The Rule Maker (Rule Breakers) Page 4

  I ignored the shiver winding down my spine. Time to get into business mode and shift my focus to something worthwhile. Goose-feather bedding. Much more fascinating. Yep.

  I peeled myself off the floor and made my way to the kitchen to pour a cup of coffee. Lainey was just coming out of her room when I dropped a dash of cream into my cup.

  Without so much as bothering to keep both eyes open, she shoved her mug across the counter like our kitchen was now a saloon and said, “Coffee me.”

  Lainey was one of those people you made sure not to breathe the wrong way around before she’d had her daily allotment of caffeine. If the average person drank the amount of coffee she downed in the a.m., they wouldn’t even be able to write their own name by noon. I’d tried substituting the pot with half-caf one time. I’d never make that mistake again.

  I slid her favorite mug her way and shuffled out of the kitchen, taking a seat at the breakfast bar. “Take a lot of work home with you this weekend?” I asked. Dark rings etched the skin below her eyes, and I’d woken up a few times last night, tossing and turning, thinking about certain jerk men, and had heard the clicking of her keyboard. Last time I checked before zonking out, she was still up at three.

  “Yeah, just a ton of paperwork for Brogan’s new company.”

  Her boyfriend, Brogan, or as I had officially dubbed him, Mr. Broody Billionaire, is the owner of a social media management franchise. Lainey had been his second assistant, and then they started the whole bow chicka wow wow office romance thing. I liked the guy once he took his head out of his ass and realized that Lainey was essentially the catch of the century. After a few hiccups (which is to say, a helluva lot of them), he turned into good boyfriend material, made her the manager at his new company, and they’ve been attached at the lips ever since. It was both sweet and nauseating.

  She scowled at her mug and took a deep pull. “We’re coming up with a new employee manual, and you know how Brogan is with all his rules.”

  I choked on my coffee. The dude had more rules than the English language. Not that I couldn’t relate—I tended to keep my own set of rules, but with about a tenth of the neuroses.

  “It’ll get better, especially with you there to keep him in check.” Hopefully. For her sake.

  Luckily, the rules were fairly lax at my firm. Follow the five commandments, and I was in the clear.

  I took another bite of my yogurt and granola, thankful that Lainey had distracted me from thoughts of the meeting I had with Jason later this morning.

  Lainey dumped Lucky Charms into a bowl and scooted up beside me at the breakfast bar.

  “Sugar and caffeine. Looks like you’re off to a great start.”

  She side-eyed me. “Whatever. I have two food groups covered. My grains and dairy.”

  I just shook my head and laughed. Even though I liked the occasional splurge, Lainey still had the college student diet going on. Ramen, cereal, and anything that ended in “itos.”

  She pointed her spoon at me. “I have to admit that the marshmallows totally don’t taste as good as they did when I was a kid.”

  “Same goes for TV shows. Nothing is ever as good when you re-watch it.”

  “What about Gilmore Girls?” she said.

  “That’s the exception, and you know it.” Nothing would ever beat that show. Except for maybe Game of Thrones and my beloved Jon Snow.

  “Truth. I bet we couldn’t even make it through thirty seconds of Hannah Montana.”

  We used to love that show when we were in middle school, something that I’d never admit to anyone but, well, Lainey.

  “You’re just bitter because she got all weird with the Home Depot products.”

  “She did make for a good Halloween costume,” she said wistfully.

  Lainey looked at her phone and jumped off her stool, almost knocking it to the ground. “Crap. Gonna be late. I’ll catch you later, Z.”

  “Later.”

  I watched as she disappeared into her room and came out ten minutes later, jacket in hand, rushing out the door.

  Taking one last sip of my coffee, I made my way into my room, grabbed my favorite blouse and pencil skirt, and fixed my hair in the bathroom. Call me superstitious, but I always wore the same outfit when meeting clients for a new job. It hadn’t failed me yet, and gave me the extra boost of confidence to propose my ideas. I’d worn it when I took Jason to lunch at Giovanni’s and convinced him to go with a sectional rather than the eyesore of a futon. I’d seen him several times after that, so I wasn’t worried he’d catch on to my recycled outfit choice. Plus, he was a guy. I couldn’t name a single one who’d notice stuff like that.

