The Rule Book (Rule Breakers #1) Read online

  This made me pause. Over the past two months, he’d never shown this side, one that I was only privy to because I was in his personal sanctuary.

  Brogan never broke a sweat at the office, always happy, joking around, the life of the party. But seeing him so vulnerable in his home, where he didn’t need to put on an act, made me realize how much I didn’t know about him. How he seemed so perfect at work, but it was all just for show.

  Even Superman had his kryptonite.

  “You know what makes it better?” Whenever I had a bad day at school, Mom and I would bake together. Sometimes it would be cookies, other times elaborate cakes. Somehow she was able to get my mind off whatever had bummed me out that day. With as many bad days I had in middle and high school, I was shocked I wasn’t diagnosed with childhood diabetes, or at the very least hadn’t ended up the size of a humpback whale. Thank you, Taylor genetics.

  “A new job?” he deadpanned.

  I rolled my eyes. “Right, because this company isn’t your baby or anything.”

  “A parent needs a break from his kid every once in a while,” he grunted, but his tone held a little less irritation than a minute ago. He didn’t bother opening his eyes. “What’s your proposition to make this shitty day better?”

  “Cookies.”

  “Cookies?” He repeated it like I’d just told him the answer to the question of life was three. This man was a poor, deprived individual if he didn’t indulge in my one—okay, one of many vices.

  “You know, the magical food not made with prunes or anything remotely healthy, but tastes amazing?”

  He blinked slowly, his long eyelashes fanning over his face. “I know what a damn cookie is, Taylor. I just don’t see how it’s going to solve my problems with this possible merger.”

  “You obviously haven’t had my world famous chocolate chip.”

  “World famous? What makes these cookies stand out from the rest?” He shot a skeptical look in my direction.

  “I have a few secret ingredients. But it’s the unicorn tears that really push it over the edge.” When he didn’t look convinced, I added, “C’mon. how can you pass up ooey-gooey chocolate chips nestled in an array of ingredients that will blow your goddamn mind?”

  “You’re really building yourself up, Taylor. But damn…” He groaned, and the sound vibrated deep in my chest. “Cookies do sound kind of good.”

  “Well, boss. I think we could both use some. You have chocolate chips, flour, butter, baking soda, eggs, and sugar?”

  He nodded. “Think so.”

  “Good. Prepare to be wowed.”

  I could have sworn that I’d heard him mumble “I already am,” but decided that it was my imagination and the overflow of emotions swirling around in my head at the moment. I had to hand it to Brogan, he’d succeeded at taking my mind off the fact that I’d been screwed over by my coworker and my relationship with my mom was strained for the first time in years. It was much easier to focus on the mundane task of measuring and mixing. And eating. Always eating. Because when I was stuffing my face, I couldn’t possibly say anything stupid.

  A few minutes later, all the ingredients for the cookies were laid out across the granite countertops, along with a red KitchenAid mixer. For someone who consistently spent more time in his office than at home, he kept his kitchen well-stocked.

  Once the wet and dry ingredients were mixed together, I began balling up cookie dough and placing it on a baking sheet. Scoop. Roll. Smash. Scoop. Roll. Smash. Three very easy tasks that took all my focus. By the time I lined up enough to cover an entire sheet, the worries of today seemed to fade to background noise. It was a long way away, but I couldn’t wait until I had a kid of my own to share this tradition with.

  Brogan joined me at the counter, the evidence of a long day etched into his face.

  “Have you had a chance to watch any of the other movies I recommended?” I asked, trying to get his mind off whatever was bugging him from work.

  He drummed his fingers along the granite countertop. “No, but they’re queued up on my Netflix account.”

  “I think you’ll really like Mean Girls. It’s a classic.”

  “Obviously we have a much different definition of what a classic is.”

  “Okay, tough guy, what would you deem worthy of the label?”

  “Casablanca. Gone with the Wind.” He waved a hand with a flourish. “Movies that have stood the test of time.”

  I continued balling up cookie dough onto the baking sheet. “You do know they make movies in this thing called color now, right?”

