The Rule Maker (Rule Breakers) Page 8

  Heidi sat behind a large oak desk, glasses hanging low on her nose as she read through paperwork. A picture of her husband and her son was placed next to her computer, along with pens, manila folders, and an ungodly amount of staplers.

  “Mr. Covington. So nice to see you.” She smiled. Heidi had to be in her early forties but didn’t look a day over twenty—except for the silver streaking her hair.

  I walked toward her, trying my best to put weight on my left side. “Thought I’d drop by and see the person who keeps Covington enterprises in one piece.”

  “You came to the right place, then.” She winked. “Looks like you’re getting around a lot better now.”

  “Thanks. You have Jason’s mail? I’m meeting up with him tonight.”

  She mashed her lips together and pointed her pen to the large stacks of letters piled into two boxes. “That’s just from this week. Do you know when he’s coming back?”

  “I planned on asking him that tonight.”

  “Can you also have him sign these? I need to send them out by next week.” She grabbed the mountain of manila folders on her desk and handed them to me.

  “No problem.”

  I looked around the office again. Too stuffy, too formal. My grandfather had offered me a job during my second year of college, but I’d taken one look at his office—almost an exact replica of the one where I currently stood—and declined. Five minutes here and I could already feel corporate life sucking up my soul.

  “Have you seen him lately? Is he doing all right?” Heidi had left her station and leaned against the doorframe, her eyes sweeping over the room with concern.

  “As well as expected.” I didn’t know if that was true. I had no comparison with this level of injury. But four months seemed like long enough to avoid people. “Do you know if he had anything else in the pipeline before his”—I paused—“leave of absence?”

  She shook her head. “The acquisition of the resort was the first I’d heard in months. Honestly, if a paycheck wasn’t deposited in my account every month, and a few sporadic emails didn’t land in my inbox, I’d assumed he’d dropped off the face of the planet.”

  I ran my knuckles along the empty desk, noting how even in Jason’s absence, the wooden surface remained shiny and dust-free. Everyone was waiting for him to come back to his old life. “That’s what I was worried about.”

  Enough. Jason wasn’t about to piss away his career because of an injury. He just needed a push in the right direction.

  Chapter Seven

  Zoey

  Rule #17: Never trust pigmy goats

  It was the Mondayest of all Mondays, I’d decided. What started off promising—yoga and a smoothie—soon went downhill when my car wouldn’t start. I had it towed to the mechanic and then Lainey dropped me off at work. On top of that, I’d sent Ryder new plans and heard nothing, not even a confirmation he’d received them.

  Fresh projects normally gave me those same butterflies as I got when I met a cute guy. Bubbles in the stomach. A million ideas bumbling around my head. Fabric swatches and furniture catalogues were my eye porn.

  The giddiness factor was at an all-time low, seeing as my client avoided me like I was carrying a highly infectious disease. Except for the other night at the club, which I didn’t even want to think about unless I had a punching bag readily available.

  Lance stood at the end of the hallway as I entered work.

  “Just the person I wanted to see,” he said. His forehead had an additional crease today, which either meant he was really jazzed about something, or he was going to fire my ass because he’d just found out I’d been fantasizing about my client all weekend.

  “Really?” I straightened the papers on my desk. There wasn’t much to tidy since Ryder’s resort was my only project at the moment.

  “I wanted to check in with you on the Covington account.”

  “There’s not much to say at this point. We’re still negotiating designs.”

  He frowned. “Is everything going okay? If that family didn’t bring in so much revenue, it’d be more trouble than they’re worth.”

  No kidding.

  Hmm, how to answer this… No, Lance, the whole working with my ex-fling is a complete mindfuck because instead of worrying about my designs, I’m overanalyzing every word he says. Oh, and I think I might be having a quarter life crisis and have doubled my leggings collection in the past two weeks. No biggie. “Fine.”

  “Good, because I have news.” He stood there, practically dancing in place. Who was this, and what had they done with my tiny, grumpy boss?