  I moved to my desk to grab my computer and the designs I’d printed out last night. Jitters, my cat, lay on top of my laptop, his tail swishing the designs off my desk, the papers fluttering to the floor. He looked up at me and seemed to smirk.

  I picked him up and placed him on my bed, then bent to grab the papers strewn across the hardwood. “Not you, too. You’re supposed to be the one man that doesn’t disappoint me.” Besides my dad, anyway, who was every bit of a superhero as I’d believed him to be since I was six. Except, instead of a cape, he donned an apron, and his weapon of choice was a crème brûlée torch.

  He owned a bakery in downtown Portland called The Way the Cookie Crumbles. Shortly after my mother’s death it had been featured on the Food Network, and he’d spent the past ten years overseeing the franchise’s expansion throughout the U.S. If he’d taught me one thing, it was to follow your dreams. Sure, he had been gone a lot, but his determination was something that I could relate to. I loved my job. Quite possibly more than most things in my life.

  Jitters managed a meager meow and began cleaning his fur, giving zero craps about anything but a comfy spot.

  I feigned a glare, even though we both knew I could never be mad at him. The only time he’d been on my shit list was when he’d used my new leather boots as a personal scratching post. “Okay, I forgive you just this once because you’re so cute.” I scratched behind his ears and then packed my papers and laptop into my bag.

  By the time I grabbed my smoothie off the counter and my purse from the coatrack, precious time to prepare for this morning’s meeting with Jason had dwindled.

  I parked in the underground garage of our building with thirty minutes to spare.

  At the entrance, though, a shudder splintered through me, and I paused with my hand resting on the handle. Game time. Seven months into the job, and talking to clients should be as easy as resting in Child’s Pose. My brain had other ideas, though. Mainly thoughts of binging on Nutella and Netflix.

  You’ve got this on lockdown. Pencil Skirt. Blouse. Cat eyes on point. Time to hike up the big-girl panties, a pair that did not have the Flash emblazoned on the butt.

  I pushed through the door to the building and took the elevator to the sixteenth floor, the main headquarters of Bass and Goldstein Interior Designs. The elevator doors opened, giving way to a reception area filled with plush leather couches, spotless glass tables, and abstract oil paintings created by a local artist.

  I strode out of the elevator and gave Mary, our receptionist, a quick wave. “Morning, Mary. How’s it going?”

  A warm smile spread across her face as I walked closer. Mary was in her late seventies and embodied the grandmotherly vibe. She loved pearls, chunky yellow gold rings, wore way too much perfume, and sometimes smelled of moth balls. Strike up a conversation with her, and unsolicited (and often cray cray) advice was sure to follow. Her flaws were easily overlooked, though, because she made an apple tart that rivaled my father’s. Her goodies magically appeared on my desk on a bi-monthly basis. My taste buds adored her; my waistline did not.

  “Morning, sweetie.” She pointed her pen at the second door on the left and said, “I sent someone into your office. He seemed a little perturbed.” She leaned in and whispered, “My guess is he’s low on fiber. Needs a good push to get things moving, if you get my drift.”

/>   I smothered my giggle. “Did you get a name?”

  “A Mr. Covington.”

  “Wow, he’s”—I glanced at my watch—“really early.” More so than I expected. Jason had punctuality down to the millisecond. But he wasn’t one to be early, especially if it meant he’d have to wait.

  “I told him he was more than welcome to sit in the waiting area, but he refused. Said he’d feel much more comfortable in your office.” Mary clutched at her pearls and bristled in her seat.

  “No problem. Thanks for sending him in there.”

  “Sure thing, sweetie.” She went back to clicking away at her computer, and I stared at my office down the hall.

  Nothing to worry about. Jason Covington was about to get his damn mind blown by my designs.

