The Rule Book (Rule Breakers #1) Read online

  I nodded, not looking him in the eyes this time. Because those brown eyes were doing things to my resolve that I wasn’t proud of. How the hell was I supposed to function in the office when he was less than twenty feet away, the only thing between us a door and a set of unforgiving rules?

  Chapter Fifteen

  Lainey Taylor Rule of Life #76

  Good girls don’t kiss and tell.

  A week had passed since the meeting and my awkward cookie interaction with Brogan. He hadn’t been home the rest of the week when I walked Bruce. It had also been a week since I’d talked to my mom, the longest stretch since, well, I couldn’t remember the last time it’d been that long.

  I spent the rest of the day huddled over my laptop, finalizing figures to present to my boss in hopes that I could somehow get into his good graces again in terms of my work performance. By the time I looked at the clock in the corner of my screen, it was well past time to go, and Jackson had fled the building, probably retreating to his home in the sewer.

  The interoffice messenger dinged on my computer, and a flashing message from Brogan popped up on the screen.

  Brogan: Are you still here?

  It didn’t surprise me he was here this late, but it left me wondering how often this happened. Twenty feet. One door. One man I couldn’t seem to shake out of my mind. Ever since The Infamous Cookie Baking Night I was left wondering where the hell I stood with him. There was only one way to find out.

  Lainey: Yes

  Brogan: Come in my office, please.

  I pushed back from my desk and rushed to Brogan’s office. The emptiness of the building, and lack of ambient noise carrying through the halls, amplified the clicking of my heels against the tile.

  The door was unlocked when I jiggled the handle, and Brogan was sitting at his desk, his brows furrowed as he had an intense stare off with his computer.

  “What do you need, Mr. Starr?” Using his formal name felt like Nutella on my tongue—rich, savory, and foreign. His eyes dilated, and he sat up straighter in his chair. A chill ran down my spine at the total déjà vu moment this was. Except this time, I didn’t have an alarm to interrupt.

  “You’re here really late,” he said.

  I leaned against the doorframe, not trusting myself to go in any further. “I wanted to get ahead on the project.”

  He nodded. “I’m impressed with your work ethic.”

  “Thank you, sir.” It felt odd addressing someone who was just a few years older than me so formally, but he hadn’t corrected me thus far.

  He paused and tapped his pen against his desk, looking like he was choosing his words carefully. “I know you helped with the presentation last week.”

  My breath caught in my throat. If he knew this whole time, why hadn’t he said anything—or put Jackson in his place? “You did?”

  He gave his pen a couple of quick clicks and said, “Jackson has never come up with material like that. Plus, when I asked him about the numbers this morning, he fumbled through it.”

  I nodded, not quite sure what to say to this.

  “Why didn’t you say anything after the meeting?” he demanded. If I didn’t know any better, his expression held an air of disappointment.

  “I didn’t want to humiliate him.” I could send mental eye-stabs from across the room to him all week, but I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I’d taken it too far.

  His lips pursed, and he squinted his eyes at me, as if finding the right words to say. “This is a cutthroat business. You need to speak up if someone takes your idea.”

  Somehow I decided that I would look like an ass if I’d done that in last week’s meeting, not Jackson. “You’d want me to humiliate your second in command in a company meeting?”

  “If you didn’t feel comfortable saying something during the meeting, at least tell me afterward. You even had a chance to say something at my place.” He paused and swallowed hard, then looked up at me, his gaze pulling me under. “I didn’t get to where I am today by letting people stomp all over me.”

  I’d never met a boss like him—not that I had the vast knowledge or network of CEOs, but to imagine Brogan raising his voice above a kind remark (other than when someone was touching his stuff) was a little hard to fathom. “But you’re so…”

  He arched a brow. “Nice?” He smiled. “I’ve learned to pick my battles.”

  I nodded. “Next time I’ll make sure to bring the cold hard hammer of Thor down on him.”

  “You’ll take over the Alexander Freeland account tomorrow.”