  “I’m hoping this is celebratory news?”

  “I just got a call from HGTV. They’re interested in filming the resort once it’s finished.”

  Good thing I was sitting down, because I was pretty sure I’d have face-planted at his feet otherwise. “You’re shitting me.” And then I remembered who I was talking to. “I mean, are you serious, Lance?”

  “Yes. They heard that the Covingtons had acquired the place and want to feature it on a winter resort getaway episode.”

  “Wow. I don’t know what to say.” Besides the obvious, because I couldn’t really say shit, there is literally nothing in the works at the moment and can you please move to the side so I don’t vomit on your shoes? Continue the leggings splurge tonight? Yep, it was happening.

  He beamed a shark smile, all teeth exposed, gleaming in the fluorescent lighting. I had a feeling those teeth would go straight for my jugular if he found out how bad I’d been tanking on this project.

  “This’ll be huge for the firm. Think of all the new clients we’ll get from this.” He continued walking down the hall then turned back around, throwing his hands out to the sides. “Talk it over with Mr. Covington, and we’ll get a date nailed down with the production company.”

  I sat there in silence. A television show wanted to showcase my designs. I was definitely going to vom. “On it, Lance.” Right after I went and rocked in the corner for a solid fifteen minutes.

  It was game time. Bases loaded. And I was counting on a guy who wouldn’t even attempt to hit a foul ball.

  So Ryder wasn’t going to play nice with the email game? I’d take it to the next level—the phone. I stared at my cell. Yep. All I needed to do was put his number in there and then hit the send button. That seemed easy enough. And yet my fingers refused to close the distance.

  This is your career, Reynolds. Some asswipe snowboarder who is sometimes charming and most-of-the-time infuriating is not going to get in your way.

  Right. I was so, so right. This was HGTV we were talking about. I’d torch my entire life savings before I let this opportunity slip away.

  I took a deep breath, snatched my phone, and dialed his number before I could chicken out. As the phone rang, I gave myself a pep-talk. “Seriously, you’re a big girl, get your shit together. He has no hold on you. Just another gorgeous face.” That was all he’d be, because even if he was funny, the stakes were different now. My work would get national recognition.

  “Hello?” his deep voice warmed my body like a shot of tequila.

  Crap. Had he heard that last part? “Ryder?”

  “Speaking.”

  “It’s Zoey.”

  “Ah, I figured you might call.” His voice was like the richest cashmere against my ear.

  I shook my head, deleting that thought from my brain. “What? Why?” Before five minutes ago, I didn’t even know I’d be doing this.

  “Just a feeling. I’m going to go out on a limb here, but seeing me at Dean’s reminded you why I am your favorite client. How close am I?”

  My clients who called every twenty minutes talking in the equivalent of shouty caps ranked higher than him. “I can’t give a fair assessment if you won’t let me do my job.” I cleared my throat. “I was wondering if you wanted to get together and discuss plans for the resort.”

  “You’re in luck. I’m downtown right now taking care of some things for my brother. I’ll be o
ver in a few.”

  “Oh. So soon?”

  “Unless you want to do sometime next week, right now works best.”

  Was I prepared? With plans for the resort, yes. Mentally, no. The guy was harder to track down than my unicorn leggings. “Sounds great to me.”

  “Oh, and Zoey?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I appreciate the compliment, but I’m more than just a pretty face.” Amusement laced his voice.

  Where was my letter opener? Maybe if I jabbed myself in the eye a few thousand times, it’d make me forget that this conversation was happening. “That, uh, wasn’t about you.” I smacked my palm against my forehead.

  He laughed. A rich laugh that turned coherent thoughts into mush. “You’re still a terrible liar.” And with that, he hung up.

  Well, there went the whole professional facade. I groaned and laid my head down on my desk.

