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 can feel the roll of her eyes from here. “So how are you going to respond?”
“I wasn’t going to. Do you think I should?”
“Peyton, he emailed you back, so don’t squander the opportunity. Aka, don’t be a dipshit.”
“Gee, thanks.” I laugh.
“He gave you a clear opening with that last sentence—like a total idiot—so take it.”
“You think that was on purpose?”
She considers this, and I hear her humming. “Knowing him? Probably not. If it was anyone else, I might say yes.” Gen pauses. “Why don’t I hear the clicking of your keyboard?”
“Why are you so bossy?”
“Because I’m trying to help you. Now get crack-a-lackin’.”
“What should I say?” I bite my thumbnail.
“Call him Mr. Blackburn, he hates that.”
I laugh. “Okay . . .”
“Make sure you include a line about wanting to fuck him. Men love that shit—even robot humans like Rome.”
“Genevieve.”
I imagine her shrugging. “Please, you know it’s true. He has a stick up his ass.”
“Are you going to insult him or help me?”
“I can’t help it.”
“I’m hanging up.”
“Wait. Wait. Blind copy me on it, would you?”
“You have serious issues; you know that?”
“Yeah, you tell me that all the—shit. Someone is coming. I got to go. Copy me on it.”
The line goes dead, and I’m left on my own.
Eyes trained on my monitor, my mouth twists into a line of concentration.
Click.
Click, click, click. My hands fly across the keyboard on their own violation, all caution gone out the window along with my resignation letter now filed with human resources.
I’ve already broken the damn ethics policy, and who knows how many others . . . why not go for broke?
Screw it.
Let’s see if I can make anything happen with this? At least let’s see if I can make the powerful Rome Blackburn squirm.
Mr. Blackburn,
I’m sure you think I should be ashamed of myself for sending that email—and perhaps I should feel a little guilt? But I’m not ashamed and unfortunately have zero guilt. Surprise, surprise, it felt great, and there is one thing I won’t apologize for: telling you how I feel. Maybe the way I did it was crass, or tacky—it certainly wasn’t classy—but at least I finally did it. This is not me apologizing for my behavior, because this is me patting myself on the back for having the lady balls to speak up.
A few more things before I end this message . . .
You’re not going to find me, but you can sure try.
Since you’re such a fan of postscripts, here is one for you: it wasn’t the alcohol that made me write that email. It just gave me the courage I needed to say something.
I still want to bang you. What do you have to say about THAT?
Love, sincerely,
Sober.
* * *
To: HandsRomingMyBody@RoamInc.com
From: RomeBlackburn@RoamInc.com
Dear Sober,
This back and forth has to stop. It’s extremely unethical, improper, and against the policies. I did not email you to get a reaction; I merely responded in kind to give you a warning and to outline the consequences of such correspondence. This one-sided flirting will end right now.
RMB
* * *
From: HandsRomingMyBody@RoamInc.com
To: RomeBlackburn@RoamInc.com
Maybe you should stop emailing me then if it’s “so improper.” And while you’re at it, stop lying to yourself. If you weren’t enjoying this—even just a little bit—you wouldn’t have hit REPLY in the first place. Admit it.
LSY (Love, Sincerely, Yours)
Postscript: what do your initials stand for?
* * *
From: RomeBlackburn@RoamInc.com
To: HandsRomingMyBody@RoamInc.com
Your ability to take a simple direction makes me question your ability to make a reliable employee.
* * *
From: HandsRomingMyBody@RoamInc.com
To: RomeBlackburn@RoamInc.com
Your inability to answer a simple question like “what do your initials stand for?” confirms the title you wear around this office is correct: pompous ass.
Postscript: I still want to bang you, pompous ass or not. Or maybe because you’re one . . . the jury is still out.
Chapter Eight
ROME
Click.
Unclick.
Click.
Unclick.
I fiddle with the pen pinched between my fingers, eyeing my computer.
Reading her email over and over again.
Pompous ass. I’ve been called worse, and I’ve also acted worse. Her words don’t faze me. At least those words don’t faze me.
It’s her postscript that’s making me question my sanity as my finger hovers over the reply button. This should end, right now. I should trash this email thread and start looking over the mock-ups George brought to my office earlier this morning for our new women’s line.
Sighing, I click the red X in the top corner and minimize the email. Get it out of my sight.
Focus.
This foolish behavior is taking up too much of my time.
Mock-ups. I need to look at the mock-ups. Bring the boards close to my eye, observe the colors and type font. Strong and . . .
I still want to bang you.
Fuck.
Type font. Strong and feminine. The picture could be better, it could use . . . what could it use? I study the picture, the pert ass in yoga pants catching my attention.