PROLOGUE

Peyton

Vivian: God, why is he such an asshole…?

Brielle: Don’t you think the better questions is, ‘Poor George, why is he never prepared?’

Peyton: George spends more time at the latte machine then his computer, that’s why—and look at how jolly he is. Like a cute little Santa Clause…

Vivian: Sigh. George’s wife makes the best apple pie.

Brielle: Oh crap, Vivian, look out, he’s coming for you.

“Vivian, what came out of your test study?” A man’s voice cuts into our our group chat and, unprepared, our co-worker stumbles to pull her notes up on her iPad.

Brielle: Shit, Viv is a goner.

Peyton: Oh I feel bad, she’s turning red.

Brielle: Yeah Viv, you’re turning SO red.

Peyton: Viv, you should see your ears…

Brielle: Maybe if the devil himself wasn’t breathing down her neck, she wouldn’t be sweating so much.

Peyton: To be fair, we are in the middle of a meeting—she should be prepared, not pretending to take notes but instead chatting online.

Brielle: Look how irritated he is. His nostrils are flaring.

Peyton: Yeah…look at his face. He looks like a dragon tempted to light the entire room on fire.

I turn to study it from my chair at the conference table, the long wooden slab a monolithic buffer between me and my boss. He’s at the head of this table, brandishing control and silver tongue over the room like a sharp sword.

No one is exempt from his contempt.

I watch as he reprimands my friend from the marketing department—her small office is two down from mine—laying both palms on the desk and leaning toward her.

“I have no new ideas to work with here. How the fu—” He stops himself from cursing midsentence, pausing to take a deep breath and starting over. Runs one of those large, masculine palms through his dark hair. “What the hell is it you do in your office all day? Stare out the damn windows waiting for inspiration? I want you outside for fucks sake—go climb a goddamn mountain. This is an outdoor adventures company, for fucks sake! Go outdoors!”

He pins a big, brawny guy named Branson with a hard, emotionless stare. “Innovations are your job, Branson. Take a tent out, set the fucking thing up, and find a way to improve it.”

He’s breathing hard, pissed off.

“Look. I know we’ve just come off the holiday season and everyone is beat—but if we don’t get some advances with our designs to boost sales, this fiscal year is going to end up being complete shit.”

He drones on, deep voice reverberating off the walls as we all sit silently, holding our breath.

Vivian: Uh, hey, guys? Do you think he still wants my notes?

Brielle: Fuck your notes, Viv—don’t say another word unless your “notes” are actual notes.

Peyton: Pretty sure you lost your moment before he stood up and starting pacing like a tiger at the zoo.

Vivian: Thank god—I had nothing new to ad.

I watch across the table as Vivian slouches with relief, a sly smile playing across her bubble gum painted lips. Her lithe fingers tap away at the cell phone she’s holding beneath the table, and I know her next message isn’t to us.

Brielle: Do you not have notes because you were so focused on flirting with the guy tet online that has—how did you put it…

Peyton: Meat steaks for pecs?

Brielle: Yeah, that guys. “Meat steak guy.”

Vivian: I can’t be accountable for my actions! I have to flirt!

Peyton: You don’t even know if he’s real.

Vivian: Who cares if he’s real—he’s the prefect distraction.

“I want everyone to crawl back to their hole of an office and pull an idea out of their ass by noon. This is the summer of ‘roughing it.’ Our target demographic—Harry can provide the data—is the millennial, and the yuppy. If you don’t know what a yuppy is, google it. If you can’t figure it out how to do that, clear the shit out of your desk.”

At the mention of his name, Harry blanches, an unattractive contrast to the muddy green color of his short sleeve plaid shirt. His neck turns a ruddy burgundy, which only serves to highlight the stubble his razor missed when he shaved this morning.

Brielle: Did you guys just see that? Harry wiped his brow, he’s legit sweating.

Peyton: Yeah, I saw that—gross. He looks like he’s about to barf—you heard what happened though, right?

Vivian: No, what happened?

Peyton: Rumor has it, the ad copy he proofed for Mountain Man Magazine had three errors in it.

Brielle: NO IT DID NOT!

Vivian: THREE?? Ohhhh shitttttt….

Peyton: Yes, three.

Our boss levitates Harry with a pair of eyes so gray I squirm, though they’re not directed anywhere in my direction.

Thank God.

Bossman holds up three fingers.

“How could you let three god-” He stops himself again, pushing his large, hand through his thick, ruffled hair. “How could you let three errors get through proofing? You had one job, Harry. One. Keep us from looking from looking illiterate.”

He has a point; an ad has no more than 100 words in it.

“I’m so sorry, Rome, I, uh, had a headache that day,” Harry fidgets with the handkerchief in his hand. It was given to him by his wife, embroidered with his initials and a heart that’s gag worthy sweet—too bad he’s using it to wipe the jittery sweat pouring from his temples.

It’s not a good look for Harry—or anyone for that matter.

“You’re giving me a headache.” Boss man surrenders to his chair, head in his hand.

“I’m sorry, Rome, I—”

“No, Harold, I’m the one that’s sorry.” His meaning couldn’t be more clear: I’m sorry I hired you. I regret it. I intent to fire you if you fuck up one more time. “There will be no more second chances.”

He straightens to his full height, addressing the room full of minions.

“For the love of all that’s holy—someone give me something by noon.”

My fingers, about to tap out another message to my friends, cease their mission.

It’s ten fifteen in the morning.

He wants ideas by noon.

I have an appointment with him at eleven.

Shit.

When my eyes up from the small screen cradled in my hands, they connect with a set of steel gray ones. Dark brows an expressionless line. Full lips, impassive.

He is so good-looking.

Beautiful, even.

Such a waste on a man so emotionally unattached.

Still.

When our eyes lock—a little too long to be coincidental—

heat rises up my chest, neck, then cheeks. Colors my entire face and has me reaching to press a palm there.

It’s warm, too.

I shiver.

I have an appointment with him at eleven.

And he isn’t going to like what I have to say.