CHAPTER 1

Rome

Why the fuck is she staring at me like that?

She hasn’t’ said a goddamn word in—I check my watch—three minutes.

Allowing the seconds to tick by despite her discomfort, or possibly because of it, I let the silence stretch in front of us unpleasantly long. Uncomfortable and challenging situations are what I do best, and I thrive on them.

Tic.

Tock.

No worries, my sardonic smile says at her. I have plenty of time. An entire twenty minutes penciled in just for her, per her request, to sit here pissing away my precious time. Waiting for her to open that pretty mouth and speak her mind.

Instead she shifts in her seat, the gray skirt she’s unable to tug down hugging her hips. It’s tight and prim, complimented by a stark, white button down shirt. Black glasses sit primly perched on the tip of her nose, the dark slash of eyebrows above their rims, raised in surprise.

She doesn’t look like any marketing coordinator I’ve ever met, and I certainly had no idea there was someone who looked like her working for me. Under me.

Four floors down.

She looks like a goddamn accountant. Or secretary. Or the principal of an east coast prep school.

I swivel in my leather chair before plucking a pen off my desk and pinching it between my fingers, studying it with half hooded eyes.

Feign boredom.

I’m anything but.

Click the end cap once, twice, watching this woman’s large brown eyes track my movements from the other side of this mammoth desk. Her brows pinch, thinly veiled patience wearing thin.

Peyton.

Shit, when I saw her name in appointment calendar, I assumed the person walking through the door would be a male. Imagine my surprise when the delicate wrist gently knocking on my doorframe belonged to the woman seated at my conference table this morning.

She’d been on her cell phone during that meeting, I’d bet my right nutsac on it.

I glance down at the sheet of paper at stare at each letter of her name; I’ve never had a sit down, or meeting, with this woman a single time she’s been with my company.

Five years.

Even with a solid track record for results (according to my secretary’s snooping), she’s never once been in my office. Peyton somethingorother, whose last name I can’t fucking pronounce and won’t bother to try.

Why bother? She has one prissy foot out the door of the company I built.

I part my lips and put us both out of our misery. “Does your supervisor know you’re here?”

“Not yet.” She begins, spine straightening, breasts straining against the starched shirt. “I wanted…” she pauses, inhaling a nervous breath.

“Why didn’t you go to HR first? That’s protocol.”

I like being direct. Favor bluntness over candy coated bullshit, no matter what the flavor someone is trying to feed me.

“I wanted to give you my two week notice in person. I thought it would be personable.”

Personable.

Is she fucking serious? Who does that?

“You’re quitting. Do you think I give a shit about being personable?” Or polite? Or her trying to be considerate?

Those traits have no place in this office.

It’s an office not a daycare center; we’re here to make money, not pander to hurt feelings.

Another pause from Peyton before her shaky breath says, “I thought since it was your company, it would behoove me to not burn any bridges down.”

Behoove.

Isn’t she just fucking adorable? I suddenly imagine her from a small town in the middle of nowhere USA, where parents teach their children manners and spend quality time together on the weekends. Family movie nights and all that feel-good bullshit.

I snort, clicking my pen.

Peyton. What kind of a name is that?

A man’s name, that’s what.

“You didn’t want to burn down any bridges.” I repeat with a sneer, thumbing the cream colored paper she’d set down on my desk upon entering. Her letter of resignation, printed out on resume paper. “I don’t just burn down bridges, I drain the rivers and fill them with concrete.”

Then I go camping along the banks of the rivers remains; I own an outdoor adventure company, so finding a tent would be easy.

Peyton’s mouth puckers, surprised or shocked or disgusted by my candor, I can’t tell.

I skim the paper in my hands. “It doesn’t say where you’re headed next. Do you not have need for a letter of recommendation? Because I must say, Peyton,” I lean back in my chair, letting it squeak on its rusted old hinges. “Quitting is a piss poor way of wringing one out of me.”

Her head shakes, the dark hair pulled back in a tidy bun at the nap of her neck doesn’t budge an inch. All it’s missing is a hair net.

I let my eyes drift from the tips of her shiny leather heels to the collar of her starched dress shirt.

Narrow my eyes. “Do you always dress like that for work?”

She glances down at her blouse, touching a pearl button fastened against her throat. “When I have an important meeting, yes.”

“It’s a goddamn outdoor adventures company and you have a librarian bun in your hair.”

She stiffens, eyes falling to the blue silk tie knotted around my throat; the broad shoulders of my suit coat, no doubt labeling me a hypocrite. Tough shit, it’s my company. I do what ever the fuck I want, and I too have an important meeting this afternoon with advertisers. I’m not about to show up in a goddamn lumberjack plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up to my elbows.

Peyton fiddles with a gold, hoop earring. “I thought our meeting warranted a little extra effort this morning.”