  “But that’s Jackson’s.” Anyone who was represented by Gizzara was automatically shoved in Jackson’s caseload, no questions asked.

  “And he’ll learn the hard lesson of what happens when he takes what’s not his. I was waiting for him to come and tell me after the meeting, gave him a week even, but it never happened. So it’s yours.” He looked at me through long lashes. “Unless you don’t want it.”

  “I want it,” I said a little too quickly. I was equal parts thrilled and terrified. How would Jackson handle this news? An eye for an eye didn’t seem to be a great idea in this scenario, but Brogan was the boss, and like hell I’d say no to getting more clients. “Thank you.”

  “Great. I guess we can both get back to work then,” he said, frowning at his computer screen.

  “What are you working on?” Like I could pass up this opportunity to be nosy.

  “I’m stumped as to what to do with the Travers account. His social media growth has gone down since he’s been here and I don’t know what to make of it. Nothing seems offensive on his account, and yet fans are abandoning him.”

  The heavy frosted glass door slid closed behind me as I walked over to his desk. Data sheets and graphs splattered his screen, and I scanned the information for any possible trend. I leaned against the edge of the desk and crossed my ankles. Inches away, Brogan’s shampoo was hard to ignore. The delicious scent tugged at something inside of me, and I had this desperate need to move closer to him. I gripped my fingers on his desk to keep myself planted here. A professional I would remain, even if it was becoming physically painful. “What happened in January of this year?” I took a look at the graph in the left-hand corner of his screen and spotted the mistake almost immediately.

  “Why?”

  “It seems his followers start leaving around then, and then they level off as the month continues.”

  “Interesting.” His gaze shifted from his computer to my legs and slowly, much too slowly to be deemed appropriate or within his rules, worked his way up my body. “Good catch.”

  I had a hard time believing that an MIT alum who graduated the top of his class couldn’t spot something this simple. Unless…

  Our eyes met, and I stood frozen, clutching the desk for support. I finally understood what it meant when books said that anticipation hung heavy in the air. It meant a shaking that started so deep it rattled my bones. It meant internal organs mysteriously shifting to places they have no right being. It meant my skin burning up and turning to ice simultaneously. So, apparently my brand of anticipation felt like a fifty-year-old menopausal woman.

  “Thank you,” I whispered.

  He cleared his throat, and the moment came to a screeching halt.

  Right. Rules. Job. Money. Stop thinking about his lips, Lainey.

  “You heading out?” he asked.

  I stood and smoothed the wrinkles from my skirt, and I didn’t fail to notice his eyes followed my fingers the entire time. “No, I have a bit of paperwork I need to finish.”

  His stomach let out a growl, and we smiled at each other.

  “Have you eaten? Had a prune shake?” I asked.

  His lips twitched in the corners. “Prunes are great for the digestive tract.”

  I blanched. “If you’re eighty or a plugged up toddler.”

  “Real food would be nice,” he agreed.

  “Coming right up, boss.” I left the room, only able to breathe when the glass d
oor slid shut.

  After leaving to get sushi, I brought the food back into his office and plopped down in the chair across from his. An assortment of sashimi lay across the table in a rainbow of raw fish. His face brightened “You’re the best.”

  “It wasn’t totally altruistic. I hadn’t eaten dinner either,” I said while grabbing a pair of chopsticks from the bag. “Want me to help fill out some of that paperwork?”

  He nodded and slid a few files across to me. I’d moved my chair next to his while we were eating so we could talk numbers on his computer while scarfing down sushi. As he hunched over his desk, studying the information, he kept stretching his neck side to side, rolling his shoulders and grimacing. “Can you call my masseuse tomorrow and set up an appointment?”

  “First thing tomorrow.”

  He rubbed his shoulder and grumbled a few choice words under his breath.

  “Bruce pull your arm out of the socket on a walk?” Seventy pounds of wrinkly dog was no joke, and I might as well have been made of papier-mâché with the way he dragged me around downtown.

