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)
I hold my breath, my boldness getting the best of me.
Boldness or stubborn personality?
Maybe a little bit of both.
His lips thin into a contemplative line as he lets out a long, irritated breath. “You really know how to push my buttons, do you know that?”
“I do.” I do indeed. Don’t smile. Don’t you dare smile.
Rome’s nostrils flare. “I’d like to offer you the marketing position for the women’s outdoor collection.”
“Me?” I demure.
“Jesus Christ, could you—”
“I’m joking. Relax. Man, you’re wound up so tight.”
He’s not amused, and pushes himself up out of the wooden chair across from me, rising to his full height. “I’ll have Lauren email you the details.”
I stand too, thinking it would be a good idea to end our impromptu meeting with a handshake.
I stick my hand out.
He stares at it.
I wiggle my fingers until he takes the hint, and slides his palm against mine. Pumps my hand once and releases it, stepping back to leave—but not before a thousand bolts of electricity shoot through my entire body.
Whoa.
He shivers.
“Uh, just one more thing before you go.”
He turns toward me. “What’s that?”
“I . . . work remotely, so I wouldn’t be coming into the office unless it was for meeting with the entire marketing staff. I think creative juices flow better in a creative environment.”
“Places like”—he gestures around—“this?”
I grin. He’s such an ass. “Exactly.”
“So you’ll be taking meetings here, with whom exactly?”
Whom. He’s so adorably stiff.
“Why . . . I’ll be taking my meetings with you.”
Chapter Eighteen
ROME
“How’d the meeting go? Did you lure her in?”
“I didn’t need to lure her in; she was happy to have the opportunity.”
Hunter laughs—he knows I’m full of complete crap. “Bullshit. She probably told you to fuck off.”
Not in those exact words, but yeah. Basically. “It did take some convincing.”
“Well, what the hell happened?” Hunter pops a salsa-coated chip in his mouth.
With my tequila pinched between my fingers, I lean back in my chair and think back to my conversation with Peyton.
She was a hot mess, knocking drinks over, pulling out her cords while tripping everywhere—but fuck if her ass framed in those black yoga pants didn’t do something to me.
I was reminded just how much I want to bang her.
How much I want to shut that sassy mouth of hers with my lips.
How much I want to pin her against the wall and pop open one of her godforsaken blouses just to finally see what’s underneath.
I might have been pissed about the emails; I might have been pissed that I succumbed to admitting that Roam, Inc. needs her help, and I might hate that I still want her just as badly as I did before—but what’s making all of this tolerable is the knowledge that she needs me, too.
She needs me.
It’s a heady aphrodisiac. I wish I could bottle it up and sell that shit along with my tents, gear, and travel products.
Peyton needs me. I could see it in her eyes as she studied me warily; the concern, the disillusionment, the overcompensation. I saw past the smoke she was trying to throw at me—she could try and sell the fact that her life is so much better after she’s left Roam, Inc., but I fucking know better.
Her business is already tanking and needs me.
A small part of me wanted to teach her a lesson by getting up from the table and walking away—not offering her the job at all. “I’m willing to turn you down just to prove a point. You’re not willing to sacrifice your new line. That’s why you’re here.”
I hate that she’s right.
Annoys the absolute shit out of me.
“I’m waiting,” Hunter singsongs, taking a sip of his giant frozen margarita, rimmed with sugar rather than salt. It’s a good thing the guy tests out adventure equipment for a living.
“What?”
“You were about to tell me how Peyton told you to fly a kite, and how you had to beg.”
“When was the last time I begged for something?”
Hunter pauses, giving it some serious thought. Snaps his fingers. “Eighth grade—you begged me to call Savannah Goodrich and pretend to be you, so she’d leave you alone at the dance.”
“Savannah Goodrich was a clingy bitch.”
“Dude, speaking of bitchy; you were so whiny.”
“Whatever—we were thirteen, let it go. I don’t remember you calling anyone pretending to be me.”
Which is a crock full of shit; I remember it like it was yesterday—me, being afraid of a teenage girl that had a huge crush on me, and not wanting her to follow me around the middle school dance. I begged Hunter to call her and tell her I had a wart on my lip that was highly contagious and didn’t want her to see it. Spent the entire rest of the dance hiding in the shadows like a pussy, because I was too chickenshit to dance with her.