  Time with Ryder was what got me into trouble in the first place. The best approach to keeping on track was to put a time limit on our meeting. We couldn’t argue too much if I booked an Uber ride for twenty minutes from now. I pulled out my phone and made a reservation. There. That gave me approximately ten minutes, give or take, to discuss the new designs. Barely any time at all to humiliate myself.

  A throat cleared across the room.

  No, please let that be my boss. Or one of my coworkers.

  I looked up to find Ryder in the doorway to my office, and fought the urge to cringe.

  His brows creased together as he palmed the doorframe. “Did I come at a bad time?”

  “No, please, come on in and take a seat.” I motioned to the chair in front of my desk. A quick peek at the clock on my desktop told me I had twelve minutes. “Have you thought more about the plans I sent you? Did you like any of the designs?”

  He was dressed up today—a nice pair of slacks and a light-blue button-up shirt. I snapped my gaze to his face. Professional. Career. HGTV. As much as I enjoyed our ongoing game, Ryder was officially no looky, no touchy.

  He slid into the chair and steepled his hands together. “I appreciate you thinking outside the box with the designs. The snowboards lining the exposed beams were a nice touch.”

  “I thought you might like that.” I tapped my pen on my desk and then set it down. What was it about him that made me so nervous? It took every ounce of energy to string together my thoughts. I shook my head, trying to jar myself back to a higher level of cognitive function. “I wanted to run something by you.”

  “Yeah?” He looked so comfortable in the chair, like this was his own office, with none of that vulnerability he’d shown for a split second last night. But I knew it was there. There was something deeper to Ryder, but it wouldn’t be up to me to scratch the surface.

  “My boss got a very interesting phone call today. Apparently, a TV show wants to feature the resort—if you’re okay with that, I mean.”

  “I’d have to run it by Jason, but I’d say that any publicity is good publicity. When do they need to do the shoot?”

  “Six weeks.”

  “I see.” He frowned. “That doesn’t give us a lot of time.”

  What was that? The sky parting? Angels serenading me with sweet, sweet music? The man finally understood that weeks of dicking around finally had caught up to us.

  “To save some time, how about I find a few samples at the fabric store and send them to your office later this week?”

  “Do you have any samples here?”

  I did, but none that I’d use on a luxury lodge. Swatches of peaches and spring tones didn’t exactly scream come spend the entire day snowboarding and then snuggle up next to the fire with a mug of cocoa. “No. I’m scheduled to leave for the store in”—I looked at my desktop clock again—“six minutes.”

  “Great. I’m meeting up with Jason tonight for dinner. I can show him the swatches and get his opinion.”

  “Yes, I’d love Jason’s opinion.”

  His smile faded a bit, and I was brought back to Friday night and the question he’d asked. The truth was, I would rather work with Jason. I didn’t have stupid things like feelings for Jason. Or the urge to slap him. Or kiss him. Jesus, this was so confusing.

  Six more minutes and I wouldn’t have to worry about it. I’d be in a car, on my way to a fabric store, my Mecca. Hell, maybe I’d even peruse the leggings store on the ride. Now that was multi-tasking.

  “Should we head downstairs, then? Wouldn’t want to be late to our appointment,” he said.

  “Our?”

  “Yes. You’re picking out samples for the resort, so I’d like to be involved.”

  “Of course.” I swallowed hard. From a designer aspect, I should be elated that he wanted to be involved. It’d make the process that much easier. Instead, every inch of my body went on high alert, waiting for the next disaster to strike. Because when it came to Ryder, nothing would ever be easy. “The car service should be here any minute. Ready, Mr. Covington?”

  I’d had pretty rotten luck the last few times I’d used the app—either they didn’t show up, or they did but I felt I needed to have 911 on speed-dial just in case they decided to pull down a dark alley. Probably a sign I should have waited until my car was out of the shop to make a trip to the fabric shop.

  “Ryder.” He looked at me more earnestly this time. “Please.”

  I sighed. “Fine, Ryder.” Just because I called him by his first name did not mean anything. A lot of clients preferred this. But his name on my lips was like the first sip of coffee in the morning—rich and mouthwatering.

