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)
Peyton: Sounds great. I look forward to it.
Rome: Okay. I have some more reports to go over. I’ll see you tomorrow.
Peyton: Don’t work too hard, Rome. And thank you . . . for the chance, the opportunity to talk to you and Hunter— for everything.
Rome: No need to thank me. You did your job. That’s more than enough. Good night, Peyton.
I can’t wipe the smile off my face as I scoot down in my bed, phone to chest, a new opportunity on the horizon.
Not to mention, I get to have dinner with Rome tomorrow night. It might be all business, but that doesn’t mean I can’t look drop-dead gorgeous for the meeting.
After all, the saying goes: dress to impress. What they don’t tell you is who to impress.
Chapter Twenty
ROME
“. . . so you see this image here? She’s tired, but she’s determined, right? And you know just by looking at her she’s going to . . . Rome? Are you paying attention?”
I’m not.
Not at all.
In fact, I haven’t heard a damn word Peyton has said since she walked into the restaurant tonight, shiny, black leather portfolio tucked under her arm. All legs and tan skin, the red dress draped on her body isn’t normal business meeting attire for several reasons:
It’s blood-red. Sexy.
It’s tight.
It shows off way too much cleavage to be professional.
She looks smoking hot, and it’s distracting as hell.
And now her brows are raised, and she’s eyeballing me expectantly like I’m supposed to spout off some profound bullshit about the picture she’s holding between two fingers.
Her nails are dark gray.
I peel my eyes away and stare at the photograph.
Some lady at a sink, wearing our workout gear and staring determined out the kitchen window, like she’s going to conquer the mountain in the distance once she’s finished her errands.
“Yeah, I’m paying attention.”
Not.
Peyton smiles, a dimple I’d never noticed popping up in her cheek. “You liar. Prove it.”
I think fast on my feet. “Something blah blah that mountain looks high? That woman is obviously going to need hiking equipment.”
For a brief moment, Peyton doesn’t say anything—just stares at me, the wineglass in her hand poised halfway to her parted lips. But then, she laughs.
Tips back her head and laughs. “You’re funny when you want to be, do you know that?”
I am? Since when? “No one thinks I’m funny.”
“I do.” She takes a sip of wine and studies me over the rim of the glass.
“You’re obviously drunk.”
“Not at all.”
“Easily amused?”
“Nope. I’m a tough crowd.”
She is not—this woman laughs at everything. “Well, you should be tested, because you obviously have a concussion.”
Peyton laughs again, the wine bubbling in her throat, her red, pouty lips smiling. White teeth. Dimple. Dark hair.
She’s the poster girl for a classy, sexy, girl-next-door, all rolled into one.
I fiddle with my knife. “Do you want to take a break from discussing this and order an appetizer or something?”
She looks surprised by my suggestion. “Sure. It’s not like you were paying attention anyway.” Her eyes don’t roll, but they’re close. “And can I remind you, this dinner meeting was your idea—not mine.”
“I like to eat real food, not nibble on coffee shop rabbit bait in the middle of the day.” Scones and croissants and shit. “We weren’t getting anything done at that place, either.”
Peyton’s laughter is louder this time, and she covers her mouth with her linen napkin, remembering herself. And her manners.
We’re at a really nice fucking place—my favorite steak restaurant for surf and turf; she confessed to loving lobster to Lauren when my assistant called to confirm the date and time. So Italian was thrown out the window. The atmosphere is darker, all the tables lit with small lamps, the house lights dim. Hunter green leather booths and mahogany wood, this place is classy and sophisticated and not at all suitable for the meeting Peyton and I are pretending through the motions of having.
“We accomplished so much at that first meeting. What are you even talking about?” Her pert little nose is wrinkled and confused and I want to tap it with my finger.
Jesus Christ. What the hell is happening to me?
I don’t flirt—I’m terrible at it.
I don’t laugh or crack jokes.
I work and work then sleep and eat. Then get up and work some more, occasionally getting out of the city to do what I originally set out to do: enjoy nature. The outdoors. Which I rarely see anymore, locked inside my office, in the concrete jungle of a city where I made my home.
Peyton is studying me thoughtfully, head tilted. “Wanna tell me what’s on your mind? You look lost in your own thoughts right now.”
If she could get out of my headspace, that would be fanfuckingtastic, thanks.
I pick a slice of bread out of the basket on the table, and pull it in half, setting one piece on the bread plate. The other half I take a bite of. Chew.