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 cast my eyes up.
And up.
And there he is.
Rome Blackburn, in the flesh, in my little neck of the woods, looking just as surprised to see me as I am him.
His mouth parts.
Mine does too.
He stands at the edge of my table, hands in his pockets, looking down at me, almost like a dark, angry storm cloud. His expression is moody.
“Miss Lévêque.” His greeting is stuffy and formal, so like him.
“Mr. Blackburn,” I volley back, smiling sweetly, dragging out both syllables of his name.
Black.
Burn.
The way I murmur his name has the desired effect, and he scowls, just like I knew he would. So predictable. So moody and stubborn.
So good-looking.
God, I’m so ridiculously easy . . .
I shift on the wooden bench I’ve been perched on for the better half of two hours, left hand finding the cardboard coffee cup. Cuffing it, I give my hand something to do other than fidget.
“Were you . . . meeting someone here?” This café can’t be anywhere near his place; the area isn’t fashionable enough. I picture my boss in a sleek high-rise, not a neighborhood full of families and struggling artists.
“No. I’m here for coffee.” As if that explains why he is in my part of town and not his.
I hum from the center of my chest. “Let me guess. Black. No cream. No sugar.”
His lips twitch. “Wrong.”
“Espresso shot.”
“So wrong.” He crosses his arms. “Iced latte. Soy. Three sugars.”
“What! Sugar?” I tease, lips smiling wider. “Sugar, but not to make you sweeter.”
Tone it down, Peyton. Stop flirting with your boss.
He doesn’t bite. “Do you always come here?”
“Me? When I’m not working for you, yes.” Which isn’t that often, to be honest—but when I have freelance, this is where I love to work. Little bit chaotic, just enough hustle and bustle with the right amount of noise.
A notebook is in the center of my table and Rome’s hawk-like gaze lands on it.
“No laptop today?”
“I’m a purist.”
“Odd for someone paid to be online all day long.”
This makes me laugh, partly because it’s true, and partly because the look on his face is a mixture of horrified, disgusted, and admirable. I can’t decide which one.
“What’s in the notebook?”
“None yo bizness.”
His brows shoot up, surprised. And if I had a nickel for every time this man’s nostrils flared, I wouldn’t have to start my own business. I’d be independently wealthy.
“Is that a notebook full of ideas that are going to transform Roam, Inc’s new women’s line?”
I laugh. “No talking about business. I’m not on company time as of”—I check the invisible watch on my wrist—“six PM. Sorry.”
“You still owe me nine more days.”
I sip from my cup. “Seven.”
“Seven days, then.”
I cradle the coffee cup, blowing over the brim. “You pay me for social media—not to come up with marketing strategies.” I am all too delighted to point this out.
“But you do those.”
“Indeed I do.” Another sip. “Which you casually rejected at my resignation.”
“Because you were quitting.”
Resigning.
Huge difference.
“Did you even look at my portfolio?”
Rome hesitates so long he doesn’t have to answer.
I smirk, knowingly. “Ah, so you did.”
I lean back, gloating, an arrogant arch to my brows. “I’m good, aren’t I?”
His lips form into a thin line.
I set my cup down and throw my hands up, exasperated. “Oh my God, why won’t you just admit it? What on earth is wrong with you?”
More silence stretches, only the sounds from the café filling the gap between us.
“You’re good.”
Two words. Coming from him—the man who compliments no one—his words carry weight.
“Thank you.”
“I’m going to need you to refocus your energy in the next seven days on marketing.”
Say what?
My tongue makes a clucking sound.
“Not in my job description.”
“Miss Lévêque, might I remind you—”
“Might I remind you, Mr. Blackburn, that it’s after working hours, and a Friday, and I’m done with Roam, Inc. for the day.” His mouth drops open. “You love meetings. Schedule one on Monday with my secretary. I should have a block of time on Wednesday.”
“You have a secretary?” Oh God. The look on his face. I have studied his gorgeous face for years. Years. I’ve seen him angry, disinterested, frustrated, and very occasionally . . . mildly happy. But I haven’t seen this face. He’s shocked. God, it is so hard to hold back the laughter in my throat. He’s so fucking adorable.
“No. I’m just messing with you.” I swear, the look on his face . . .
Silver eyes narrow in my direction. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“Mmm. So, so much.” Immeasurably.
“By next week you’ll be four days out from your end date.”
“Yeah.” I flip my hair. “Not much time, is there?”
I can almost hear his ass cheeks clenching from irritation. My heart is racing, knowing where this whole conversation is heading.
“You’re going to force my hand in this, aren’t you?”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“I’m not going to sub-contract you after you leave. You will not force me into it.”