  “Is that right up there with—what do you call it”—he paused—“a ‘cellular phone’?”

  I opened the oven, popped in the sheet, and set the timer. “I’m shocked there’s not a rotary phone in your apartment.”

  “There’s one in my office,” he winked.

  I tsked. “You really were a deprived child.”

  He huffed out a laugh. “Look at Miss Big City getting all high and mighty.”

  “I’m not from here. Born and raised in downtown Portland, thank you very much.” I sat on a barstool at the breakfast bar, and Brogan joined me.

  “That explains so much.” He smirked, and his dimples made an appearance for the first time tonight.

  I crossed my arms over my chest. “Excuse me, but what does that mean?” Only Portlanders were allowed to call our people weird. Same way I could complain about something my mom did that annoyed the crap out of me, but if someone even thought about saying a less than flattering comment about her, I’d go full on Hulk-smash.

  “Portland’s just full of weird people. Pink chickens, people walking around topless, penis doughnuts.”

  I ticked off numbers on my fingers. “First off, the shirtless thing is all Eugene. And only during the Country Fair.” I winked. “Second, everyone should enjoy a Cock-N-Balls at least once in their life.” I held up my hand with three fingers out. “Third, my mom has two chickens—Betty and Horace.”

  “Is it even legal to own those in the city?” He looked at me as if I’d said I was from a traveling circus troupe and performed on the trapeze.

  “Yes. Seriously, have you had fresh eggs? They’re the best.” I settled back on my stool, thinking of Saturday mornings when Mom would go into the chicken coup and come back with the most beautiful blue and brown eggs. She’d cook them, along with bacon and hash browns, while we discussed who was going to be voted off our favorite reality shows.

  After Dad left, this became our weekend ritual when I’d come home from college. I frowned, thinking about how I’d totally blown my mom off and declined her offer of breakfast during my visit, and instead bought us doughnuts from the coffee cart a few blocks from her house. Yep, I deserved the title of Shit Daughter.

  “The closest I’ve come to fresh eggs is buying cartons with pictures of farms on them.” He smirked when he saw my grimace. “Did you see her this weekend?”

  The timer beeped, and I busied myself with extracting cookies from the oven. “How did you know that?”

  “You looked happier than usual on Friday.”

  My breath caught and I frantically searched for a spatula in the drawers, needing something for my hands to be doing. Brogan noticed me. And not just me, but my mood before the weekend from hell and Jackson crushing part of my soul.

  “Yeah, I did. She started a new treatment a few days ago. We’ll see how it goes.”

  “Good. I hear that it can take a few cocktails before they get the right mixture.”

  After a few minutes of letting the cookies cool, I scooped them onto a plate and brought them back to the counter. Something felt right about being in his condo, having a normal conversation. I talked with Zoey all the time, but sharing things about my life with Brogan felt…special. When I was ready to get back on the dating horse, I’d want the guy to be like Brogan. Smart, successful, sexy as hell. Yes, that killer combo would be the death of me. No other guy seemed to even be on the same playing field as him.


  I cleared my throat, extinguishing those thoughts. They wouldn’t help in my already pitiful dating life. “Seems like you know a lot about cancer.”

  He shrugged. “I may have done some research after you left the other night.” Brogan grabbed a cookie off the plate and took a tentative bite. His eyes closed and he moaned, and my mouth suddenly went dry. His lashes fanned over the tops of his cheeks as he squeezed his eyes shut, and my heart went sideways in my chest. I’d give up ice cream for a year to hear that sound come out of his mouth again. “Holy shit. These are amazing.”

  “I told you—blue ribbon cookies reign supreme.”

  I took a bite of cookie, keeping my mouth busy because, holy crap. He’d done research. Because of something affecting my life. If my mouth wasn’t full of chocolate chips, I’d probably say something like could you be any more perfect? Or, please keep making those cookie moaning sounds.

  “You got a little something…” He swept his thumb over the corner of my mouth. “Right here.” He brought his thumb to his lips and sucked the chocolate off his finger.