  “Messed up my shoulder doing deadlifts.” He gave another wince as he gingerly kneaded his fingers into his shoulder. His collared shirt was rolled up to his elbows, and the ink on his skin was on full display.

  Images of Brogan’s muscles bunching together as he lifted weights, sweat trickling down each notch of grooved skin crossed my mind. Before I took time to process what a bad idea it was, I asked, “Do you need a massage now?”

  His shoulders stiffened, and his voice grew wary. “I…don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  Oh, Brogan, you are so right. So very right.

  And yet, I never had a knack for going with the consensus. Instead, I dug myself a deeper hole. I blamed this boldness on wasabi, dimples, and lack of sleep. “It’s something you’d pay a complete stranger to do. I really don’t mind.” I’d like to say that my selfless tendencies were firing on all four cylinders tonight, but let’s be honest here—I’d take any excuse to be near Brogan, in any capacity. Because my masochistic streak was the size of the Space Needle.

  “I mind.” His voice lowered an octave and hit me square between the thighs when he said, “Being this close to you makes me forget why I wrote the rules in the first place.”

  Air magically dissipated from my lungs, and words jumbled up into nonsensical groupings. Because, holy hell in a hand basket, it was one thing to have a flirty moment at the elevator. An entirely different one when he said this aloud. What had changed in the span of a week? And more importantly, did I want this? If I pushed further, I was clearly violating the employee handbook, therefore jeopardizing my spot in this company, and then where would I be with helping Mom? I had more than myself to think about here.

  The smart thing to do would be to apologize, slink out of the office, and return to the Ben and Jerry’s Cherry Garcia pint I’d been working on last night. The spoon was still in the container, ready and raring to go.

  Something in his expression kept me from rescinding my offer, though. His eyes were filled with heat, wanting, and they were aimed at me. Frankly, I’d be an idiot to pass up this opportunity.

  “What does it say in your manual about massages?”

  He mashed his lips together, his hooded eyes focusing on my mouth. “I don’t think there is anything listed about it.”

  I stood and placed a hesitant palm over his shoulder. “And what about touching the boss? Does it say anything about that?”

  He stiffened momentarily and then melted into my touch. “Not specifically.”

  “Then I don’t see anything wrong with a friendly massage.” I swallowed hard. Maybe friendly was the wrong term, because my I want to jump your bones, and, does this massage come with a happy ending? thoughts were not of the friend variety.

  He swiveled his chair to face me, and my hands fell to his chest. Charcoal gray dress slacks boxed in either side of my legs, and I gave in to my need to move closer. Brogan’s Adam’s apple bobbed as his gaze lazily traced down my body.

  “I won’t take it as friendly.” His gravely voice caressed my skin and goose bumps followed in its wake.

  Even though he was sitting, I’d only have to bend down a couple inches to reach his face. A silence spread between us, eyes tracked eyes, breaths and the hum of his computer the only thing cracking our little bubble of office-rule-breaking.

  “What are we doing?” I whispered as his strong hands found my hips and pulled me closer so that my legs were flush against his chair.

  His gaze dipped to my mouth and he said, “I’m tired of playing by the rules. I’ve wanted you since that first day in the break room. Your smart mouth drives me insane. In fact, I haven’t thought about anything besides your lips all night.”

  I stopped breathing altogether as he moved a fraction of an inch closer, his grip on my hips tightening.

  “This is a bad idea, right?” This was the proper thing to say, when one occasionally sexually harassed one’s boss, but for the life of me I couldn’t come up with a reason to stop. The only things running through my mind were flashes of Brogan in a towel, the weight of his body against mine, the need for there to be way less clothes in this current equation.

  “Yes.” His hand skimmed up my arm and caressed my cheek. He lightly tugged on the back of my neck, and I leaned down, my hands clutching the armrests. A few inches spanned between us, close enough that his exhale was my next breath. His deep brown eyes darkened with a hunger, a need that pulsed straight to my core. His lips parted, and he closed another inch of the gap between us.

