Junk Mail Page 4

  “I knew it.” Peyton folds her arms over her chest, a satisfied grin twitching on her lips. “I knew I had you pegged as the health-nut type.”

  I smirk. I should have known she’d already be passing judgment on me—and she also said nut today and I don’t think she even realized it.

  “Nah, you should see how much ice cream I go through. If I had a roommate, they’d think I was going through a breakup every weekend with the number of pints of fudge brownie I polish off by myself.”

  Peyton’s brows furrow into a tight little V. “Is that why you were on that dating app? Looking for a rebound after a breakup?”

  All right, Richards. I wasn’t gonna go there, but since you took it there first . . .

  “No breakups in a few years. I’ve been single a long time,” I say, leaning back in my seat. “I’m on that dating app because I like talking to attractive women.”

  “Like ButterflyGirl6?” she teases.

  “Like you.”

  The words come out of my mouth before I think it through, and I immediately regret letting them slip. Shit. I barely covered my ass during yesterday’s meeting. Haven’t I done enough damage already without using pickup lines on this girl?

  Before I get a chance to pull my head out of my ass, the waitress comes by and sets our food in front of us. Peyton stares down at her panini, avoiding eye contact with me.

  Shit. I blew it. How in the hell am I supposed to explain this to Brody? I start racking my brain for other small businesses I know in the area, anyone I could turn to who could potentially be a backup when this deal inevitably falls through.

  Once the waitress is out of earshot, Peyton mutters something under her breath as she fiddles with the toothpick in her sandwich.

  “Pardon me?” I ask, bracing myself for whatever horrible name she’s about to call me.

  “I said you’re not so bad on the eyes yourself.” She finally looks up at me, batting those baby blues in my direction as her mouth widens into a wicked smile.

  Heaven fucking help me. I’m starting to think I might not be strong enough to not constantly think of Peyton in every inappropriate way I can if she keeps saying things like that.

  “Um, so did you get a chance to look at any of that paperwork?” I blurt out, making no effort to smooth over the abrupt subject change. “I’m happy to answer any questions you may have.”

  Thank the Lord she doesn’t call me on my bullshit. Instead, she transitions seamlessly from flirty Peyton to business Peyton, which, frankly, is equally as sexy. But at least now the fuck-me eyes are gone, and the beast behind my zipper can calm down for half a second.

  The rest of our lunch is business as planned. I discuss our projections to expand across the state in the next few years, and how her product offerings would play into that plan. She nods along, taking small, polite bites of her sandwich and challenging me to keep my eyes off her mouth.

  When the bill comes, I slap down my company credit card, a visual reminder for both of us that this was a lunch meeting, nothing more.

  “You hardly touched your salad,” Peyton says as I pull a twenty from my wallet to leave as a tip.

  She’s right. I took two bites of salmon, three tops.

  “I wasn’t really hungry.” I shrug, hoping she can’t tell I’m totally lying.

  Truth is, I’m starving. But what’s the point in choking down a salad? I know what I really want, what I’ve really developed a taste for. And she’s sitting right across the table from me.

  Chapter Eight

  Peyton

  “So, they’re just starting to pass out the bingo cards, and I swear, Duncan is already grabbing my thigh under the table!”

  There’s embarrassment, and then there’s being trapped in a pedicure chair while your grandma loudly describes a sexual encounter with her senior-discount-eligible boo-thang. Never a dull moment with Gram.

  “So Duncan says to me, ‘Listen, Marge, do any of those bingo prizes really look better than heading back to my room?’ Right in front of everybody at our table! I could hardly believe it!”

  Our nail ladies are chatting in a language I don’t understand, no doubt complaining about having to listen to this senior-center romance that Gram has been weaving for the last ten minutes.

  I can’t say that I blame them. Being ultra-close with your grandmother seems endearing until you have to hear the kind of details no granddaughter should be subject to. And this is far from the first time. I think Gram hopes that if she keeps sharing her geriatric romantic trysts with me, I’ll eventually have some hot gossip of my own to spill on my love life.

