The Rule Book (Rule Breakers #1) Page 4

  Two hours later, I grabbed my salad from the fridge and headed to the correct staff room, cringing when I walked past Brogan’s personal eating area. How stupid did he think I was, eating in there the whole week after I’d had the nerve to insult him? And why the heck was I still employed? Because unless he’d had a brain aneurysm, a guy who wrote a 300 page manual of painfully detailed rules (none of which, curiously, mentioned his personal lunch room) should have fired me ten times over by now.

  I still couldn’t get the flex of his muscular arms as he gripped his coffee or his adorable dimples out of my mind. If he were just some random guy at a bar, I’d definitely let him buy me a beer or three before taking full advantage of him in my queen size bed back at my apartment. That said, he wasn’t a random guy at a bar. He was my boss, and according to rule twenty-seven, completely off-limits.

  Um, reality check, girl. Who’s to say he’d be interested in you or your mouth that decidedly should never open around him?

  Right. Duh. The rule was no big deal, because obviously my imagination was fifteen steps ahead of reality.

  In the actual staff room, employees lounged in the chairs, smiling, talking, and looking happier than I’d seen them the first day. I was starting to think that people were only miserable whenever Jackson was in a ten-yard vicinity. I could get on that bandwagon, for sure.

  Zelda was on the end with an empty chair beside her. She beamed when she saw me, and patted the chair. “You came!”

  I gestured around me and gave a wry smile. “I made it to the right place this time.”

  “Everyone, this is Lainey, Jackson’s second in command.” She pointed to a guy in a mustache shirt with a goatee. “This is Eddy.” She motioned next to him to the guy in a beanie and thick black-rimmed glasses and said, “Clarence.” And the two people sitting next to them she introduced as, “Tina and Ashley.”

  A few of them looked fairly familiar, and I was certain the girl in the polka dot dress had given me mad side-eye when I was in Brogan’s coffee station yesterday. “Nice to meet you.” I clutched my salad harder and forced a smile, praying that I’d have a warmer welcome than the one I’d had when Jackson gave me the office tour.

  They all chimed in at once with, “Welcome,” and “Great to have you on the team.”

  Relieved at their greetings, I pulled the chair out and sat down, digging into my salad.

  “Thanks.”

  “Did Jackson not tell you about the staff room again?” The guy with the goatee shook his head and gave a knowing look to the other people in the room. “Typical.”

  I nodded, and they all groaned. That made me feel infinitely better than I had a few seconds ago. At least I wasn’t the only person to be duped by him.

  “Number one tip—besides don’t listen to Jackson’s negative garbage, obviously—is to get on Glinda’s good side. She is the copy guru and can fix any problem.”

  The guy nodded toward Zelda and said, “She’s the tech queen. Any glitch in your system, she can have it fixed within an hour.”

  Zelda blushed and repositioned her glasses on the bridge of her nose.

  “Just don’t surf porn on the work computers. Someone did that last month and caused a system-wide virus. Starr wasn’t too happy when he turned on his computer and found a bunch of vaginas on his screen.”

  They all laughed at this.

  “Good to know.”

  I sat back, finally feeling comfortable, for the first time in a week.

  Chapter Five

  Lainey Taylor Rule of Life #2

  Never trust Betsey.

  The bustling chaos of tourists, businessmen and women, and locals getting in a midday workout flooded downtown. As I’d only commuted to the office before and after standard working hours, I avoided most of this traffic. There was something satisfying about being lost in the shuffle, just another person with somewhere to be, something to do. Here, I could be anonymous, discard the label of Professional Worrier over my mom’s health and financial spiral, and just let go for a few minutes.

  I’d successfully made it through the two-week mark at Starr Media, a miracle that I think took Jackson by surprise. Heck, I was surprised.

  The conversation with my mom last week still lay heavy on my chest, and I’d wished there was something I could do besides work my unpolished fingers to the nubs. Even with Zelda’s protests, I’d decided to do lunch on my own today. Thirty sacred minutes to sort through my thoughts about Mom.

