Jock Row (Jock Hard #1)(97)

I lean forward, clasping my hands on the desk. “Underestimated me?”

“I thought you were progressive. As someone that started their own company from the ground up, I thought maybe you’d give me a chance.” She stands, handing me a manila folder. “My graphic design work is good. Fantastic even. If you can’t see that, then, well. You…you’re a…”

My brows raise into my hairline. “I’m a what?”

“An ass.”

When she’s gone, I fiddle with the mouse of my laptop, scrolling through the company contacts. Click on her name. Hit enter.


Peyton

The sound of Rome Blackburn’s door closing behind me startles me out of my stupor. Out of the haze of delusion I’d somehow created and been surrounding myself with the past few weeks, thinking maybe—just maybe—he’d want to hire me on as a contractor once I left the company.

I was betting on him giving me a chance.

What the hell just happened in there?

Did I just march into Mister Outdoor Adventures office to resign with an envelope full of designs? To pitch him my new company? To stare at the strong set of his jaw while he rattled off insults?

I did.

Oh God, I did.

And I called him an ass—to his face. Honestly, the look on his face will be burned into my brain forever. And I doubt insulting him will bode well for me in the slightest. Talk about not wanting to burn bridges . . .

But he didn’t even let me get a word in edgewise.

Well maybe a few—a stutter here and there.

Good job, Peyton, way to represent the future of Fresh Minted Designs by losing your backbone when you needed it the most. How is that going to help you succeed?

“How’d it go?”

I breeze past the front reception girl, her voice stopping me with a staged whisper. She’s leaning over her the cold stone counter, glancing up and down the hall—then back at me, crooking her finger so I’ll come closer.

“Well? How did it go, you weren’t in there long.”

I glance toward Rome Blackburn’s office, my face defeated. “Not as I expected. And now I know where he gets his last name from.”

His personality is as black as his soul.

Wincing, Lauren motions with her finger for me to come closer, still. I have nothing better to do since I just quit, so I follow her little command, resting my hip against her granite reception counter with a loud sigh.

She grimaces. “That bad, huh?”

“Worse.”

“I didn’t hear any shouting—how bad could it have been?”

My brows shoot up. “Shouting?”

“Well yeah—you’re leaving. You quit. Rome Blackburn doesn’t take kindly to people leaving the company.”

As if I needed to be told; I just witnessed it first hand.

“Were you able to give him your two-weeks notice?”

“No. The conversation tanked when he started talking about my non-compete.”

Lauren laughs, clicking away at her keyboard. “Yeah, he usually has people clean out their desk on the spot when they intend to leave. Don’t be surprised if there’s a box already packed by the time you reach your desk.”

“Oh really? I never would have guessed.” The words drip from my mouth, coated in sarcasm I can’t conceal, but my stomach drops.

I hope he lets me stay; I need this last two weeks.

“He’s built this company on blood, sweat, and tears from the ground—”

I lean over to pat Lauren on shoulder. “Sweetie, I know. You don’t have to defend him. I get it. It’s nothing personal, it’s business. I just wish he would have given me more of a chance to—”

Down the corridor, a door opens.

His door.

Lauren’s back goes rigid; her fingers immediately begin flying faster across her keyboard.

I freeze.

My shoulders stiffen, back straightens, senses kick on, suddenly on high alert.

His cologne is sharp and masculine—with an air of power, mixed into one unmistakable and ridiculously intoxicating scent and what the hell am I even saying?

Rome Blackburn is woods and rivers and adventure.

He is excitement.

He is an asshole.

Rome Blackburn is a freaking. Prick.

The energy in the entire room shifts in the hallway. Commanding steps move toward Lauren and I, stopping just behind me.

“Ms Lll…” He stops, unable to pronounce my last name, and not even attempting to try. “What are you still doing here? Don’t you have two weeks notice to give to your supervisor?”

He’s not making me clean out my desk. He’s not making me clean out my desk!

“It’s Lévêque.” It’s pronounced le-veck.

“What is?”

“My last name.”

Sharp, intense green eyes narrow, five o’clock shadow covering his strong, chiseled jaw. Rome crosses his arms, biceps straining against the expensive fabric of his blue, button down shirt, feet a shoulder width apart. The stance makes the room feel smaller, tighter, sucking all the air.

“Le veck,” he repeats, testing it on his lips. His gorgeous, pouty lips.

“Yes.”

“Then why the hell don’t you spell it that way?”