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’m smiling about a goddamn email chain that I shouldn’t be partaking in.
I should have deleted this ridiculousness the minute it started.
But I didn’t.
I only added to the problem by responding and making this girl’s ass the center of my computer screen.
Fuck, it’s such a nice ass.
I sit back in my chair, cross my ankle over my knee, and click on the email’s that are somehow lighting up my entire damn day, and this dreary and cold office.
TO: RomeBlackburn@Roam.com
From: HandsRomingMyBody@Roam.com
I’m not stereotyping you. Well, not exactly—maybe just a little. **holds fingers an inch apart to display the teeniest, tiniest bit of judgment** I mean, do you blame me? You stalk into the office and sit behind a huge desk, behind a glass wall. It’s . . . intimidating. So yes, I would have assumed you’d live somewhere posh. Posh, LOL, what a very British thing to say. Fun Fact: I spent a semester in London when I was in college, and it’s my favorite city in the whole wide world, not including NYC.
Can I ask you a question? If you own an outdoor adventure company . . . why are you based in New York, and not somewhere like Colorado? I’ve always wondered that.
LSY
* * *
To: HandsRomingMyBody@RoamInc.com
From: RomeBlackburn@RoamInc.com
Why am I in New York? Well, I went to school here, and my parents are in Buffalo, so it made sense. I don’t see them often, but we are close. Plus, my grandmother is at an assisted living facility about half an hour out of the city and WHY AM I TELLING YOU THIS? It’s none of your business. LOL. But since we’re on the subject—yeah, I wouldn’t stay if it weren’t for them. Maybe someday I’ll pull the plug and move the company to a city that makes more sense. But for now, I’d like to remain close to family.
And as far as my neighborhood—I fucking love it. I love that everyone minds their own business and no one puts on pretenses. That’s the bullshit I can’t stand and why I’m so close to my best friend.
I adjust the sleeves of my white shirt and twist my lips to the side. Maybe it’s time to grab some coffee, peruse the cubicles . . .
That’s a good fucking idea, procrastination at its finest. I should be going over Hunter’s numbers, but I’m too distracted to even consider going through his jungle of numbers typed and put together in the worst way possible.
I stand from my desk, shuck the jacket, loosen my tie over my head, and undo a few buttons of my white dress shirt. Carefully, I roll up the sleeves and run my fingers through my hair for good measure—and not because somewhere out there is a woman who likes to see my hair tussled.
Nope. It’s just a hot day, that’s all. I don’t even need a jacket.
Time to get some coffee.
The glass doors to my office close behind me just as Lauren’s head picks up from the eReader in her lap. She thinks she’s so clever, but I know what she’s doing.
“Mr. Blackburn, can I get you anything?”
“I’m good. Just make sure you have those accounting reports on my desk by the end of the day.” I press the down button to the elevator, and I’m pleased when the doors open right away.
“Yes, of course,” she answers as the elevator doors close.
Hands in pockets, I make my way around the marketing and advertising floor once the elevator doors open. Everyone seems to be hard at work . . . for the most part. There are a few people sitting in each other’s cubicles, talking and laughing, but the minute they lay eyes on me, they duck their heads and walk away.
I smirk to myself.
Looks like LSY is right. I am known as a tyrant. I haven’t even said anything to anyone, but the floor quickly silences, the sounds of keyboards clacking lifts into the air.
I walk past George, who is eating a muffin, napkin stuffed in the V of his shirt, and licking his fingers. When he looks up from his pastry, he waves frantically, so excited to see me on the floor. I nod back and continue to walk to the break room where I find Peyton pouring herself a cup of coffee.
Sneaking up, I say, “Do you plan on making another cup?”
She startles, spilling coffee on the floor, her bottom half backed away from her hands to avoid any coffee burns.
“Christ.” She sets down the coffeepot and shakes her hand, ridding it of the brown liquid. “You can’t just walk up on people like that.”
From above the sink, I rip off a rectangle of paper towel for her and hand it over. “Here.”
Giving me a look, she snags the paper towel from me and starts cleaning up. “What brings you down here?”