  She was scheduled to be in a doctor’s appointment during my lunch, so I sent off a quick I love you and am thinking about you text as I navigated through the heavy foot traffic. The early October sun warmed my face even with the biting chill in the air. I cinched my favorite Chanel belted cardigan tighter around my waist and snuggled into the warm fabric. The fog had burned off and left a cloudless, blue topaz sky in its place. This was the first time in the past few days I’d been able to really breathe, deep breaths that didn’t feel like tiny holes punctured my lungs.

  After finding a bench in Wyatt Park, I pulled out my salad leftovers and scanned the expanse of lush greenery. A guy wearing tweed sat on the bench across from me, yelling into his Bluetooth about stock portfolios. Two moms with newborns made loops around the park area before disappearing into a coffee shop. And a pair of street vendors shot each other evil glances when they thought no one was looking.

  This area of Seattle was feeling a lot like Portland, minus the eccentric flair—nobody could beat the “Keep Portland Weird” mentality. Plus, they didn’t have Voodoo Doughnuts, which was a shame, because everyone should experience a Cock-N-Balls at least once in their life.

  A calm blanketed my frayed nerves, and I gave myself this brief moment to believe that everything would be okay. I slouched down in my seat and took a second to close my eyes and rest my head on the back of the bench.

  Everything was going to turn out fine. Mom would get through chemo like the champ she was. The only thing that worried me was her being alone during this process. In a desperate attempt, I’d tried calling my father and telling him about Mom’s diagnosis, but he’d brushed me off, too busy with his new family. His other life. It was still hard to stomach the idea of having a half-sibling almost the same age, and to think that every time he’d been on a “business trip” he was actually spending time with their family. His family. Someone who’d claimed he was an open book had hidden chapters riddled throughout. Seriously, it sounded like something from a soap opera, not a downtown Portland neighborhood.

  My phone rang, hammering through the trip down memory lane. I pulled it out of my purse, frowning when I saw Jackson’s name on the screen. The dude was pushing it with encroaching on my only thirty minutes of solitude in a ten-hour workday.

  “Hello?” I balanced the phone between my ear and shoulder as I readjusted my purse on my shoulder.

  “Two lattes, extra foam. Be in the conference room in ten.” His haughty tone sent a jolt of annoyance down my spine.

  Before I could say anything, the line went silent. I glared at my phone and shoved it into my purse, muttering under my breath. What a jerkoff.

  Ten minutes. It took at least five minutes to get to the fortieth floor with a crowded elevator. Which meant I had to find the nearest coffee shop and get two lattes made in half that time. Okay, no big deal. There were a dozen Starbucks in a one-mile radius.

  I got my order and sped back to the building. Five minutes until whatever was going on in the conference room. I was totally golden. To top it off, the elevator was empty, which meant I’d have a straight shot up forty floors.

  Just as the elevator doors were in mid trash-compactor mode, a hand stuck between the two slabs of metal, and the doors retracted. Just yesterday, I saw a secretary from another company get hammered by the doors. They had no mercy except, apparently, for my boss.

  My heart sunk faster than a penny in a wishing well as I eyed Brogan. He gave a tentative smile, one that seemed polite, but I could really tell he would rat
her be anywhere else but here. (Because you called him the devil, you idiot!)

  The doors closed and “Tainted Love” softly played in the elevator. I stared at the coffee cups in my hand, my purse on the ground, the smudges on the elevator door, trying to keep my mind busy, but the silence was too much to handle. I couldn’t just ride up forty floors saying nothing to the man who’d hired me.

  “We meet again,” I said, and cringed at how stupid I kept sounding in front of him. Seriously, a Master’s degree, and that was the best I could come up with. Cheesy chitchat usually only made an appearance with red wine and too many shots of tequila. The guy had hired me to help with the basics, and this wasn’t exactly showcasing my competence.

  “Yep. Just out for a quick walk.” He nodded and picked at an invisible piece of lint on his sleeve.

  Did he pass by me in the park on his walk? Oh God, had he seen me chewing? My mom’s chiding about my eating habits suddenly didn’t seem so stupid.

