Junk Mail(11)

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.