fingers through her hair though because it’s pulled back in that damn matronly bun. “I came in to suggest that though I’m striking out on my own, my services could still be of use to you.”
“Your services?” A chuckle escapes my lips despite myself, lips settling into a sneer.
When I think services, my mind goes immediately into the gutter: escorts and blow jobs and loose women. Sue me for immediately thinking about sex.
She must read my thoughts reflected in my eyes, because hers flutter and the skin on her exposed neck ignites to a hot red.
“My design services, yes. I’m finally—”
“We’ll manage just fine without you, I’m sure.” Agitated by the excited glint in her eye, I cut her off. She’s leaving and has the balls to begin a pitch for her subcontract work?
I don’t fucking think so, sweetheart.
I lean forward, hands folded on my desktop, sleeves of my dress shirt cuffed and rolled to my elbows. “I’m not successful because I spend my time sensitivity training the shit out of everyone who needs it. This is a business, not a hobby. And since you insisted on this little meeting, let me fill you in on something; a valuable lesson that might come in handy for your next job, if you will.”
“I-Im listening.”
I level Peyton with a hard stare. “If you think for one second you’re going to work for a competitor, think again.”
I shift the papers on my desk, jabbing my finger at her non-compete contract; the one she signed the first week she came onboard at Roam, Inc.
It’s ironclad and irrevocable for one year after the termination of her employment, and I’m not afraid to enforce it.
Yup. I’ll take her for everything she’s worth if she works for the competition.
Her chin lifts a fraction. “I would never.”
My lip curls into a smile. “That’s what everyone says.”
She stares at my mouth a few heartbeats before shaking her head. “I won’t be working for anyone again. I’m finally going to work for myself. And if you can’t respect that, I guess I underestimated you.”
I lean forward, clasping my hands on my desk. “Underestimated me?”
“I thought you were progressive. As someone that started their own company from the ground up, I thought maybe you’d give me a chance.” She stands, handing me a manila folder. “My graphic design work is good. Fantastic even. If you can’t see that, then, well. You . . . you’re a . . .”