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)
And I don’t think she even realized . . .
She slipped up.
Even though I was smiling like a damn fool the entire time talking to her when I should have been looking through Hunter’s reports, I smiled even wider when I realized she gave me the golden ticket I was looking for.
My cursor drags along my computer screen, lands on the icon for a search engine, my fingers deftly typing out the words, “Edith’s Treats.” Enter.
She was so excited about her damn quiche that she didn’t realize she gave me a radius of where she lives.
Fucking sleuthing it up this morning.
An image appears of a small bakery on a corner about three short blocks from my apartment building—and just one over from the spot where Peyton in the marketing department was having coffee.
Interesting.
Peyton.
I stare off into the distance, my mind wandering; today would be her last day if I’m doing the math correctly—wouldn’t it? I pull up her file, noting the photograph attached.
She’s pretty.
Sexy, if I’m being honest.
Smiling at the camera for a picture taken for the website of our staff. Navy blouse. Hair down. Red lipstick.
Jesus, Peyton is . . .
Hot.
Why did I wait so damn long to pay serious attention? Do I really have a stick so far up my ass that I haven’t noticed her? Or is that why every time I’ve interacted with her in the last week or so, I’ve found it hard to pull away and leave her?
My eyes scan the details provided by human resources: Age, twenty-seven. Position, President of Social Media Marketing and Acquisition. Address looks vaguely familiar, and curiosity has me googling the area.
My area. My neighborhood.
My coffee shop.
My head starts to spin. Every interaction I’ve had with her running on repeat as I lean forward and stare intently at the computer as if it’s supposed to verbally confirm exactly what I’m thinking.
Edith’s Treats is right on the corner, perfectly spaced between her place and mine. “It’s from this little shop around the corner from where I live . . .”
Jesus Christ.
I lean back in my chair, drag my hand over my face, and blink a few times.
No. There is no way.
I lean forward again, match her address with the bakery and the coffee shop.
Fuck.
FUCK!
Peyton is HandsRomingMyBody.
Peyton is the employee who wants to bang me.
Peyton has been fucking around with me this entire time, lowering my defenses, making me talk about personal shit, sending me goddamn food.
I glare at the desktop, anger billowing in the pit of my stomach, the heat in my body skyrocketing to inferno levels.
She’s been lying to me this whole time. She’s been right under my damn nose, playing with me . . . tricking me. Probably laughing behind my back with those friends of hers I always catch her with. Look at me, fooling the boss.
Not okay.
I rise, slamming my chair back into the windows, skirt around my desk and yank open the door.
Silence.
Well. Except for the low buzzing sound of modems and computers humming in tandem. The fluorescent lights flicker. A printer scanner at the far side of the room beeps.
No sign of life.
“Where the fuck is everyone?” Seriously, it’s in the middle of the goddamn workday, not a Saturday—and as far as I know, it’s not a national holiday.
I don’t think.
Asses should be in those seats.
Heads should be down, fingers flying across the thirty or so computers wired into these desks. Papers should be flying out of the printers, and the phones should be ringing.
Something.
But not this.
I pace around the long corridor, glancing into offices, one by one, checking for signs of life. Any stragglers that can tell me what the ever-loving fuck is going on around here.
Make my way toward Lauren’s desk, float around the granite counter to look for any clues. If anyone would know what’s happening, it will be here.
One sheet of paper, lying limply across her keyboard, with a message printed in black, bold letters: WISH PEYTON FAREWELL ON HER LAST DAY! Cake and ice cream, break room on the third floor. Ten o’clock.
I glance at my watch.
Ten thirteen.
I punch at the elevator button—like one of those assholes who hits it ten times hoping to make it come quicker—stuff my hands inside the pocket of my gray dress pants (no fancy meetings today, so I’m casual, sans tie), button-up shirt brushing my chest as I stab one more time at the illuminated button. Bounce back on the balls of my feet, agitated.
They threw Peyton a going-away party when she quit? What the actual fuck?
Throwing a party for someone who has been deceiving their boss, all for a laugh? I don’t fucking think so. Not at my office, not during business hours.
Not happening.
My jaw ticks when the elevator doors finally slide open and once I’m inside, I stab at those buttons, too, with my knuckle. Hit the third floor.