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 still want to bang you.
The words hang over me like a rainy cloud, constantly beating me from above, killing any kind of work ethic I might have.
Jesus Christ.
I drop the mock-ups and push away from my desk, exhaling heavily. I stand and pace, rolling up the sleeves of my black button-up shirt. Didn’t go with a navy-blue suit today. Couldn’t. I didn’t want to give the impression that I enjoyed the compliments, or that I was looking for more.
But it was tempting, so goddamn tempting.
Pacing back and forth, I rake my hand through my hair, trying like hell to figure out what to do about this email. The responsible CEO would trash it and move the fuck on. The hard-up CEO, who hasn’t had an ounce of excitement in his life for years, is curious to find out what other responses he can garner from the mystery woman.
I’m also wracking my brain to figure out who the woman is.
Want to know how pathetic I really am? I spent the entire weekend going through our list of employees, divided them in a spreadsheet by male and female, then marital status, and highlighted the single women in the database.
Then, I proceeded to look them up on social media, trying to pinpoint those who had boyfriends.
It was a low point in my life, but for fuck’s sake, it’s driving me crazy. I was able to gather a group of twenty-two women.
Twenty-two single women to sift through.
The list is on my desk, printed and catching my attention every few seconds—it’s nothing but a distraction, and the entire reason reason I haven’t gotten any actual work accomplished.
Staring at the names on the list and the mock-ups, I scratch my jaw, the rough scruff scraping over my fingers as I devise a plan.
If I can’t get any work done because I’m trying to figure out who this mystery girl is, why not try to kill two birds with one stone?
On a mission, I snap the list off my desk and barge through my office doors. I float the paper onto Lauren’s desk and say, “Meeting in the executive boardroom in ten minutes. All the women on this list are required to attend. Make sure the mock-ups are on easels.”
Startled, Lauren traps the paper under her hands and gives it a quick scan. “What if they’re in another meeting?”
As I head back to my office, I say, “Then make them leave.”
The door slams behind me. Water, I need some fucking water before this meeting.
* * *
I watch them, study them closely as they file in one by one, taking seats in the black conference room chairs, filling up the back first. No one wants to sit in the front. I don’t blame them.
Arms crossed, a scowl written across my forehead, I stand to the side, my suit jacket left in my office, too heated with frustration to put it on for the meeting.
The room is silent. The soft click of the conference room door sliding shut echoes through the small space. Pushing off the wall, I take them all in. A sea of blondes, brunettes, and black hair—one ginger—sit before me, curious gazes in their eyes, some annoyed, some scared shitless, having never been in one of the meetings before. I don’t normally call on accounting to give me input on mock-ups, but like I said, I have ulterior motives.
Silently, hands in my pockets, I walk around the room, taking in all the small things about these women.
Coiffed hair, curled and sprayed to stay in place.
Black mascara speckled under the eyes from an already long day at work.
Turtleneck covering up a still visible hickey. Nice try.
Smeared red lipstick.
Glasses that need to be cleaned.
Peyton.
Sips too loudly on their straw.
Painted fingernails, clacking away on an iPad.
Wait . . . Peyton. I turn my gaze to her once again, seeing how she sits tall in her seat, twirling her pen in her hand, ready to take notes. She isn’t brimming with confidence, but she isn’t cowering in her seat like some of the other women.
Hmm . . .
When I round the corner of the table, I catch the gaze of another employee from across the table, her eyes cast down but glancing up at my crotch every two seconds. I take her in: red hair, freckles decorating her porcelain skin, and classic green eyes highlighted by dark liner. Pretty.
I don’t remember her name, and I don’t remember looking her up on social media. Did she hear about the meeting and invite herself?
I make a quick count of the heads in the room. Twenty unfamiliar faces.
How is it possible that I don’t know any of their names when they work for me? Well. Except for Payton Lévêque, and she’s on her way out of the company.
I make a mental note to look up a redhead when I get back to my office.