The Rule Book (Rule Breakers #1) Read online

  “Right.” I took another sip. “And thank you. This is really nice.”

  “My pleasure. Nice to have some new blood in here who actually appreciates people.” She tossed a glare at Jackson, and he grimaced back. Most of the other coworkers seemed to tolerate Jackson, but Zelda openly showed her complete and utter disdain.

  “Anyway, I have to get back to work. Congrats on the big milestone.”

  “Thanks.” She pulled me into a quick hug and her corkscrew curls tickled my nose.

  As soon as Zelda disappeared down the hallway, I turned to Jackson and said, “I ran into Brogan on Friday.”

  “Where?” he whispered, like this was some top-secret meeting.

  “At his apartment.”

  His beady little eyes popped open, and he slammed his hands down on his desk with enough force to rattle his coffee mug. “What did you tell him? I swear if you threw me under the bus—”

  “Relax.” Maybe it was the milestone coffee giving me that extra sense of security, but I propped my hands on my hips and leveled him with the same condescending look he so often used on me. “I saved your precious hide.”

  As if to contradict me, Brogan’s voice boomed through the speaker. “Lainey?”

  I pressed the button on the receiver. “Yes?”

  “In my office. Now.”

  Jackson’s pasty complexion paled to a nice shade of Vampire White, and his eyes pleaded with me as I moved toward Brogan’s office.

  Good. Let him sweat. He’d made my life hell for the past two months and deserved a little taste of his own medicine.

  The glass door closed behind me with a soft hiss. I held my hands behind my back, not sure what to do in this situation. We’d spent a fun night together, but we were in our work environment now, and I didn’t know what, if anything, carried over. Or there was always the possibility he’d decided to pull out the rule book, tell me exactly how many rules I’d violated, and send me packing.

  A smile played at his lips as he watched me fidgeting obviously. His demeanor, even from last week in the office, had taken a complete one-eighty. “How is your sweater doing today?”

  Relief ebbed through me as I realized I hadn’t been called in here to be fired—or if I had, he was a seriously sick individual for joking with me first. I thumbed the material, pretending to inspect it. “Untouched and unslobbered.”

  “Good to hear. Sit down.” He motioned toward the chair across from him.

  As I sat down, I crossed my legs and smoothed out my pencil skirt.

  He steepled his hands together on the desk, tapping the pads of each neatly-manicured finger together. “I was thinking. Bruce really likes having you around, and so I thought I’d pass off walking duties to you instead of Jackson.”

  I went to uncross and re-cross my legs, and in the process the toe of my boot brushed against his leg under the desk. We both froze, his eyes locking with mine. If I’d looked away for even a second, I would have missed the dilation in his pupils, and the way his Adam’s apple slid down his throat as he swallowed hard. A shudder started at the base of my spine and splintered through my back.

  I cleared my throat and decided to focus my gaze on something safer, opting for the picture of Brogan with Bruce on his desk. Much like the other night, the heat of self-awareness—mainly the awareness of how elated I was to come into contact with any portion of his body—prickled the skin from my elbows to my toes.

  Note to self: start an eHarmony account, because this is treading dangerously close to the pathetic category.

  “That’s fine. I can handle you.” I choked, realizing what I’d just said. “That. I mean I can handle that, not you.” I ran a hand through my hair and resisted the urge to groan.

  Schoolgirl crush. That was the only way I could explain this feeling. Back in high school, there was the demigod of all science teachers—Mr. Chandler. He was young for a teacher, wore his T-shirts tight across his broad chest, sported tattoos much like Brogan, and the taboo of liking someone so forbidden had played a key role in my infatuation with him. That was all this was—an infatuation. Because Brogan had the S trifecta: Sexy, Smart, and SO out of my league.

  His warm brown eyes studied me. His teeth nipped at his bottom lip, and I imagined what they’d feel like dragging over my neck, my arms, my—

  He cleared his throat and unbuttoned his blazer. “As long as this won’t be a problem, I think you’re a better fit.”