  I chanced a quick glance his direction. Since that awful encounter in the break room the other week, his hair had been neatly trimmed into a stylish cut that accentuated his face. Brogan was all strong angles and broad shoulders. Normally my reaction to forced proximity with a hot guy in an elevator was that of a) glee b) praying I didn’t have horrible coffee breath, and c) the obvious hope of said hot guy jamming the big red stop button and proceeding to give a mind-blowing elevator romp.

  A completely irrational, unfair thought process since he was really the only person I was not allowed to go for. Besides the thirty other men that worked for Starr Media. As the old adage went, the person you embarrass yourself in front of the worst is the person you want the most. And Mr. (anti)Antichrist was looking particularly appealing today.

  He shifted and took his hands out of his pockets as I stared straight ahead, trying not to make eye contact in the mirrored doors. Oh, this was going to be a very long ride in silence.

  I stared at the little red numbers climbing, each one taking its time. Should I say something else? It’d be rude not to, but then again, I was the one that made an ass out of myself and insulted him. Maybe I should just keep my mouth shut like Jackson instructed.

  “Nice day, huh?” Okay, so I failed at taking my own advice. Awkward silence gave me hives, and I always felt the need to fill it.

  He clasped his hands in front of him and looked down at me. “Yep. Enjoy it while it lasts—supposed to be a rough winter.”

  “I don’t mind rough,” popped out of my mouth even as Noooooo don’t you dare say that! tried to lasso my tongue. If I wasn’t carrying coffee, I’d be pulling the hood of my cardigan over my head and pretending I’d melted into the elevator.

  The dimples made an appearance, and I could tell he was using every bit of restraint not to laugh. “Is that so?”

  “That was way too far down the ‘that’s what she said’ rabbit hole to even begin to redeem myself. Can we let that slide?”

  “My duty as CEO entails letting comments like that go.”

  I didn’t get it. He seemed friendly enough, social, so why did this guy have so many rules to abide by? I’d expect it from someone who hated people, enjoyed making them sweat—not a guy who was still kind to a person who insulted their character. Then again, my dad had thousands of rules in our household and was well-liked by the community, and look how he turned out.

  “About the other day…” I started and trailed off. Somehow “I’m sorry for calling you the Antichrist to your face” didn’t feel appropriate here.

  “Yes?”

  Ugh. It’d be so much easier if he’d say, “Don’t worry about it. Let’s start over.” But this was real life. Of course he wouldn’t let me off the hook that easily. The edges of the to-go container dug into my palms as I gripped it for dear life. “I’m sorry for calling you”—I swallowed hard and managed to look him straight in the eye—“the devil.”

  His lips mashed together, and it looked like he was holding back a laugh. “Technically, you called me the Antichrist.”

  “Technicalities.”

  “The devil’s in the detail.” A smug smirk etched across his lips. Damn him and those glorious dimples.

  I groaned, and my feet ached to run anywhere far, far away, out of this damn elevator. “Okay, if I apologize another five times can we never mention anything involving Satan again?”

  He chuckled and raised a hand, seeming to brush our previous interaction off, like it hadn’t been a big deal. “It’s refreshing to be insulted every once in a while. Everyone is a little too nice to me when they know I’m around.”

  “I’m still really sorry. You’re not at all what I pictured.”

  “No? And what did you picture?” His voice deepened, the question a challenge. If he weren’t my boss, I’d almost believe this brushed on the side of flirting.

  A stick figure with an even larger stick deeply rooted up their ass. Someone with premature male pattern baldness. Someone that didn’t have delicious dimples or full sleeve tattoos.

  This time I kept my thoughts to myself. “Just not you.”

  Instead of the casual attire he’d worn the first time we met, a tailored black suit with a light blue button-up fit snug on his body, like a rich, Italian glove. There was a lot to be said for a man in a well-fitted suit. Such as yum, and I’d tap that like a friggin’ maple tree. Nothing quite got my salivary glands going like a hot guy dressed up. My gaze inconspicuously traveled to his arms, working down to where his hands were tucked into his pockets. Which then got me thinking about the man bulge threads on Pinterest, and how Brogan should really wear his pants a little tighter.

