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)
My jaw is clenched, because the noise level when I arrive is as loud as it should be upstairs, only there are people congregated around the entrance to the break room, spilling out and standing around, holding cups and plates of cake, and laughing.
Peyton isn’t even a power player here. What the hell is everyone doing celebrating? It’s not like she’s retiring. She fucking quit. She created a new job, and she’s leaving, and that is that.
End of the fucking story.
As soon as I’m spotted, a few hushed whispers fill the air; I take in a nudge. A few coughs. My employees moving aside to create a narrow path in front of the door for me to enter through.
And I do.
I stalk toward the break room like a man on a mission, plowing through like a dump truck, eyes scanning for one person: Peyton Lévêque. It takes me a few seconds to settle on her—there are shit tons of people crammed into this room, which is probably a fire hazard or health code violation.
Then.
There she is.
Like a goddamn ray of sunshine, light streaming behind her from the window, a halo shining above her pretty head.
Her lying, beautiful head.
Dark hair, wavy and glossy, down around her shoulders, the rich color picking up red from the sun.
She’s holding a glass—it’s poised at her lips and she’s about to take a sip—when our eyes meet. She lowers it, her mouth parts, and her smile spreads.
Until I scowl. Then, her face morphs from happy to concerned in a second. Damn right she should be concerned.
I nod.
She nods.
My eyes trail down the front of her and I note her dress—it’s baby blue, wrapped and tied at the waist, and shows off her curves while highlighting her legs in those sexy-as-shit heels.
Stop thinking about her curves and legs. You’re not here to admire her.
The pile of gifts in the corner pisses me off, bringing me back into the present, back to my rage, and has me lifting my arm; crooking my finger.
Peyton’s brows go up at the same time her head cocks and she pokes a finger into her own chest. “Me?”
“Yeah. You.” I know she can’t hear me, but I say it anyway—and if she’s any good at reading lips, she’ll haul her ass over here right quick.
Her cup is passed. Skirt gets smoothed out. Chin tilts high.
She heads over.
Good girl.
“Follow me,” I order her when we’re on the outskirts of the room. When we’re clear across the office common area, I pivot to face her.
She’s shorter, even in heels, so I have to dip my head to glare at her. “Want to tell me exactly what the fuck is going on in there?”
A shrug. “They threw me a party.”
“I can see that.” I’m so annoyed. “I’m asking why?”
Peyton is unperturbed. “’Cause I’m leaving?”
“You quit. Parties should be reserved for employees who are celebrating birthdays or monumental occasions—not young women who leave for greener pastures.”
Or better yet, parties should not happen at all.
She wilts under my bark, her eyes shifting back and forth over mine.
“Sir, I’m not using this as an excuse, but I had no idea they were planning anything.”
Sir.
That gives me pause, and I want to fucking laugh.
Wow, she’s good at pretending—not giving away any hints of her being HandsRomingMyBody anywhere. Not fidgeting. No signs of distress on her face. Not a flinch or a blush.
I cross my arms, shirt stretching across my chest. “How long is this party supposed to last?”
“I’m not sure. Lauren was in charge. They haven’t done games yet.”
“Games,” I deadpan, because—are you fucking kidding me?
“Just a few fun ones, like, What’s in your desk drawer?”
Paper. Staples. Post-it Notes. Tape.
Yellow notepad. That’s it—that’s what’s in my desk drawer—and I mentally facepalm myself for playing along in my head.
My lips stay sealed closed.
Peyton prattles on. “And then Donna in accounting made Pin the tail on the Bo—” Her lips clamped shut.
Obviously my brows shoot up when she fails to finish her sentence. “Pin the tail on what?”
“The . . . um. Beaver.”
She’s so full of shit. “Is that so? You’re playing pin the tail on the beaver.”
“Yup. Mm-hmm.”
“Are you sure it’s not something else?”
Her lashes flutter innocently. “Like what?”
“Oh, God—I don’t know. Pin the tail on the boss?”
When her face flushes, I know I’ve nailed it. “I fucking knew it.” I get even closer, a sneer on my lip. “And you know what else I know, Peyton?”
She backs against the wall, pressing her spine to the gray, textured partician. “What else do you know?”
She gulps. Licks her lips. Holds her breath.
I lean in—get in good and close. I sniff her hair . . . because it’s impossible not to. Lower my voice. “I know you sent that email.”
Her eyes widen uncharacteristically large. Wide. “What email?”
“Don’t be coy. You’re HandsRomingMy . . .” I actually choke on the damn words. Embarrassed. “Body.”