  Wait. What? Better fit for what? I was jostled out of my Brogan stupor in time to see a wicked grin playing at his lips. I backtracked through our conversation and realized my mind had gone ten steps beyond dog walking. While he was focused on a proper caregiver for his pooch—seriously, Jackson’s nurturing ability would emotionally stunt a pet rock; what had Brogan been thinking?—I was focusing on whether he was a giver or taker in the bedroom. Most definitely a giver.

  That settled it—dating site would happen tonight. And under personality traits would be: delusional, fantasizes about the wrong people at the wrong times, and “dog people need not apply.”

  I crossed and uncrossed my legs again, this time making sure I wouldn’t bump Brogan. “I guess I’ll be over tonight?”

  “Yes. I have a conference until nine. No impromptu towel meetings again.”

  “Probably for the best.” My subconscious side-eyed me. Oh, I’m sorry, did an alien suck your brain through a swizzle straw? In what universe was this a good thing?

  He nodded, his expression turning businesslike, sliding back into our roles as they’d been before the other night. Amicable acquaintances. The shift in his demeanor was palpable, the room suddenly stuffier than a sauna. “I think so, too.” He tapped his pen against his desk, but kept his gaze on me. “I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong impression. I stand firm on all my policies in the handbook.” That one word said everything I needed to know.

  Laymen’s terms: Not dating you.

  “Of course.” I kept my face impassive. The guy was doing me a huge favor. This was exactly what I needed to crush this annoying—okay, so it wasn’t annoying, but lying to myself felt so much better—fantasy of being with him. So what if I’d do unspeakable things, worse things than I’d commit for a Klondike Bar, to catch a glimpse of his dripping wet body in a towel again? Hell, no need to be wasteful with laundry, forget the towel.

  I blinked away that thought. He gave me a job, and with it, an opportunity to break into a cutthroat business. Throwing that away for a chance at a weekend romp was both stupid and juvenile. Now if only that memo would hurry up and arrive at the other parts of my body.

  The key to his condo was already on my desk when I got back outside. Jackson sure wasn’t in any hurry to relinquish his dog walking duties or anything. Bruce wasn’t that bad. Slobbery and gassy, yes. But any dog who let me hold him while going through a quarter life crisis was okay in my book. Now we just needed to work on him not making a meal out my very expensive wardrobe that I couldn’t afford to replenish any time soon.

  Okay, maybe it still sucked, but I didn’t care because that night with Brogan, worrying about my breath and if I’d applied enough deodorant, was a bright spot in the suckage of the past few days.

  By the time lunch rolled around, I had scheduled my posts for the week and managed to book a few appointments for Brogan. As a treat to myself, I went to the dollar taco stand a few blocks away, and since the rain had let up for a little bit, I decided to stroll around the park. After shoveling the tacos down, I pulled out my phone and dialed my mom’s number. I hadn’t spoken to her over the weekend because I was trying to give her space, but anything past three days was pushing it. We’d planned for me to head home this weekend, and I wanted to make sure we were still on for a junk food and movie fest.

  She picked up on the third ring, her voice sounding way more chipper than it had on Friday. “Hello, love bug.”

  “Feeling better?” I said, hopeful for any improvement since last week.

  “Much. Just went in for an
appointment to finalize the drug combination for the new treatment.”

  I smiled, a weight lifting off my chest. “That’s great. When do you start?”

  “Wednesday. Are you still coming home this weekend?”

  “I was thinking about it. If that’s okay with you.” This would be a much needed distraction from the fact that I wanted my boss and the feelings weren’t mutual.

  “Of course. Sorry I needed my space. But nothing a Greasy Guy’s burger couldn’t fix.”

  I groaned. “I miss Greasy Guy’s.” I missed eating good food from home. In fact, I missed everything about home.

  “Then it’s settled. Saturday, you, me, and Guy’s takeout.”

  “It’s a date.”

  Anything to keep myself distracted.

  Chapter Twelve

  Lainey Taylor Rule of Life #4

  Never piss off your mom. The wrath is far worse than any shit storm you can possibly imagine.