  I got the sense he was here to make a peace offering, which was nicer than anything he’d done this entire project. If I could only focus on his shallow aspects—because really, he filled out a pair of Dockers very well—I’d move through the next six weeks without any hesitation. But I couldn’t shake what he’d said at the club, giving me a sliver of the puzzle that was Ryder Covington. There was a nice guy under there. It was under a tangled web of sarcasm, but it was there.

  I motioned to his leg. “I barely recognized you without your cast.”

  “Got it off this morning.” He smiled, but something was off about it, almost forced. “I’ll probably lose the crutches within a week or two.”

  “That’s great. When I broke my leg in middle school, it hurt almost as bad walking after I got my cast off as it did when I broke it.” The guy had to be in a lot of pain at the moment, even if he was hiding it behind that smile of his.

  “How did you break your leg?”

  “An unfortunate escalator accident.”

  “Now, this I have to hear.”

  “There’s not much to tell. I tried to jump off the side of an escalator and tanked the landing.” I left out the part where it had been a guy that’d dared me to do it. Seemed like all the stupid things I’d done in my life had one common denominator—men. So there it was. Men turned me into an idiot. Awesome. And the weather forecast called for another stupid front blowing in from the east. From what I could tell, it was the storm of the century.

  He shifted his gaze to mine. “You don’t strike me as the daredevil type.”

  “And why’s that?”

  He shrugged. “I’ve seen your office. And your apartment. The scariest thing in there was your beverage selection.”

  We continued our way to the elevator and waited for it to hit our floor. “What’s wrong with my drinks?”

  “La Croix? Zoey, that shit’s an abomination.”

  “What’s wrong with my flavored water? It’s better than drinking soda.” I crossed my arms.

  “It tastes like socks.” He paused and grimaced. “Hell, that’s even an insult to socks. Seriously, how do you not dry heave when drinking that?”

  I stifled a smile and managed to pull my features into some form of indignation. “Because it’s delicious.”

  We walked into the elevator and the doors slid shut behind us. As luck would have it, we were the only two in there.

  He was talking
. There were words coming out of his mouth, but as I looked at Ryder leaning against the elevator, his broad shoulders nearly taking up half the wall, his cologne filling the space, all my brain could think was abort mission.

  My body had a funny way of showing its appreciation for my brain’s warning. It flipped my brain the bird and started the whole sizzle from head to toe.

  Brain: But he’s your client. And you know exactly what will happen if you sleep with him again.

  Body: I do what I want.

  Brain: Seriously? Are you an idiot? The dude is a player and this could jeopardize your job.

  Body: Dayummm. Did you see those forearms flex when he grabbed the elevator rail?

  Brain: Stawp.

  Body: I’ll just be plugging my fingers in my ears. Lalalalala.

  Apparently my body had turned into a petulant teenager.

  “Zoey?”

  I snapped my attention back to him. “Yeah?”

  “You coming?”

  It was only then that I realized the elevator doors had opened and he was holding one side, making sure it didn’t close on me.

  “Yeah, sorry. Zoned out.” I was in so much trouble.

  “I didn’t know my tirade on flavored water was that boring.”

  “It was fascinating. Really.”

  Just as I was about to continue my point, the Uber driver pulled up in a beat-up minivan. The pocked doors had more dings than actual smooth surface, which didn’t exactly give me the most confidence in this ride. But it was either that or stand here on the street, spending more time than necessary with Ryder, and a potential door-ding incident seemed like a much better option.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to take my truck?” he offered. “It’s in the parking garage down the street.”

  “No, I’m sure this will be fine.” I hoped.

  “You know those look like bullet holes in the side, right?”

  “I’m sure it’s just a rock chip.”

  He gave me a look. Okay, they totally looked like bullet holes. What the hell was I getting myself into? Like I said before, my brain went into idle mode when it came to dealing with men.