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)
**taps chin** My type . . . my type. What’s my type . . . I have a few of them. Tall and athletic. Fit. Um . . . Oh! I love tattoos, although I’ve never dated anyone with any. And piercings, which is totally random. Beards get me hot. I follow this amazing account on Instagram of hot dudes with beards and tats, ha ha. But anyway, I digress. My type is handsome and smart and funny. Someone who can make me laugh. But not in a cheesy way, because I can’t stand predictable jokes.
To: HandsRomingMyBody@RoamInc.com
From: RomeBlackburn@RoamInc.com
I’m not funny.
To: RomeBlackburn@RoamInc.com
From: HandsRomingMyBody@RoamInc.com
No, you’re not. Not even a little.
But . . .
There is something about you . . .
To: HandsRomingMyBody@RoamInc.com
From: RomeBlackburn@RoamInc.com
Something about me . . .
Like what?
To: RomeBlackburn@RoamInc.com
From: HandsRomingMyBody@RoamInc.com
Well, let me see if I can put my finger on it; paint you a picture, if you will. When I see you, there’s something about you that makes me stop and watch you. You have this way about you—I don’t even mind your cold glares. They mean something. And you don’t blow smoke up anyone’s ass or sugarcoat anything. Which I know a lot of people resent or take personally, but I know why you do it. I know you work hard and take it seriously and that you care. We can all see it, and I respect you for it. You’re handsome. You’re smart. You’re . . . yes. You’re intimidating, but what man in your position isn’t? And your friendship with Hunter O’Rourke is too damn adorable—yeah, I said it. ADORABLE. I’ve seen you get pissed at him for joking around, and I die every time.
LSY
To: HandsRomingMyBody@RoamInc.com
From: RomeBlackburn@RoamInc.com
There is nothing adorable about Hunter O’Rourke. He’s a pain in the fucking ass. MY ass. You’d think that as my business partner he’d act like a goddamn professional and why the hell am I telling you this?
Keep in mind that since we’re using the company server, any correspondence between us is private and confidential, and I could sue you for sharing the content of these emails.
RMB
To: RomeBlackburn@RoamInc.com
From: HandsRomingMyBody@RoamInc.com
Wow, you and your non-disclosures and legal mumbo-jumbo, always wanting to sue people. You seriously need to relax, boss. It hadn’t occurred to me to share these emails until YOU MENTIONED IT. Bring it down a notch, Rome. I’m not going to tell anyone your secrets. So feel free to start sharing a few of them . . . ha ha. I’m a very good listener.
LSY
To: HandsRomingMyBody@RoamInc.com
From: RomeBlackburn@RoamInc.com
What kind of boss would I be if I didn’t point out the obvious? Before we get carried away with . . . whatever this is.
To: RomeBlackburn@RoamInc.com
From: HandsRomingMyBody@RoamInc.com
“Whatever this is.” Did you just admit, in your own weird way, that you’re actually enjoying this back and forth? Do tell . . . bring it to my good ear. **leans in close** Whisper it to me like a confession.
To: HandsRomingMyBody@RoamInc.com
From: RomeBlackburn@RoamInc.com
I’ll admit, I’m entertained and curious. Have you noticed I’ve been walking around the office more? It’s not because I’m trying to be a dutiful boss, it’s because I’m trying to find out who the hell you are. I’m hoping one day I catch you writing back to me. Guard your screen. I’m looking.
To: RomeBlackburn@RoamInc.com
From: HandsRomingMyBody@RoamInc.com
You’ve resulted to creeping on your employees? Come on, Rome, you’re better than that. Instead of hovering behind people trying to read their inboxes, why don’t you conduct a little sleuthing instead?
Ask me some questions, any questions besides the obvious. Let’s see if you’re really smart enough to figure this mystery out.
Chapter Thirteen
PEYTON
“What? Why are you not coming?” Kimberly asks in her whiny tone that grates on my nerves.
“I’m not in the mood to drink, plus you guys have this whole party planned for Friday, so I might as well save all of my liquor tolerance for then.”
“But we’re going to get chicken fingers,” Viv interjects.
I pat her on the shoulder. “And as lovely as that sounds, I think I’m going to enjoy myself a nice little quiche from the corner bakery and head to my apartment where I can lounge in a long T-shirt and that’s it.”
“No bra?” Gen asks.
I shake my head. “No bra.”
She sighs and puts her arms around Viv and Kimberly. “Give it up, ladies, we can’t compete with no bra. We had a chance with quiche as her dinner, but with the extraction of underwire, we’re doomed.”
Knowing Gen’s right, they bow their heads and turn away toward the bar. “You slay us,” Viv says over her shoulder. “Hope your boobs enjoy themselves.”
I take the subway home, getting bumped and bruised by every other New Yorker trying to make the busy commute. Not in the mood for reading or listening to any podcasts, I hang on to the metal bar next to the door and stare out the window, the tunnels passing by me at a rapid speed.