Jock Row (Jock Hard #1)(98)

“It’s French.”

His eyes narrow even further—if that were possible—

jaw ticking, thrumming an irritated beat as he sticks his hand in his pocket.

“Lauren, please show Ms Fancy Pants Le-Veck to the elevator, the clock is ticking on her time here.”

“Yes, Mr. Blackburn.” Flicking an apologetic look my way, his secretary stands, hastening to do his bidding, guiding me hastily to the elevators twenty feet in front of her desk, hands on my shoulders, propelling me forward.

“I’m so sorry. We’ll talk more later,” she whispers, her ruby red nail poking at the down button; the doors automatically slide open, revealing the interior black and chrome walls.

Stepping in, I turn around and press my floor button, four levels down.

“Human Recourses first Ms Fancy Pants,” Rome calls out the reminder with a smirk. “It’s that way.”

He points toward the ceiling.

Jerk.

God he’s good-looking.

Tall, with wide shoulders and tapered waist, the best part about him is his broody demeanor. I am attracted to it like bee’s to honey; it intrigued me to no end.

As the doors of the elevator begin to shut, Rome steps into view, hands tucked into the pockets of his perfectly pressed trousers and watches me, scowl etched across his beautiful dark brows.

Just because I feel the need to be pleasant—despite how rude he’s treated me—I mouth the words, “Thank you, Mr. Blackburn,” as the door slide closed in front of me.

Smile to myself, knowing I had the last word.

Smile as the door shut me in.

Only when they close do I slump my shoulders and lean against the wall for support, letting out a ragged breath.

Giving your two-weeks notice is difficult enough—giving it directly to a man like that?

Harder.

That could have gone better.

It went exactly nothing like I’d imagined when I played out the scenario in my mind. Or when I’d rehearsed the speech I was going to give to my dog, a rescue mutt I’d named Scott, because I think it’s hilarious giving my pets people names.

“Scott and Mister Blackburn—thanks so much for seeing me today, I know your time is valuable.” I’d cleared my throat. “Oh, what’s that? You like my skirt? (giggle) Thank you so much, I picked it out just for you.”

But he hadn’t liked my skirt; he’d made fun of it. I’d stuttered over myself, hadn’t been able to give him my pitch, and fallen flat on my face.

I had visions of how much better that could have been. Dreams actually.

Praise and gratitude were supposed to be thrown my way. Excitement for a new partnership. For growth! Maybe some high fives or at least a few professional handshakes or a fist bump to seal the deal!

I adjust my tweed, tight-fitted pencil skirt, feeling the hug of the fabric and slit up the back, allowing for some breathing room. Pluck open the top two buttons of my stifling shirt.

Embarrassed from the gauntlet I just ran through, I make my way back to small office, that’s really just a glorified cubicle, passing many on-looking and incredibly nosey co-workers.

Leave the door open.

Squeaky wheels adjust against the plastic chair mat that protects the carpet of the office, rolling forward as I sit down. Leaning forward, I grip my forehead with one of my hands and replay the meeting over and over in my head.

Rome Blackburn’s casual, yet intimidating stance. The pinch of his long fingers as he fiddled with that damn pen. My eyes as they roamed to the taper of his waist of his well-tailored pants as he watched the elevator doors close on me. The simple mess of his hair, pushed in all different directions, as if moments ago he was pulling on the silky brown strands, making a decision for the fortune 500 company he’s created from the ground up.

And those eyes.

Dark brows hooded over pools of complex green, that for once, I’d been close enough to discover the color of.

Mossy, they’d gotten darker as he’d gotten more irritated with me.

With me.

Ugh.

Rome Blackburn is callous, brash, and calculating. Yet, in that brief moment we’d stared at each other, I saw it—

saw a fleeting look of vulnerability behind his tough exterior.

A glimmer of—

Knock, knock.

The wrap of knuckles sound on the top of my cubicle wall, and before I even look up, I know it’s my best friend Genevieve.

“Well. How did it go?” Genevieve works in IT, the technical side of Roam, Inc, and has been incredibly supportive of me leaving the company to start one of my own. A branding and consulting firm.

Gen sits on a small filing cabinet in my office, smooth legs crossed and ready to listen.

Spinning slowly in my chair, I angle toward her. Purse my lips. “How do you think it went?”

Her face contorts. “I’m going to guess not so well?” She phrases it like a question. “Mister Blackburn doesn’t seem like an understanding kind of guy. He’s too pissed off all the time.”

Understatement of the year.

“God, Gen, I wussed out so hard. I’m so embarrassed—and I didn’t even get to talk about my idea or my plans.” I shake my head. “What he hell was I thinking? Rome Blackburn legit cut me off before I could even get my words out of my mouth.” I laugh some more, finding the meeting more comical with each passing breath.