“Well you could have saved yourself the trouble. When someone quits on Roam, Inc., I no longer have use for their time.”

“But Rome, I was hoping…” She uses my first name instead of my last, lifting an arm, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear that isn’t there; a nervous habit she can’t partake in because it’s pulled back in that damn matronly bun. “I came in to suggest that though I’m striking out on my own, my services could still be of use to you.”

“Your services?” A chuckle escapes my lips despite myself, lips settling into a sneer.

When I think services, my mind goes immediately into the gutter: escorts and blow jobs and loose woman. Sue me for immediately thinking about sex.

She must read my thoughts reflected in my eyes, because hers flutter and the skin on her exposed neck ignites to a hot red.

“My design services, yes. I’m finally—”

Agitated by the excited glint in her eye, I cut her off. She’s leaving and has the balls to begin a pitch for her sub-contract work?

I don’t fucking think so, sweetheart.

“We’ll manage just fine without you, I’m sure.” I lean forward, hands folded on my desktop, sleeves of my dress shirt cuffed and rolled to my elbows. “I’m not successful because I spend my time sensitivity training the shit out of everyone who needs it. This is a business, not a hobby. And since you insisted on this little meeting, let me fill you in on something; a valuable lesson that might come in handy for your next job, if you will.”

“I-Im listening.”

I level Peyton with a hard stare. “If you think for one second you’re going to work for a competitor, think again.”

I shift the papers on my desk, jabbing my finger at her non-compete contract; the one she signed the first week she came onboard at Roam, Inc.

It’s ironclad and irrevocable for one year after the termination of her employment, and I’m not afraid to enforce it.

Yup. I’d take her for everything she was worth if she went to work for the competition.

Her chin lifts a fraction. “I would never.”

My lip curls into a smile. “That’s what everyone says.”

She stares at my mouth a few heartbeats before shaking her head. “I won’t be working for anyone again—I’m finally going to work for myself. And if you can’t respect that, I guess I underestimated you.”

I lean forward, clasping my hands on the desk. “Underestimated me?”

“I thought you were progressive. As someone that started their own company from the ground up, I thought maybe you’d give me a chance.” She stands, handing me a manila folder. “My graphic design work is good. Fantastic even. If you can’t see that, then, well. You…you’re a…”

My brows raise into my hairline. “I’m a what?”

“An ass.”

When she’s gone, I fiddle with the mouse of my laptop, scrolling through the company contacts. Click on her name. Hit enter.

Peyton

The sound of Rome Blackburn’s door closing behind me startles me out of my stupor. Out of the haze of delusion I’d somehow created and been surrounding myself with the past few weeks, thinking maybe—just maybe—he’d want to hire me on as a contractor once I left the company.

I was betting on him giving me a chance.

What the hell just happened in there?

Did I just march into Mister Outdoor Adventures office to resign with an envelope full of designs? To pitch him my new company? To stare at the strong set of his jaw while he rattled off insults?

I did.

Oh God, I did.

And I called him an ass—to his face. Honestly, the look on his face will be burned into my brain forever. And I doubt insulting him will bode well for me in the slightest. Talk about not wanting to burn bridges . . .

But he didn’t even let me get a word in edgewise.

Well maybe a few—a stutter here and there.

Good job, Peyton, way to represent the future of Fresh Minted Designs by losing your backbone when you needed it the most. How is that going to help you succeed?

“How’d it go?”

I breeze past the front reception girl, her voice stopping me with a staged whisper. She’s leaning over her the cold stone counter, glancing up and down the hall—then back at me, crooking her finger so I’ll come closer.

“Well? How did it go, you weren’t in there long.”

I glance toward Rome Blackburn’s office, my face defeated. “Not as I expected. And now I know where he gets his last name from.”

His personality is as black as his soul.

Wincing, Lauren motions with her finger for me to come closer, still. I have nothing better to do since I just quit, so I follow her little command, resting my hip against her granite reception counter with a loud sigh.

She grimaces. “That bad, huh?”

“Worse.”

“I didn’t hear any shouting—how bad could it have been?”

My brows shoot up. “Shouting?”

“Well yeah—you’re leaving. You quit. Rome Blackburn doesn’t take kindly to people leaving the company.”

As if I needed to be told; I just witnessed it first hand.

“Were you able to give him your two-weeks notice?”

“No. The conversation tanked when he started talking about my non-compete.”

Lauren laughs, clicking away at her keyboard. “Yeah, he usually has people clean out their desk on the spot when they intend to leave. Don’t be surprised if there’s a box already packed by the time you reach your desk.”

“Oh really? I never would have guessed.” The words drip from my mouth, coated in sarcasm I can’t conceal, but my stomach drops.

I hope he lets me stay; I need this last two weeks.

