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)
Out of his next paycheck? Over my dead body.
Instead of going out, I could have been at my desk, tackling the mounting pile of papers and figuring out how to stay ahead of the curve; ensuring my company creates the next best thing for the outdoor world.
Once I got home, I sent a text to my assistant, Lauren, telling her to come into the office early, to bring coffee, and to be prepared to work.
Lauren wasn’t happy—that was clear by the way she abruptly placed my coffee on my desk, brown liquid spilling out the little hole and onto the white lid—then narrowed her eyes before turning her back.
Fake, tight-lipped smile and a nod of her head, she was out the door, leaving me to my overflowing emails.
Fuck, I’m not in the mood for her attitude today.
I massage my temples with my forefingers, scanning my monitor.
Scrolling my inbox, I delete all the crap email messages. Spam. Mark a few urgent that I already know need replying to, skim down the column, new and unfamiliar emails getting my attention first, subject lines varying to stand out:
Looking for your next big marketing ploy?
Let me have your business.
Check out this new investment.
Rome, I want to bang you so bad.
Denver: the new adventure hot spot.
Stocks are high.
My lips sneer as I begin deleting all the spam that infiltrates my inbox every day, eyes skimming back up the subject column so I don’t accidentally delete anything that’s an actual priority.
Hold up.
Rewind.
My hand hovers; ceases clicking delete.
I scroll back up and scan the subject lines again, as coffee passes the taste buds of my tongue, searing down my throat.
I want to bang you so bad.
Did I read that shit right? It’s addressing me specifically, from a Roam, Inc. email address.
My eyes narrow on the subject line again, unable to get that one word out of my head. Bang.
Bang.
Screw.
Fuck.
Jesus, I’m hard up.
Leaning back in my chair, I casually glance around my office as if someone is watching me, then lean forward, still debating if I should click on the email.
From the preview, all I can see is To Whom it May Concern.
Twist my lips to the side, debate, should I open it?
Far too curious, I chew the inside of my cheek just as I click the email open, scooting in closer to get a better look.
To Whom It May Concern:
You don’t know how nervous I am writing this, but it has to be said. Because I can’t stand it anymore. Can’t go another day without telling you how I feel when you walk past me.
But . . . full disclosure, I would like it to be known that I have consumed an adequate amount of alcoholic beverages to intoxicate myself tonight. Three margaritas, two shots, and one beer—because it was free, and because it was a celebration. Not that you care.
But I think it’s important to be open and honest with your coworkers, don’t you? And full disclosure, Rome?
I work for you.
And I’m finally being honest. Drunk but honest. Or just drunk with lust? You decide.
I like you so much, and it’s clouding my judgment, making me do things I never would sober. Like write this ridiculous email.
I have a hopeless, foolish crush on you, when you are the last person on earth I should be crushing on. Did you know people around the office call you a sadist? An egomaniac? An insensitive, arrogant prick? Your bark is worse than your bite, and you don’t scare me. The fact is, I’d love that bite of yours to nip at my bare skin while we’re both wearing nothing but sheets.
For once, I want you to look at me as more than one of your employees.
And as long as we're being honest, that navy-blue suit you wear? With the crisp white shirt? It really makes me want to loosen your tie and show you who’s boss.
I want to bang you so damn bad I can taste it.
Love,
Sincerely,
Yours.
I do a double take.
My lips press into a hard line. What the hell is this, some kind of joke? If so, it’s not one damn bit funny. I have rules in place for this sort of misconduct.
I read and reread the email, glancing up from my desk, I pivot my chair so I can stare through the large picture window on my far wall.
Push back in my chair and rise, pull down the shade to the glass wall that’s the only thing separating myself from everyone else in the office.
I don’t need anyone to see the shocked look on my face right now, and I don’t want any of the women out there watching me . . .
Shit.
Someone out there has been watching me.
Could it be Lauren? I narrow my eyes into slits, examining her irritated movements. Still salty from this morning.
Definitely not Lauren.