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)
Rome . . .
Rome is here.
I turn around and spot him.
There he is.
All two of him . . .
Both of him are so good-looking, I can barely stand it.
Wait. Two of him?
That can’t be right, and oh God, I’m so drunk.
Planted on a bar stool, Rome has one foot propped on the wrung, while the other is rooted firmly to the floor. A glass tumbler is suspended from his hand; grip firm, yet casual. His tie is nowhere to be seen, leaving the top few buttons of his crisp white shirt undone.
Guh.
God, he’s so ridiculously hot. Why do I have to find the one man in the world I cannot have so freakin’ gorgeous?
A rigid set in his jaw, lips pursed, he peruses the crowd, a crease in his brow, his eyes never really pausing, just observing.
Is he waiting for someone or just enjoying the atmosphere?
“Why aren’t you hiding?” Kimberly asks me, true fear in her voice. “Are you nuts? He’s going to see us.”
But that’s the thing you don’t realize, I want to say. I want him to see me. I’m practically desperate for it. Which really isn’t like me—not at all. Yes, it has been a while since my last bang, as my friends so eloquently said earlier. But there is just something mysterious about Rome Blackburn that gets my heart beating. That sends my skin tingling. He’s an enigma, and I want to unwrap his many layers. I admit that his clothing is the first layer I wish to unwrap . . . but still.
I want him to see my little black dress, designed with a deeper neckline than I ought to have worn to the office today. Deeper than what’s considered workplace appropriate.
I want him to notice the length of my hair; how the wavy ends reach the swell of my breasts.
I want him to see the bright red lipstick I wore and reapplied often, hoping and praying that maybe, just maybe he’d come to my floor and catch a glimpse; wonder what my mouth might look like planted and smeared all over his body.
Red kisses on what promises to be a beautiful, powerful chest.
Abs.
Collarbone.
I sigh—drunk, eyes wavering—and watch as my boss scans the crowd critically. He takes everyone in, sipping slowly from what looks like rum or brandy on ice, his head slowly swiveling toward our direction.
My body freezes; lips part. Chest puffs with bated breath, willing him to give me one glance. Just one.
Look at me.
See me sitting here.
Look at me.
But he doesn’t.
His eyes miss me completely—of course they do—as his cool, assessing gaze passes me by as if I meld with everyone else in this place. Nothing special, never standing out amongst the crowd.
Just like at work.
Downing the rest of his drink and slamming his glass onto the bar top, Rome tosses a few bills on the bar and buttons his suit jacket before heading toward the door, leaving me in an aroused and embarrassed state.
Staring after him like a puppy dog stares through the window at its retreating owner.
So dramatic.
God, I’m drunk.
It’s the alcohol, I tell myself.
Still hiding and trying to blend in with the booth, I let out a heavy breath and take a sip of my drink. “He’s gone, you guys. No need to hide anymore.”
Peeking over their pitiful excuses for cover, my friends confirm the coast is clear before resuming their normal positions.
“I thought he’d never leave,” Gen breathes.
I hoped he’d stay . . .
“Close call. He almost saw us.” Vivian wipes at her forehead.
I wanted him to see me . . .
“Yeah, no thanks to Peyton,” Kimberly snaps, tossing popcorn in her mouth. “She was staring.”
I couldn’t help myself . . .
“Maybe I wanted him to see me,” I blurt out, and it seems the booze is making my lips loose.
“What did you just say?” This from Gen.
A flush of red stains my cheeks.
I just hinted toward one of my deepest and darkest secrets: I have a majorly inappropriate crush on Rome Blackburn.
“Holy crap. You have an inappropriate crush on Rome Blackburn?” Viv repeats my drunken confession verbatim.
“Did I say that out loud?”
Kimberly laughs. “You did.”
“Wait . . .” Vivian holds up her hand to silence the rest of the group. “Do you like Rome, Peyton?”
And there it is, the truth has been revealed. Even though I have a good amount of liquor coursing through my veins, I still feel raw and exposed.
Because when I say no one, I mean no one in the office likes Rome. He’s not there to make friends; he’s there to make money, to grow his company.
Playing with my napkin on the table, pushing it around, my eyes cast down, I answer, “Well, you know . . . he’s really handsome.”
“Handsome?” Viv is incredulous. “I mean—he’s hot, but . . . he’s Satan.”
He can be an ass, yes.