“He’s built this company on blood, sweat, and tears from the ground—”

I lean over to pat Lauren on shoulder. “Sweetie, I know. You don’t have to defend him. I get it. It’s nothing personal, it’s business. I just wish he would have given me more of a chance to—”

Down the corridor, a door opens.

His door.

Lauren’s back goes rigid; her fingers immediately begin flying faster across her keyboard.

I freeze.

My shoulders stiffen, back straightens, senses kick on, suddenly on high alert.

His cologne is sharp and masculine—with an air of power, mixed into one unmistakable and ridiculously intoxicating scent and what the hell am I even saying?

Rome Blackburn is woods and rivers and adventure.

He is excitement.

He is an asshole.

Rome Blackburn is a freaking. Prick.

The energy in the entire room shifts in the hallway. Commanding steps move toward Lauren and I, stopping just behind me.

“Ms Lll…” He stops, unable to pronounce my last name, and not even attempting to try. “What are you still doing here? Don’t you have two weeks notice to give to your supervisor?”

He’s not making me clean out my desk. He’s not making me clean out my desk!

“It’s Lévêque.” It’s pronounced le-veck.

“What is?”

“My last name.”

Sharp, intense green eyes narrow, five o’clock shadow covering his strong, chiseled jaw. Rome crosses his arms, biceps straining against the expensive fabric of his blue, button down shirt, feet a shoulder width apart. The stance makes the room feel smaller, tighter, sucking all the air.

“Le veck,” he repeats, testing it on his lips. His gorgeous, pouty lips.

“Yes.”

“Then why the hell don’t you spell it that way?”

“It’s French.”

His eyes narrow even further—if that were possible—

jaw ticking, thrumming an irritated beat as he sticks his hand in his pocket.

“Lauren, please show Ms Fancy Pants Le-Veck to the elevator, the clock is ticking on her time here.”

“Yes, Mr. Blackburn.” Flicking an apologetic look my way, his secretary stands, hastening to do his bidding, guiding me hastily to the elevators twenty feet in front of her desk, hands on my shoulders, propelling me forward.

“I’m so sorry. We’ll talk more later,” she whispers, her ruby red nail poking at the down button; the doors automatically slide open, revealing the interior black and chrome walls.

Stepping in, I turn around and press my floor button, four levels down.

“Human Recourses first Ms Fancy Pants,” Rome calls out the reminder with a smirk. “It’s that way.”

He points toward the ceiling.

Jerk.

God he’s good-looking.

Tall, with wide shoulders and tapered waist, the best part about him is his broody demeanor. I am attracted to it like bee’s to honey; it intrigued me to no end.

As the doors of the elevator begin to shut, Rome steps into view, hands tucked into the pockets of his perfectly pressed trousers and watches me, scowl etched across his beautiful dark brows.

Just because I feel the need to be pleasant—despite how rude he’s treated me—I mouth the words, “Thank you, Mr. Blackburn,” as the door slide closed in front of me.

Smile to myself, knowing I had the last word.

Smile as the door shut me in.

Only when they close do I slump my shoulders and lean against the wall for support, letting out a ragged breath.

Giving your two-weeks notice is difficult enough—giving it directly to a man like that?

Harder.

That could have gone better.

It went exactly nothing like I’d imagined when I played out the scenario in my mind. Or when I’d rehearsed the speech I was going to give to my dog, a rescue mutt I’d named Scott, because I think it’s hilarious giving my pets people names.

“Scott and Mister Blackburn—thanks so much for seeing me today, I know your time is valuable.” I’d cleared my throat. “Oh, what’s that? You like my skirt? (giggle) Thank you so much, I picked it out just for you.”

But he hadn’t liked my skirt; he’d made fun of it. I’d stuttered over myself, hadn’t been able to give him my pitch, and fallen flat on my face.

I had visions of how much better that could have been. Dreams actually.

Praise and gratitude were supposed to be thrown my way. Excitement for a new partnership. For growth! Maybe some high fives or at least a few professional handshakes or a fist bump to seal the deal!

I adjust my tweed, tight-fitted pencil skirt, feeling the hug of the fabric and slit up the back, allowing for some breathing room. Pluck open the top two buttons of my stifling shirt.

Embarrassed from the gauntlet I just ran through, I make my way back to small office, that’s really just a glorified cubicle, passing many on-looking and incredibly nosey co-workers.

Leave the door open.

Squeaky wheels adjust against the plastic chair mat that protects the carpet of the office, rolling forward as I sit down. Leaning forward, I grip my forehead with one of my hands and replay the meeting over and over in my head.

Rome Blackburn’s casual, yet intimidating stance. The pinch of his long fingers as he fiddled with that damn pen. My eyes as they roamed to the taper of his waist of his well-tailored pants as he watched the elevator doors close on me. The simple mess of his hair, pushed in all different directions, as if moments ago he was pulling on the silky brown strands, making a decision for the fortune 500 company he’s created from the ground up.