  The elevator door dinged and moments later, Lance Bass, not the early-nineties boy band one, mind you, but the one who owned Bass and Goldstein Design Firm, entered the office and came to stand near me at Mary’s desk. His stubby arms were crossed, pulling the seams of his suit jacket tight across his shoulders. He was the human equivalent of a Shar-Pei with small dog syndrome. I’d trained under him personally during my six-month probationary period, so I was lucky enough to be in his good graces. He was kind to most people up until the point where someone pissed off a client or broke one of the office’s five commandments.

  The Client is always right.

  Don’t piss off the Client.

  Don’t sleep with the Client

  Always remain professional.

  The Client needs to be 100 percent in love with the finished product.

  So far I was batting five for five.

  My boss eyed me suspiciously, which wasn’t any surprise as I was ten seconds away from sweating through my bra. Did I mention I hated meetings?

  His forehead creased in valleys so deep they might very well have their own topographical map. Seriously, though, pens could get swallowed up in those wrinkles. I’d been half tempted during very long staff meetings to test out that theory, but I loved my job way too much to get on his bad side. “Everything all right, Zoey?”

  I cleared my throat once more, my voice scratchy and forced as I said, “Good, just about to meet with Mr. Covington.”

  Lance glanced down the hall to my closed office door. “I saw the email from Jason on Friday. Nice work,” he said. He flashed a smile and I nearly choked. Those tended to make an appearance as often as Punxsutawney Phil before Groundhog’s Day.

  “Covington is a huge client. You’re doing a great job, Zoey. Another couple of years, and you could really move up in the firm.”

  Inside, I indulged in a victorious booty shake. On the outside, I kept my features subdued, only allowing a small smile. “Thanks, Lance.” I’d just passed my probationary period and was now considered a full-time employee. More than anything, I’d love to work my way to a senior-level position. Bass and Goldstein was considered a top-tier design firm on the West Coast. I was being trained under the DaVinci of designers, and I wasn’t above any amount of ass-kissing to keep it that way.

  “Let’s make sure Mr. Covington stays happy. I’ll assume you’ll go above and beyond, just like you always do.”

  Meaning: Don’t screw this up. This is a huge paycheck for the firm.

  I nodded. “Of course. I’ll do whatever it takes.”

  Meaning: My lips will be numb from the amount of times I will kiss the ground upon which Jason Covington walks.

  He rapped his knuckles on Mary’s desk. “I knew I could count on you. Let me know if there’s anything you need.”

  The only things I might need were a Costco-size wine bottle and maybe some Xanax.

  As Lance disappeared into his office, I stared at my own door, the only barrier between me and the oddity that was Mr. Covington. I braced myself for the weird requests I’d come to expect from him. He wouldn’t make my job easy, but if it were easy, where would be the fun in that? I loved a good challenge, and Jason would definitely deliver. Lance was right—I could do this.

  Bring it on, Covington.

  I grabbed my water bottle from my bag, took a sip of water and jiggled the door handle.

  The door swooshed open and my eyes locked with a pair of familiar bright blue ones.

  No.

  Water sprayed out of my mouth as I saw a different Covington occupying the chair across from mine at my desk.

  Ryder. Freaking. Covington.

  Oh hell no.

  He smiled at me, that same cheeky grin he’d managed when he pulled me out of the window the other night. My toes curled into the soles of my stilettos, and the taste of peanut butter ghosted over my taste buds.

  “Flash! So good to see you again.”

  Nope. Nopity nope. Where was Jason? Was this some sick joke?

  I had my power outfit on. I was impenetrable. This was not supposed to happen.

  “Mr. Covington,” I said in a cordial tone, one that hid my DEFCON 1 meltdown status. “I thought I was meeting with your brother this morning.”

  His smile faltered for half a second before he fixed it back on his face. He cleared his throat and said, “You were, but Jason asked me to step in. I’ll be taking over the renovation project from here on out.”

  He was talking. Words. Quite a few of them, in fact. Some were even strung together in complete sentences. But all I could think about was his tongue on my neck. About how it’d felt months ago with his fingers skimming across my exposed flesh. His mouth. Everywhere.

