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)
Only one way to find out.
Taking a deep breath, I press send and wait.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
PEYTON
This latte is doing shit for me right now. I should have gone with the espresso with five shots, because oh my God, I can barely keep my eyes open as I look over these ad copies. My vision feels blurry, and my mind is elsewhere—on a certain asshole who unfortunately captured my heart.
I press my hand against my forehead, trying to keep myself propped up through my drowsiness.
Okay, maybe I kind of wish he would come apologize again. Yes, I’m that girl. What he did was presumptuous and mean and the definition of his personality, but it still stung . . . because I thought I was different. I thought I mattered to him, that I could be someone he could talk to before jumping to conclusions.
I’m so mad at him, but I also want him.
I love him.
I hate everything about this.
Sighing, I take a sip of my lukewarm latte just as a new email pops up on my computer.
I set my latte down as I click on the preview, pulling up the email.
I don’t recognize the email address at first, but when I take a closer look, my heart sputters in my chest, and my breath catches in my throat.
HandsRoamingPeytonsBody.
Subject: I don’t want to bang you . . .
With shaking hands, I scroll to the start of the email.
To Whom it May Concern (I mean you, Peyton):
You don’t know how gutted I am writing this, but it has to be said. Because I can’t fucking stand it anymore.
I can’t breathe as tears start to well in my eyes, making it impossible to see the screen in front of me. This is almost word for word the first email I sent him as LSY.
I cover my mouth in awe, taking a deep breath to steady my nerves.
But . . . full disclosure, I would like it to be known that I have consumed zero alcoholic beverages before writing this. Yes, I might have had too many drinks in the last two weeks while trying to fill an empty void in my heart, but I can honestly say right now, typing this email, I am completely sober and pouring my heart out to you. For the record though, I’ve had five cups of coffee this morning to make up for the sleepless nights without you.
I think it’s important to be open and honest with the one you love, don’t you? And full disclosure, Peyton?
I love you.
And I’m finally being honest.
I like you so much, and it’s clouding my judgment, making me do things I never would, like lash out at you and blame you for things that you’d never in a million years do. < - - Did you read that? Never in a million years do I think you would BETRAY ME. I’m a fucking asshole for even thinking it for a second, and I’m so fucking sorry.
I have a hopeless, foolish, school yard crush on you.
Did you know people around the office call ME a sadist? An egomaniac? An insensitive, arrogant prick? But you knew from the beginning that my bark was worse than my bite. You gave me a chance to prove that I’m more than the man behind the desk with a tie cinched tightly around my neck.
For once, you were the one who put a smile on my face. You were the one I wanted to impress. You were the one I wanted more than anyone else.
And as long as we're being honest, that blue sweater you’re wearing? With the low-enough V that I can see the swell of your breasts? It really makes me want to ask you a very important question . . .
I don’t want to bang you . . . I want to love you if you’ll let me.
Love,
Sincerely,
ALWAYS Yours
Postscript: Look up.
Look up? What the heck does that mean?
I wipe the tears from my eyes and lift my head to find Rome standing in front of me with a white box in hand, the other hand stuffed in his pocket, looking nervous but so sexy in his sweater and jeans.
Oh God, I forgot how handsome he is.
“Hey babe,” he says gently, taking a step forward. And there it is, his cologne waking me up for the first time in weeks. Before I can say anything, he drops to one knee in front of me and holds out the box. “Open it.” His intense eyes are intent on me, soulful and hopeful all wrapped into one.
With shaky hands, I lift the lid of the pastry box to find my favorite quiche at the bottom and written on the top with a key taped below it, it says, “I can’t live another day without your hugs and ‘quiches.’ Will you move in with me?”