And those eyes.

Dark brows hooded over pools of complex green, that for once, I’d been close enough to discover the color of.

Mossy, they’d gotten darker as he’d gotten more irritated with me.

With me.

Ugh.

Rome Blackburn is callous, brash, and calculating. Yet, in that brief moment we’d stared at each other, I saw it—

saw a fleeting look of vulnerability behind his tough exterior.

A glimmer of—

Knock, knock.

The wrap of knuckles sound on the top of my cubicle wall, and before I even look up, I know it’s my best friend Genevieve.

“Well. How did it go?” Genevieve works in IT, the technical side of Roam, Inc, and has been incredibly supportive of me leaving the company to start one of my own. A branding and consulting firm.

Gen sits on a small filing cabinet in my office, smooth legs crossed and ready to listen.

Spinning slowly in my chair, I angle toward her. Purse my lips. “How do you think it went?”

Her face contorts. “I’m going to guess not so well?” She phrases it like a question. “Mister Blackburn doesn’t seem like an understanding kind of guy. He’s too pissed off all the time.”

Understatement of the year.

“God, Gen, I wussed out so hard. I’m so embarrassed—and I didn’t even get to talk about my idea or my plans.” I shake my head. “What he hell was I thinking? Rome Blackburn legit cut me off before I could even get my words out of my mouth.” I laugh some more, finding the meeting more comical with each passing breath.

“At least it’s a pretty mouth,” my friend teases.

“He didn’t even know my last name, which means he had no idea who I was. Awesome.”

That gathers a chuckle from Genevieve. “He seems so refined, how could he mess up your last name?”

“He couldn’t pronounce it so he didn’t bother saying it.” I shrug. “Or maybe it was his way of jabbing me with one last insult before I left.”

Dutiful and supportive, my friend rubs my back.

“All it did was make him look like an ass.” Her high heeled shoe bounces up and down. “Hey. Listen. Forget about him—you’re leaving and you’re going to some serious kick ass when you’re out there, hustling all these companies, making a name for yourself, he’s going to be sorry he passed on you.”

I shake my head mirthfully. “He is not. You’re so stupid.”

Genevieve considers that a compliment. “I’m telling you, he’ll be sorry.”

Picking up a paperclip, I play with the metal and undo its shape—a nervous tick of mine. When I was younger, I’d shove the metal in my mouth against my teeth and pretend it was braces. I’m older now, so I set the bent metal back on my desk. “Any gossip I need to know about lately?”

Genevieve knows everything. And, in my opinion, has the best job in the company.

She monitors the instant messaging accounts, watching for any kind of misconduct or misuse of time. Creates new employee accounts and emails. Deletes old ones. Takes random screenshots of co-worker’s desktops.

Basically, she is the eyes and ears of Roam, Inc.

The best part of her job? No one knows exactly what she does; they just think she sets up work phones and fixes their computers every now and again—so she can dig up some real dirt on people.

“Hmmm,” she hums, taping a finger against her chin. “Calvin over in finance has a girlfriend getting implants this Monday, and he’s paying for the entire thing.”

“You’re lying.”

She shakes her head.

I quietly laugh, slightly jealous, my shoulders shaking. “What about Rose and Blaine?”

She takes a mint from my candy dish and pops it in her mouth, the crinkle of the wrapper rolling in her fingers before she tosses it in the trash can next to my desk.

“Still in a stand-off. He won’t admit to crushing on her, and she won’t admit to kissing him when they were drunk at the last office party. Looks like good old fashion stubbornness is going to get in their way of true love.”

“Such a shame.” Toss my paper clip in the trash, grabbing another one. “And Sally up in payroll? Is she still talking shit about me to Jessica?”

Genevieve rolls her bright blue eyes. “Always. Said you were dressed like a tramp today and went to the top floor today to try to fuck the boss.” She emits a soft snort. “As if anyone would want to go near that icicle dick.”

I bite the corner of my lip, eyes cast down. I don’t know, someone might want to fuck him.

In fact, I could name one person off the top of my head in an instant.

Me.

Me, me, me.

I would do Rome Blackburn in a heartbeat.

My friend chatters on, oblivious.

“Hey!” She perks up, sitting up ramrod straight on the desk. “Are we all still on for tomorrow night? Thirtieth birthday celebration!” She claps her hands, excited.

Some people might dread turning thirty, but not me.

I’m excited to be out of my twenties and I’m ready to be taken more seriously. I’m ready to have my own business, I’m ready for this new chapter in my life, despite the slightly negative start to it.

“We’re on. I need a stiff drink.”

My friend snickers. “A stiff drink and a stiff cock inside you.”

“Trust me, that’s not going to happen.”

“Why not?”

Because. I’m saving it for someone who doesn’t want me back: Rome Blackburn.