  So screwed. So utterly screwed.

  I’d been in bed with this man, and now he was technically my client? It wasn’t a big deal before, because there was nothing in the bylaws that said anything about one-night stands with a client’s brother, but if I took him on, this was a whole next level of wrong.

  “Is Jason okay?”

  I’d take weirdo Covington over the drool-worthy one any day of the week. For my job’s sake.

  His expression darkened. “He will be. Eventually.” He stroked the pad of his thumb across his lips and leveled me with a gaze that told me not to push him any further on the topic.

  “Eventually? How long has he been ill?” It made no sense. He’d hired me three days ago. If he was unwell, why was he buying properties?

  He looked at me, eyes wary. “Since November.”

  November. Jason had been my client the majority of that month. I would have known if something was wrong. Unless…

  I shook it off. Nothing good would come of me thinking back to that night.

  All speculations came to a screeching halt when he said, “We have a lot to discuss, so let’s get to it, minus the mind-control crap. That won’t work on me.” He smiled, toying with me.

  “Mind-control crap…” Did it make me a horrible person that the sole reason I wanted Jason to get better ASAP was so I didn’t have to look at his smug, self-assured brother? Yep, I was going to hell.

  He huffed out a laugh. “I saw the way you got him to agree with whatever you said. That never happens.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Jason liked my designs, and I can’t help it if he sided with my ideas.” Okay, it’d taken a teeny bit of persuading, but nothing I’d be ashamed to admit. It was all for the sake of the design. Sometimes a client just needed a push in the right direction.

  “Listen, you can cut the crap with me, Zoey. You may have everyone else fooled, but I know your type. You’re methodical and superstitious. You wore that exact outfit at Giovanni’s.” He paused and did a quick assessment. “Well, you had a red necklace, not the one you’re wearing now. Gift from a boyfriend?”

  “I—what? No. This is all ridiculous.” No way. This guy had not just figured me out in two point four seconds. Was I really that transparent?

  He must have seen that question on my face, because he continued, “Go on—tell me I’m wrong about the outfit, and I’ll walk out the door right now.” He arched a brow.

  This…was not how the meeting was supposed to go. What happe
ned to the cordial nodding? The oohing and ahhing over the plans I’d angsted over for the past two days? On top of that, he’d debunked my power outfit.

  The right thing to do would be to pass him off to another designer. All I had to do was keep it professional for another few minutes while I brought Lance in here. He’d be more than happy to help out a Covington.

  “Mr. Covington.” I dropped my bottle of water, briefcase, and purse on my desk and smoothed my sweaty palms over my skirt before taking a seat. “As much as I’d love to design the resort, I think there is now a conflict of interest. I’d be more than happy to pass your project to another designer in the firm.” Anyone who could remember the exact detail of what I wore months ago crossed a professional line.

  There. He couldn’t argue with that. I could avoid this whole mess from the start and still keep true to the code of conduct.

  He shook his head. “That’s not going to be possible.”

  “Why?”

  “Jason said he would only work with you, no one else.”

  “I’m sure he would be perfectly happy with Mr. Bass. His experience is unrivaled by anyone at this firm.”

  “You really think dumping Jason as a client would make him happy?”

  Lance’s words played in the back of my head. Do whatever it takes to keep the Covingtons happy.

  Dammit.

  Ryder’s voice lowered to that deep, gravelly tone that tugged at my gut. “Unless you’re worried you can’t keep things professional. Is that why you left so quickly on Saturday?” His gaze slid toward the curve of my neck, to where his mouth had been not even three days ago.

  Gauntlet thrown down.

  I eyed him. He had no right to throw shade when he’d done the same thing to me first. “I didn’t know I needed your permission to leave a public place.”

  I bit down on the side of my cheek until the ache in my mouth overpowered the ones in other spaces.

  “You’re right,” he said.

  Our gazes met and the energy between us crackled.

  This was quite possibly the worst idea I’d ever had, playing mind games with the man who had set the sexual satisfaction bar to Olympic heights.