  “I, Lainey Taylor, am a successful, smart, independent woman.” I gave a nod to my reflection in the rearview mirror.

  “Men do not dictate my thoughts. Especially men with tattoos and dimples.” If I could magically cash in all the lies I’d told myself in the past few weeks, I’d have enough to pay for Mom’s treatments and still have money leftover to fill an in-ground pool with coins and swim around in my wealth.

  “I will not be a Lapdog Dean. I am a Jess. Completely cool and unfazed.” I wrung my hands on the steering wheel, and an overwhelming sense of relief washed over me as I crossed the bridge into Oregon. This was my opportunity to press the reset button on life and get back to square one, remembering what was really important in life—family and love. Not a boss who flirted with me—maybe? Sort of?—but was completely off-limits.

  By the time I pulled into my old driveway, my mood had lifted, much like the early morning fog blanketing Portland.

  All of the sunflowers and dahlias had closed up in the piercing late autumn chill. The oak trees in the yard were holding on to their last leaves, brown and dull, waiting their turn to float down to the rain-soaked walkway. I pulled open the creaky wooden door to our downtown bungalow and wiped my boots on the mat.

  “Mom,” I called, unwinding my scarf and laying it on the coat rack, shucking off my jacket as well. A toasty warmth wrapped around me as I breathed in the familiar scents of home—something baking in the oven, a fire in the fireplace, and fresh laundry.

  “In here.” Her voice carried from the living room to the hall. I made my way down the entryway and turned left before the stairs. Mom lay sprawled across the couch, two blankets tucked over her. She sat up when I entered the room, and a smile spread over her face. “There’s my love bug.” She held out her arms, and it took every ounce of restraint not to barrel into her.

  Since starting chemo, she’d lost about ten pounds. She’d already been fit from her marathon training and Crossfit, so the loss was a more substantial hit to her slender frame than it would be on others. Her collarbone jutted out sharply, and her cheeks had sunken in. The sight formed an automatic knot in the back of my throat.

  I sat on the couch beside her and leaned on her shoulder, breathing in her comforting smell. My mom’s signature scent hadn’t changed since I was a child: a hint of ginger, peppermint, and vanilla, like a complex latte that you can’t help but want to bury your nose in because it smells so good.

  “You look tired,” she said, smoothing her thumb over my cheek.

  I cocked my head and did the smart thing, keeping my mouth shut. The irony did not escape me.

  In fact, “you’re tired” ranked right up there with one word answers to texts—both annoyed the ever-loving crap out of me. Because, really, it was a socially acceptable way for someone to tell you that you looked like shit. Then again, with the long hours I’d been putting in at work, there was no denying that I’d be adding wrinkles instead of tan lines for the unforeseeable future. A few years in the job and I’d look like the before and after on a D.A.R.E. poster. This is you on four hours of sleep, deadlines, and 100 milligrams over the Recommended Daily Allowance of caffeine.

  “Long drive.” I didn’t need her worrying about my work schedule. She had to focus on her health, solely.

  She gave me another once-over, but didn’t say anything else on that subject. “How is work? Is that obnoxious twit Jackson still giving you a hard time?”

  The name elicited a Pavlovian eye roll and the sudden urge to bang my head against something hard. “He’s gotten better. I think he’s finally accepting me into the company.”

  “Well, that was inevitable. You’re sweet. How could he not like you?”

  “Not everyone has to like me, Mom. This isn’t kindergarten.”

  She pursed her lips and patted my thigh. “How is your boss?”

  Besides the fact that he turned me down, great. I was still deciding which was more mortifying—the fact that he’d made it clear nothing would happen between us or the fact that I hadn’t even been coming on to him in the first place. “He’s good. Giving me more projects to work on.”

  A grin spread across her face. Her smile was a welcome breath of fresh air. If she was smiling, then the world couldn’t possibly be that bad of a place. “Sounds like you’re doing really great. One of these days, when I’m feeling better, I’d love to come to your building and see where you work.”

  I smiled. Any talk about the future was both comforting and welcome, and the constant vice grip around my lungs loosened the tiniest bit. “I’d love that, too.”

