Jock Row (Jock Hard #1)(96)

“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.”