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)
“Six months,” I blurt out, just to see the look on her face, choosing a random number and guessing it’s close enough to being accurate to appease her.
“Nuh-uh, I don’t believe you.”
“You don’t have to believe me. It’s a fact.”
“Six months? Stop it. Right now.”
“Okay.” I clamp my lips shut to be annoying, the same way I used to do to my mom as a kid when she’d tell me to stop doing something.
“For real? How can that be?”
“Work, work, sleep, eating . . .” I list all the reasons I haven’t felt motivated to have sex with anyone. “Stress.” I finally look her in the eye. “What about you?”
Peyton pushes the fork around with her finger. “I dunno, maybe . . . two years?”
I almost fall off the chair. “Two years?”
“Give or take.”
And now that I know this, there will be no un-knowing it. Peyton Lévêque hasn’t been laid in seven hundred and thirty days, and she wants to bang me, and now I have to wonder . . .
What the hell am I going to do about it? Because the no fraternizing policy no longer exists between us. But, I still think about the look on her face when I had her right before me in my office. I can’t. Two words that have haunted me ever since.
Chapter Twenty-One
PEYTON
I’m not playing fair. I’m well aware of this.
I’m also not listening to my inner business-self telling me in a rather dramatic fashion to NOT STEP FOOT ON THIS ELEVATOR.
Go back to the coffee house.
Stick your head in your work.
Don’t even think about the man you had dinner with last night.
Or the fact that he hasn’t had sex in six months.
Or the way he raked his eyes over you multiple times, nibbling on his bottom lip when he blatantly stared at your cleavage.
Walk away right now, Peyton. Walk. Away.
I’ve never been good at listening to that inner voice, so here I am, stepping into the elevator and pressing the button to his floor knowing the real reason I’m dressed to kill and heading to Rome’s office.
Lunch with Lauren, of course.
Because why else would I be here?
I chuckle to no one as the elevator doors slide closed on me, shutting out the lobby, elevator car begging to climb, floor after floor higher up the skyscraper I’ve become very familiar with.
Taking a deep breath, I adjust the white blouse I’ve got tucked into a tightly fitted royal-blue skirt. Shift in my nude heels. Flip my loose, wavy hair over one shoulder. Pucker my glossy lips.
Just having lunch with a friend—that’s it.
An old friend.
A friend I would visit on occasion just to sneak peeks at her good-looking boss, Rome. Visit just to see him diligently working on his enterprise. Catch glimpses of him, hoping maybe someday I’d catch his eye, too.
Watching him work is inspiring and sexy as hell.
The elevator dings and the doors part, revealing Lauren at her desk, expertly listening to Rome as he hovers above her, catching snippets of their conversation.
“I need that file typed out and back on my desk within the hour. Will that be a problem?”
“No, sir.”
He sighs. “Would you stop calling me that?”
“No can do, sir.” She’s such a brat.
“Lauren, I swear to God . . .”
Lauren is full-out laughing when I approach, although my focus is on ogling Rome’s backside as he leans across her counter. Navy-blue pants, white shirt tucked in tightly and cinched by a brown leather belt.
Our clothes match, which is such a girl thing to notice.
His shoulders are tense, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and his hair is disheveled as if he’s been raking his fingers through it relentlessly today. Which he no doubt has, the way he gets stressed out so easily.
“Oh, relax, boss. You’re so keyed up this morning, what’s your jive?”
This makes me laugh.
Which makes Lauren look up in my direction and cringe.
Busted lipping off to the boss.
Her pretty blonde brows dip into a frown, then up, head cocking in Rome’s direction. Eyes widening.
Crap—she’s going to cancel on me. I can see it in her eyes; regret.
I’ve been spotted by Rome, so I stand taller when his head rears at the sound of my heels clicking against the marble floor, his eyes raking me in from head to toe.
His eyes widen, surprised I’m standing here—but then narrow on the front of my blouse. Skirt. I can see his pupils dilate from here, eyebrows sharpening as his steely gaze rakes its way up from my exposed legs. Up to my less-than-proper button-up job on my shirt, cleavage prominently on display. He likes what he sees.
“Peyton.” Gruff and pained, he continues, “What are you doing here?”
I saddle up next to Lauren’s desk and rest my hand on the high countertop. “Came to have lunch with my friend.” I eye her. “But from the looks of it, we’re going to have to reschedule.”