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)
“What?” What’s the look she’s giving me? I don’t want to misinterpret anything. I’m trying to be professional, but it’s just so damn hard.
“Rome Blackburn, you are really nice when you want to be.”
“You think I said all that just to be nice?”
“Well, no, but—”
“You did a damn good job. You are saving my ass, and possibly the company. You’re really fucking good at what you do, and I’m pissed at myself for not seeing it while I had you at the office.”
“What do you mean—not seeing it while you had me in the office? You mean . . . how good I am at my job?”
She’s fishing for compliments, but I let it slide. I’m feeling so fucking fantastic right now I want to pick her up out of that chair and spin her around in circles.
Do I tell her that the job isn’t the only thing she’s good at? Maybe she’s good at other things? Like making me feel like I’m not such a dickhead, after all? It bothers me now that employees tiptoe around me—and that they see me as unapproachable—more than it ever did in the past.
Everyone always thinks they can do a better job running a company; everyone thinks it’s so goddamn easy having that many people depend on you for their livelihood.
It keeps me up at night.
That’s why this bullshit with Project Mountain scared the living shit out of me. Sure, everybody thought I was pissed—and I was—but mostly I was out of my goddamn mind with worry. I can’t lose those quarterlies to that company; I need them in my pocket, for my people. My employees.
“You’re not just good at your job, Peyton—you’re . . .” Shit. Why are the words getting lodged in my damn throat? What do I want to say? “You’re good for me.”
It’s dark in here, but I swear, her face gets red. “I am?”
“Yeah.”
“Define ‘good for you.’” Her smirk is knowing, her fingers using air-quotes around the words good for you, and for once, I’m happy to oblige her with an explanation.
I lean forward, resting my hands on the table in front of us. Clasp them. “You make me want to be . . .”
Okay, so this isn’t as easy as I thought it would be.
“Nice?” Peyton supplies hopefully.
“Uh, no.” Not the word I was looking for.
“Kind?”
“Not that one either.”
I laugh, then she laughs, and soon, we’re both staring at one another like complete morons. Anyone watching would think we were love-struck fools. Because right now, I feel like one. Jesus, shoot me now.
“What then? How do I make you want to be?”
She’s staring at me so expectantly, and I really want to say something profound; something damn good—but it’s harder pulling emotion from an ass that hasn’t spewed anything sweet or meaningful in ages.
“You make me feel . . . like I’m not a giant asshole.”
Not the most profound answer in the world, but it resonates with her because instead of cringing from my choice of words, her face softens.
“I do?”
“Yeah, but I think that came out all wrong.” I resist the temptation to run my fingers through my hair. “You make me fucking excited. You excite me.”
“I do? Me?”
“You don’t believe me?”
“No, I do. It’s just that—no one has ever said that to me before.”
“Then your other dates have been idiots.”
“This is a date?”
My mouth gapes. Is it? No. Yes.
I look around at the surroundings, well aware that it’s a sophisticated place, and we’re at a secluded table. The lights are dim. The menu is sublime.
I invited her under the pretense of work, obviously—that’s my MO. It’s what I do. Work. Work. More work.
But if I’m being honest with myself, yes—there was some romantic intention when I had Lauren book this table, at this restaurant, and I do both Peyton and me a favor by not denying it.
“Yes. I guess this was like a date, wasn’t it?”
Her eyes light up, this time not from surprise. They’re excited and sparkly and alive—and beautiful.
“Wow,” she says with a little laugh. “I can’t believe you just admitted that.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re such a hard-ass all the time. You have way too much pride, Rome Blackburn, and sometimes you do things just to spite yourself.”
That’s probably true.
“So. A date, huh?” Peyton rests back in her chair, crossing her legs and shooting me a flirty look. “You couldn’t just ask? You had to pretend we were only here for a meeting? So typical.”
“We did have a meeting,” I can’t help pointing out, physically pointing to her portfolio and my notes.
“We’ve been doing nothing but meetings since I offered to take on this project and crush all competitors’ skulls.” Peyton pantomimes what she probably considers “crushing skulls” in her fist, grinding her left hand into her open right palm.
God, she’s adorable when she talks trash. Or tries to.