  She grabbed the takeout menu for Greasy Guy’s from the coffee table and raised a brow. “Ready to destroy our girlish figures and ingest a few gut bombs?”

  “Always.” The Taylor metabolism hadn’t failed me yet, and I was going to use it to its full advantage for as long as possible.

  “I bookmarked a few movies on Netflix that I thought would be good,” she said, pulling up the number for the restaurant on her phone.

  I lay my head on Mom’s shoulder and everything else seemed to dissipate. “Sounds perfect.”

  The food came forty minutes later, and while I demolished the entire half-pound burger with caramelized onions and enough pickles to be classified as a biohazard, she’d barely taken three bites of hers.

  “You okay?” I asked, piling another fry into my mouth.

  She frowned down at the burger. “I think my eyes are bigger than my stomach.”

  She was looking a little queasy, most likely from the new chemo treatment. A wave of unease settled in my gut, and I pushed the remainder of my food across the coffee table, out of reach, no longer in the mood to carbo-load. My hope was that after a few more months of this new medication, Mom would be on the mend and getting back to normal life. I pushed back the what-ifs and focused on what I could control—spending time with her right now, because that was all I really could do.

  Just as Mom cued up a movie on the TV, my phone buzzed, jumping along the wood of the coffee table. I ignored it and snuggled closer into her, the blanket pulled over my arms and chest. The transition into a carb coma was well underway, and I was ready to hibernate on the couch until Sunday evening.

  My phone vibrated again, then two more times before I decided to pick it up.

  Jackson’s nickname flashed across the screen, and the primal urge to Hulk-smash the phone coursed strong through my soy-latte-run-hating veins. During the weekends, I’d maybe inferred to Jackson that my apartment had horrible cell service just to get a few hours to myself. And if it were any other weekend, I’d claim just that, but we’d happened to have been working on one of Jonathan Gizzara’s clients’ accounts this week, and I had a sinking feeling that the texts were directly related to this. The last thing I wanted was something to go wrong with an account that I’d personally worked on.

  Grinch: Can you come in this weekend?

  The proper response to this: Screw off, tiny dictator.

  But, since I valued my job, I replied: What’s going on?

>   Grinch: It’s the Gizzara account. Brogan wants us to share our findings in the presentation on Monday. You can help me present.

  Shut the front door. I stared at the text and read it five times just to make sure I wasn’t imagining it.

  Jackson was willing to work with me on a project and share credit in a meeting? This was huge. I could finally contribute something essential to the team and solidify myself as a functioning member of this company. Maybe this would lead to a different position. Okay, I was getting a little ahead of myself, but this was a huge step forward. A Bigfoot-size step.

  I glanced at my mom who was flipping through Netflix to find a show, and my heart sank. To give up this opportunity would set me back at least a month, because who knew when I’d have another chance to work on such a high-profile client case.

  Lainey: I’m in Portland. Can I work from here and send you slides?

  The second the text sent, my guilt-meter teetered in crappy daughter zone. To analyze the data we’d discussed in meetings this week—that would take me at least ten hours of work, if not more. I mentally calculated, and with traveling back to Seattle at a reasonable time, there was no possible way to watch all the movies Mom wanted to catch up on and get this presentation finished in time, too.

  Grinch: Yes. Send me your data on Tegan Jackson and Elliot Hurr.

  Lainey: Thanks, Jackson. I’ll have it to you by tomorrow night.

  Grinch: Whatever. Don’t screw up.

  I sighed and chucked my phone on the couch cushion next to me.

  “What’s the matter, honey?”

  I took a steadying, self-loathing breath. “Work.”

  She frowned. “On the weekend? Is this why you’ve been so tired?”

  “It’s one of our multi-million dollar clients. He needs projections for next year by Monday.” That phrase felt foreign and douchey coming out of my mouth. It went right along with “I drive a Lincoln,” and “I only buy T-shirts that cost more than a laptop.” Coming from a Portland girl with chickens in her backyard, who preferred Oktoberfest to a wine tour in Sonoma, it was unexpected, to say the least.