  He cleared his throat.

  Warning bells blared between my ears. Abort mission. Move your eyes up before he thinks you’re staring at his package. Which, let’s face it, I totally was.

  This thought process should not be happening because, yeah, he happened to be my boss. A boss that I’d already made a crap first impression with, and an equally shitty second one by the way this was going. That was enough reason to stay the hell away from inserting him into my solo shower time entertainment.

  Our gazes met in the mirror, and he lifted a suggestive brow, and that sly half smile ticked at the corner of his mouth. Yep, my boss just caught me checking him out. Yes, I was going to freak out in the bathroom as soon as I booked it off this elevator ride from hell.

  The elevator picked this moment to have mercy on me and stopped at the fortieth floor. Brogan motioned for me to exit the car first.

  I walked out, Brogan tailing close behind, when I realized I’d set my purse on the ground. I rushed back in, cradling the to-go container that held the two coffees, and reached down for my purse. The doors were still wide open, a minor miracle, and I bolted out.

  Brogan stood there, waiting, while I booked it out of the elevator. I hadn’t gone one step before the door zoomed shut behind me. Phew. Made it.

  We both started toward the conference room, but I was immediately tugged backward. What the…? The hairs rose on the back of my neck.

  No, it couldn’t be.

  I pulled harder, and a chill ran through me as I heard the distinct sound of fabric ripping.

  Oh no.

  Betsey, how could you do this to me? Didn’t she know that this was my favorite cardigan she had locked in her stupid Jaws of Life? I’d spent two hours in line on Black Friday and elbowed past old ladies to get this. I wanted to shake my fist at her. I wanted to do the Dawson ugly cry. I wanted my damn cardigan back.

  I pulled a little harder and heard another rip. I’m sorry, Betsey, did I say Jaws of Life? I meant beautiful doors of metallic glory.

  Brogan kept walking toward the conference room and called behind him, “You coming?” He looked over his shoulder and did a double take, his brows furrowing. “Everything all right?”

  Totally okay. I often stood with my favorite Chanel cardigan in the elevator door just for kicks. “I’m great.”

  “Then let’s get to the meeti
ng. Can’t be late.” He jutted his thumb at the conference room and continued walking toward the sweet refuge that was just out of sweater-snag reach.

  “Yes.” I moved forward, trying again to pull my cardigan out of the iron talons of the door, but I was rewarded with another soft rip in the material. It took everything in me not to whimper and break into a frenzied game of tug of war with the elevator over my beloved sweater.

  He was almost at the conference room door. If he disappeared into it even for a few seconds, I could get my top free. Keep walking, just a little more.

  As if he heard my thoughts, he stopped again and turned around.

  I froze mid tug, trying my best to keep my face void of any indication of my inner freak-out. This was the most messed up game of red light green light ever.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” he called back to me, almost at the conference room door.

  My heart raced as I tried to come up with a reason, any reason to get him out of sight so I could properly lose it over the situation. “I realized I left something downstairs. I’ll meet you in there.”

  “All right,” he said slowly, still unsure. “Timeliness is important, so try to be quick.”

  Play it cool. He has no clue you’re stuck in Betsey’s death grip. “I won’t be late,” I reassured him. “Punctuality is my middle name. Well, it’s actually Jane, but it might as well be punctuality.” A laugh bubbled up, notes of hysteria mingling with the loud guffaw.

  Oh God, just shut up so he walks away and you can get away with some dignity left. I smiled and said, “I’ll meet you in there before it starts.”

  He nodded slowly and turned toward the conference room. “Sounds good.”

  Things I’d most likely find on my desk by the end of the week: a random drug test form and a formal letter terminating my employment.

  As soon as he was out of sight, I turned toward the elevator, set the coffees on the floor, shimmied out of my sweater, and tried pulling again. And, again, another soft rip started at the bottom hem.