Jock Row (Jock Hard #1)(95)

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.





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.