  A sound, something between a gasp and a deflating balloon, came out of my mouth. My pulse kicked up to a strong gallop, hammering against my temples. Heat radiated through the space between my thighs, and words drained from my mind. Not a single coherent thought formed as I watched his finger edge along the seam of his mouth.

  I stared at his bottom lip and the stubble that ran across his chin. My tongue ran across my lips. If I leaned over a few inches, my lips would sweep across his. I gripped the counter, not trusting my hands to keep to themselves.

  Before I made a complete fool out of myself, I pushed back from the counter and began piling dishes into his sink. “I’d better clean up.”

  Looking around the high-end kitchen, the thought of me and Brogan existing together in the house was a joke.

  I hadn’t grown up wealthy. Everything I needed, I had, but there were no extraneous gadgets, definitely not a dishwasher or a fridge that talked to me. Brogan and I came from two opposite ends of the spectrum. He had a maid that did his laundry and dusted his immaculate house. I had week-old soda cans scattered on my nightstand and managed to throw a load of clothes in the washer when the bra and panty situation was at Code Red. The thought of him setting foot in my mom’s nineteen-fifties bungalow was almost laughable. Two people from two separate worlds had no place being together. Not that I was even considering this. I was there as his dog walker and second assistant, purely in a professional capacity.

  That didn’t derail the incessant crash of my heart against my ribs. Or the fact that I had the worst case of sweaty palms I’d ever experienced in my life. And that was saying something, because teenage Lainey had palms sweaty enough for it to be considered a chronic disease.

  “I was just about to sit down and watch some Netflix after I finished up my paperwork. Do you want to join?” He motioned toward the couch where Bruce was currently belly-up, snoring.

  I hesitated. Everything in me yelled, Yes! I want to Netflix and chill with you so hard. But I had the proposal to work on for the Gizarra account and the slime of a twelve-hour work day to wash off. “I should really be going.”

  “Oh.” His lips turned into a pout which was almost as adorable as his dimples. “Well, at least let my driver take you home.”

  I waved him off. “It’s no big deal. I can take the light rail.”

  “Listen, I’m not in charge of you—” A devious smile twisted his lips, and his eyes brightened. “Wait, yes I am.” He scrubbed his chin and regarded me. “And as your boss, I’m giving you direct orders to use my driver.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Anything else I can do for you, boss?” I made an exaggerated curtsy.

  “Take some cookies with you. I can’t possibly eat this many.” He motioned toward the dozens of cookies spread on cooling racks along the counter.

  Now that was something that I could get behind. “Okay. I’m sure my roommate will appreciate that.” No way was Zoey getting any of these.

  We stood in the doorway for a few moments. I made the mistake of glancing up at Brogan’s face. More specific, his eyes. Those brown eyes raked down my body with a heat I wasn’t prepared for.

  Play it cool. This is your boss, and he just wants you to get home safe.

  Bull-freaking-crap. I clenched the cookies, definitely trying to push away thoughts of him in a flimsy, bulge-showcasing towel, of that broad chest that would crush me if he were on top, pinning me into his bed. Heat licked up the inside of my legs, and a smattering of goose bumps crept down my arms. To say I was affected by him was the understatement of the twenty-first century. In fact, affected didn’t even seem like a strong enough word. I doubted there was one in the English language that could completely encompass what I was feeling. I bet there was an obscure Russian word for this emotion. One that screamed: I want to jump my boss’s bones, but that’s a really bad idea to even be considering it in the first place. Yes, a seventeen syllable Russian word for that. Something like I-vanna-hump-my-bosses-leg-cshvogh.

  “I hope you enjoy your cookies.” I held up the container of my portion, which I would be stress eating in T-minus thirty minutes.

  “It was a pleasure eating your cookies.” His lips twitched in amusement.

  I giggled. “Is that what I should put on the sexual harassment report that’s going on my boss’s desk in the morning?”

  “Yes. Right under breaking into his condo and dognapping.”