  Despite her efforts, I’ve had nothing to share. For the last year and a half, the only men in my life have been the ones placing orders for subscription boxes as gifts for their wives and girlfriends. When I started this business, I didn’t think about the fact that it pretty much limits me to exclusively dealing with men in committed relationships. Well, them and gorgeous account managers, apparently. And if Josh is in the habit of sending nude selfies to ladies in chat rooms, I think it’s safe to say he’s on the market.

  “What about you? Any exciting news in your life, sweetie?”

  I don’t have anything that can match the level of steaminess of that bingo story, but I’ll try my luck at filling Gram in on my business updates. “Well, I had my first one-on-one meeting with my account manager yesterday.”

  Gram wrinkles her nose in distaste as her pedicurist scrubs at her bunions. “Not that kind of news. Fun news. News about sex, my dear.” That last part was said with a little more gusto than I’d prefer.

  The pedicurists immediately start talking faster after Gram’s outburst, and I die a little more inside.

  If only she knew that Josh is my fun news, and my sex news, if I’m being honest. But if I admit to Gram that I have a major lady boner for my account manager, she’ll never drop the subject, and having her constantly nagging me about him isn’t going to help this whole keeping it professional thing. There has to be some other “fun” news in my life I can spill to throw her a bone.

  “Oh! Sabrina and Libby took me out to happy hour the other night. We haven’t racked up that kind of bill on martinis in months.”

  Gram perks up in her seat. “See, that’s fun! Any special occasion, or just a fun girls’ night out?”

  “We were celebrating my big meeting,” I admit.

  And I’ve lost her. She throws her head back into the headrest of her cushy pedicure chair, either in frustration or just to get comfortable, I’m not sure.

  “Meeting this, account manager that. It’s hard to live vicariously through my granddaughter if all you do is work.”

  “I’m not working right now, am I?” I wiggle my toes, splashing a little bubbling water out of the pedicure basin. My nail lady gives me a stern look.

  “Only because I dragged you out here to do something nice for yourself for once. If it weren’t for me, you’d never stop checking your darn email.”

  With a steady hand and perfect precision, my nail lady begins to apply perfect, thin coats of the deep red polish I picked. When was the last time I had a pedicure? Probably not since the last time Gram booked us both appointments and forced me to go.

  Okay, maybe always putting my rest-and-relaxation boxes before myself has meant slacking on some of my own R&R, but it’s also brought me a lot of opportunities. If I hadn’t worked so hard, I never would have gotten this offer that could end up completely changing my life. And if I hadn’t gotten this offer, I may never have met Josh face-to-face, although I’m still not sure if that’s a good thing or not. According to my friends, it’s a great thing and I should nail him as soon as the deal’s set, but they don’t always have the best advice. I’m still not over that time that Libby told me blue lipstick was in style.

  For my business, it’s definitely a good thing. Josh knows what he’s doing and how to help me build my brand. Still, my nerves were totally out of control going into my meeting with him yesterday�
��a professional meeting in a café—yet it felt too much like a date for me to keep calm.

  Plus, with how cocksure he came off the first time we met at the office, I expected to be dealing with a bullheaded negotiator, but that was hardly the case. He made everything seem so easy, steering the conversation like the perfect dance partner. He led us smoothly but firmly through the agenda while offering plenty of room to accommodate my questions and suggestions, even throwing in a joke here and there. He’s easy to talk to, smart . . . and don’t even get me started on how attractive I find him.

  “So this big fancy business deal. Do you think it’s going to work out?”

  Gram’s voice is kind of flat, but I appreciate her trying to show some interest. It’s not that she’s not proud of me and all the work I’ve put in, it’s just that it’s all she’s heard me talk about for the last year and a half.

  “I really think it might,” I say, then mentally add if I can just ignore how completely hot Josh is, a task that seems more and more impossible by the minute.