  “Should we stop?” My voice came out barely above a whisper.

  His lips skated along the side of my neck. “No.”

  And with that, his hands were in my hair, pulling me closer until our mouths connected. Soft lips swept over mine, and a sigh escaped my mouth. A lulling warmth spread from where our skin met, trailing to every muscle, every bit of skin, turning my limbs to jelly. His tongue traced along the seam of my lips, and I parted them, welcoming his touch. I melted into him, spiraling to a place of deep desperation to be closer to him.

  His hands slid down the back of my shirt, down until they reached the top of my pencil skirt. My knees buckled, and I all but fell into his lap as our kiss deepened. He pulled back, heat and desire evident in his gaze, and he worked his way along the side of my jaw, finding my neck, kissing his way down my collarbone.

  My hands were in his hair, across his shoulders, memorizing every inch of him. My fingers molded against Brogan’s taught muscles, and he groaned as my hands skimmed lower and lower. I’d wondered for over a month what this exact moment would feel like, and I finally had an answer. He felt like everything—a stolen breath, soft lips, a mouth that demanded all I had to give.

  A sound cut through the chaos, pulling me out of the moment. The phone. The frigging phone. We both froze, hands mid-grope, lips brushing lightly, when the gravity of the situation hit harder than a foul ball to the face.

  The phone continued ringing, and we just stared at each other. The panic seeping into his eyes matched the horror pounding in my chest.

  Because at that moment a few things became apparent:

  a) Holy crap, my imagination paled in comparison to reality.

  b) I’d just taken a flying leap over the line labeled do not cross.

  c) Holy crap, this was my boss. Abort! Abort!

  What had we just done? And what did this mean in terms of my job? Oh my God, did he think I was one of those people that tried to sleep their way up the company ladder, because most likely anyone that didn’t share a brain with me would view it that way. Did that make me the office floozy? Did people even use that word anymore?

  The phone was still ringing, each shrill ding making me flinch. “You should probably get that.”

  His Adam’s apple bobbed as his gaze raked over my face. “I should.”

  I awkwardly extricated myself from his lap and backed toward the door. “I’m just going to
head out now.” I put my hands on my hips and rocked back and forth on my heels, fighting for something intelligent to say. All that came out was, “Uh, thanks for that.”

  And before he could respond, I was out the door, grabbing my purse and keys from my desk, and beelining it for the elevator with the taste of Brogan still on my lips. Going back wasn’t an option, so where did that leave us? Where did that leave my job?

  Chapter Sixteen

  Lainey Taylor Rule of Life #36

  Gloating is never attractive. Save it for the bathroom mirror.

  “He gave you what?” Jackson shrieked. The vein in the middle of his forehead visibly throbbed from across the room. He’d come in this morning to a memo from Brogan ordering him to send all the information he had on the Alexander Freeland account to me.

  There came a time in someone’s life when they had an opportunity to take some variation of a personality test. Between fashion magazines and Buzzfeed quizzes that asked me which Harry Potter character I’d be (Ginny, obviously) this was a monthly occurrence. And in each one, they’d have a question that went a little something like this:

  Your enemy gets his ass handed to him, how do you feel?

  a) Jazz hands it up, yo

  b) I have the emotional stance of Switzerland on this topic

  c) Aww, I have the sudden urge to console them

  While I’d always circled C (did anyone ever fully tell the truth on those things? I mean, seriously), right now I was breaking out the inner spirit fingers, dancing the “Cell Block Tango,” because really, he had it coming.

  I kept the gloat out of my voice when I said, “The Gizzara account.” Well, one of his clients, at least. The rest were safety in the talons of Jackson’s nubby little man-child hands.

  “I can’t believe this. You don’t deserve Alexander Freeland.” His voice pitched into a petulant whine. He pulled the files from his drawer and flounced over to my desk, dropping them in an avalanche of manila folders on my keyboard.