  “Hey, I always bring him back. That has to count for something, right?”

  Bruce showed his assent by letting out a loud fart.

  I bent down to scratch behind Bruce’s ears and said, “This is why you don’t have a girlfriend, Bruce. We’ll work on the bodily functions, and maybe I’ll let you near the poodle in Twenty-Seven A.”

  Brogan chuckled, and a smile broke out across his face. My heart stuttered in response. “Don’t get the poor guy’s hopes up. He has a long way to go.”

  I said, “You’re right. Maybe you should sign him up for etiquette classes.”

  Bruce huffed in response and rolled on his back, snorting while rubbing his back on the rug.

  “Maybe not. I think he’s a lost cause,” I mused.

  “Never too late to teach an old dog new tricks, is it, boy?” Brogan bent down to where I was crouched and gave Bruce’s belly a rubdown. Lucky dog. Bruce let out an even louder fart in response.

  I stood and plugged my nose. “On that note, I’ll go meet your driver in the garage.”

  We walked down the hallway toward the elevator, and I jammed my finger onto the down button with a little more force than intended, anything to not feel this need pulsing through my body.

  “Lainey.” He grabbed my arm, and I desperately wanted to be the type of girl who could ignore the obstacles between us and push him toward his condo and into his bedroom and remove each and every article of clothing until I got exactly what the ache between my thighs begged for.

  Instead, I said, “Yeah?” My voice came out strangled. Definitely did not go along with my “keeping it cool” facade.

  “Thanks for tonight.” His hand brushed my cheek and tangled with my curls. I leaned into his touch, staring into those melted-chocolate-chip-brown eyes. His gaze shifted from my eyes, down to my lips, and then back to my eyes again. His tongue darted across his lower lip, and my eyes fluttered shut, anticipating how soft his lips would feel pressed against my own.

  His breath fanned across my cheek as he closed the distance between us. His stubble grazed along the side of my jaw as he inched closer, taking the fleshy part of my ear between his teeth. I couldn’t resist him any longer. This pull between us was too much to ignore, and just this once I had to let myself give in and lose myself in the moment. A breathy moan whispered past my lips, and I tilted my head to give him better access.

  The elevator door dinged open, and we suddenly weren’t the only people in the hallway.

  Balls.

>   Seriously, what was with me and my perpetual bad luck with elevators?

  He pulled back a fraction of an inch, and his expression took on a pained quality, almost like he was warring with himself. He groaned and muttered something under his breath. Our gazes met, and a swirl of hesitation and raw desire flickered in his eyes. Enough to send a shiver trickling down my spine, because those dilated pupils told me everything I needed to know in that moment—I wasn’t going crazy. Brogan was fighting this urge, just like me.

  An old lady with a walker clomped her way out of the elevator. A muffled swishing sound filled the hallways as the tennis balls on the bottom of her walker slid along the floor. She glared at us the entire time she passed, which was a good ten seconds, since she was moving at the pace of a slow-motion replay.

  Brogan cleared his throat. “Good evening, Mrs. Ellingson.” He nodded at her and smiled.

  “Damn kids don’t even have the decency to use the privacy of their own home anymore,” she muttered. She pointed a finger at him and jabbed him in the chest. “I have HBO if I want to see that kind of smutty stuff.” She continued to scowl at Brogan, even though she had inched past us.

  “Right. Have a nice evening,” he said as she shuffled her way to what I assumed was her condo and disappeared through the door.

  As soon as it closed, we looked at each other. We both erupted in laughter. I doubled over, unable to catch my breath, tears streaming down my face.

  After finally finding my composure, I said, “Your neighbor’s a real peach,”

  “She has her moments. Can’t say this was one of them,” he said, still chuckling.

  He smiled and grabbed my hand, his large calloused one encompassing mine. My whole body tensed in response to the unexpected touch. His eyes were devoid of the heat that was there a few minutes prior, but still managed make my knees buckle. He leaned down and whispered, “Let’s do this again.” He pulled back slowly, his jaw brushing along mine.