  If dating your coworker is a big no-no, making a move on the man in charge of the business deal that could make or break my company is completely out of the question. But how do I just totally write off the chemistry between the two of us? I stare down at my bright red toes as if they will somehow reveal the answer to me.

  Can’t I just have my own ham hock and eat it too? Adulting is so hard sometimes.

  Chapter Nine

  Josh

  Friday is chest-and-triceps day, my personal favorite muscle group to hit. I save the best workout for the end of the week to add a little icing onto the cake that is the two days of freedom ahead of me. I could be biting into that cake by now too, if it weren’t for my slow-ass lifting partner.

  From my vantage point as Brody’s spotter, I have the pleasure of watching every bead of sweat form on his forehead as he pounds out reps on the bench, huffing and puffing the whole time. Dude’s been out of the gym for a few measly days with his little gluten incident, and suddenly he’s acting like he’s never picked up a barbell in his life.

  “Come on, slacker. Pick up the pace,” I tease.

  Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy my best friend is no longer on the brink of death by bread, but I was sort of looking forward to a solo weight-lifting session after work. The plan was to pop in my earbuds and get in some quality detox time.

  As if the misdirected dick pic wasn’t enough of a weight on my shoulders this week, we’ve got our biggest corporate event of the year tomorrow night. That’s right, instead of plopping my ass on the couch with a beer and a movie on my Saturday night, I’ll be wining and dining the company’s corporate partners. So a little time to myself to decompress was in tall order.

  No such luck. Instead, I’ve spent the better part of an hour spotting Brody and evading his questions about yesterday’s lunch meeting. And as hard as it is dodging his nosiness, it still doesn’t count as a workout.

  Brody lets out an enormous grunt as he finishes off the last rep of the set. “Shit, dude,” he says between pants. “I’ve gotta be done now, right?”

  “You wish. You’ve got one more set left.”

  Brody’s groan of displeasure is so loud that several of the girls in the yoga class across the gym turn their heads in our direction. Probably to make sure that sound didn’t come out of some dying animal. Nope, just Brody.

  I nudge his shoulder with my knee. “Your girlfriends are staring, dude.”

  While Brody doesn’t love chest-and-triceps day, he is the number-one fan of the all-female yoga class that’s held here on Fridays. I don’t exactly mind the view myself, to be honest. I’m not some pig who’s trying to pick up girls while they’re getting in a workout. But if they’re going into downward dog right in front of me, a guy’s not exactly gonna cover his eyes.

  But today, for what has to be the first time in history, I’ve got no interest in the legging-clad asses on display across the gym. There’s a different ass on my mind lately. An ass that, unfortunately, I’m supposed to be keeping it professional with. Not that my dick seems to be getting that message. And with the way Peyton looked at lunch yesterday, I wouldn’t be surprised to find out that she and my dick are teaming up against me.

  But it’s not just my junk that’s Team Peyton either. I have to keep my brain on the world’s shortest leash to make sure my thoughts don’t go wandering back to her.

  I’m not sure what it is, but there’s something about the two of us that just clicks. Not once during our lunch together did I have to scrounge up some small talk or feign interest in something she was saying. Talking to her felt like second nature. I can’t say that about anyone I’ve chatted up on a dating app.

  I intended it to be a business lunch, so I have no idea why it felt like a date. The best kind of first date too, the kind you only see in the movies, where there are no awkward pauses or drawn-out silences. The kind where the couple is laughing and smiling and teasing each other like they’ve been doing it for years. That was Peyton and me.

  I’m centered again by the clang of the barbell hitting the rack.

  Shit, I zoned out and haven’t been spotting Brody. Lucky for both of us, he didn’t need any help—and he didn’t die. He finished the set, no problem. Well, maybe a little bit of a problem. His face is red as fuck.

  “Jesus, shit. Now I’m done?” It’s less of a question and more of a plea.

  I nod, putting the poor sucker out of his misery. “Yeah, you’re done. Go towel off before you flood the place. I’ve got one set left.”

  Brody peels himself off the bench, leaving a shimmering, sweaty outline behind. “I’m never skipping the gym again,” he grumbles under his breath as he heads for the towels.

  While I load the forty-five-pound plates onto the bar, I find myself wondering if Peyton is into muscles. More specifically, I wonder if she’s into my muscles. What did she say about me at lunch yesterday? You’re not so bad on the eyes yourself. Paired with those bright blue eyes she locked on mine? Have fucking mercy.

  Conjuring up the image of her in that little black dress sends a jolt of interest to my crotch. Shit. I fucking knew I shouldn’t have worn gray joggers.

  It takes a solid minute of visualizing Brody’s sweaty forehead until my dick relaxes back into place. Just in time for Brody to get back too. I let him wipe his disgusting sweat angel off the bench before I slide under the bar and pound out my last set of the day, throwing in a few extra reps for good measure.

  “Shit, man. Do you always lift that heavy?”

  I mutter something about adrenaline and focus on re-racking the weights. Brody doesn’t need to know what, or who, has my blood pumping a little extra lately.

  Once the weights are back in place, Brody tilts his head in question toward the basketball court, but I shake my head. We’d originally planned on shooting hoops after our workout, but Brody’s snail pace put an end to that idea.

  It’s been a long day, and I’m eager to get home. I’ve got errands to run before our event tomorrow, and still have a tux to pick up. It will definitely be a full evening of schmoozing wine-drunk business partners. God, I hate working the big events. That’s the sort of stuff that Brody is better at. Me? I prefer working with people one-on-one.

  And just like that, an idea pops into my head. An idea I like a hell of a lot. I decide to run it by Brody.

  “Should we invite Peyton to the event tomorrow night?” I ask as we head for the locker room. “I know it’s technically for existing partners only, but I think it’d be a good chance to show her how we run things. You know, impress her with the full swanky treatment. Let her see what she could be getting herself into.”

  Brody mulls it over for a second, then shrugs. “Not a bad idea. I say we go ahead with it. You’re her point of contact. You should be the one to extend the invite. Although, who knows if she’s even free. It’s pretty last minute.”

  “True,” I say. But it’s still worth a shot.

  The
first thing I grab once I open my locker is my phone, and I quickly compose a text to Peyton asking if she’s available tomorrow night. She responds instantly that her calendar is completely empty.

  Perfect. I forward her our digital invite, but this time, she doesn’t respond so quickly. I send her another text, letting her know it’s cool if she wants to bring a plus-one with her. If she has a plus-one, I guess it’s better that I find out now before I get too carried away with my low-key obsession with her.

  A watched phone never rings, or something like that, so I grab my body wash and hit the shower. When I come back, no messages. Also, no Brody. He must have bounced, clearly not as interested as I am in whether we’ll have an extra guest joining us for the event. Makes sense. At an event where we’ll be entertaining over a hundred guests, what difference does one extra person make?

  The bigger question is, why the hell does it make such a big difference to me?

  Just a week ago, I was prowling the digital dating scene, searching for a girl of the ButterflyGirl6 variety. I needed someone to help me blow off the year’s worth of steam that had built up from being all work and no play. One night of fun, that’s all I was looking for. One and done and back to my regularly scheduled program, dividing my time between the office, the gym, and the occasional night alone with my right hand. I had things all figured out.

  Until Peyton.

  And now here I am a few days later, checking and rechecking my phone to see if I’ve got half a chance of seeing this girl tomorrow night. A girl who, a few short days ago, I never could have seen coming. A girl who showed up in my life, and suddenly my dating apps are completely forgotten, practically developing cobwebs from lack of use.

  As I’m toweling off, my phone buzzes in my gym bag. I can’t snatch it up fast enough.

  Peyton: See you tomorrow. *smiley-face emoji*

  There’s no one in the locker room to see the enormous smile spread across my face. She’s said nothing about a plus-one, so I have to hope that means she’s coming alone.