Against the Rules

by Ella Goode

  “Thanks. I forgot to grab one.” That nervous feeling comes back that I get when he’s around.

  “Let me.” He sets a sandwich and chips down on the table before leaving. Kevin and I give each other a look, not sure what’s happening.

  “I wasn't sure what you would want.” Finn sits down with a water, soda, lemonade and some sports drinks.

  “Thanks.” I laugh. “I don’t think I can drink all of that.”

  “I’ll help you.” He pulls out the chair next to me, sitting down. “Got you a brownie too. We get them from a great local bakery down the street. I noticed that you missed dessert. You always need dessert.”

  “That’s really nice of you.” Too nice. Does he think I’m going to tell everyone what he did? Is that why he’s being extra nice? Maybe he doesn’t want everyone to know what he’s really like. This is all very suspicious.

  “Kevin, right?” Finn asks.

  “Yep. Nice to see you again, sir.”

  “Jim told me he wanted to see you.”

  “Right now?” Kevin starts to stand.

  “Yeah, you should take your lunch.”

  “Oh, yeah.” He picks up his food. “Thanks.” He nods at Finn. “See you later, Lucia.”

  “Bye.” He heads out, leaving me alone with Finn, who is playing on his phone.

  “Sorry. Had to send a message real quick.” He tucks his phone back away, his attention coming back to me. A small thrill runs through me. That same feeling I can’t place comes back again.

  I think Finn is a lot more trouble than I bargained for. I’m not sure what his angle is yet, but I do know that he’s starting to make it hard for me to resist him. My mind might be telling me one thing about him, but my body is saying something totally different.

  Chapter 7

  Finn

  I was glad to see Lucia with her co-workers, but she was sitting way too close to Kevin for my comfort. I wonder when I decided that male employees were necessary for my corporation. Maybe I should fire all of them--or at least all the ones under fifty. Even better, I’ll implement a new hire policy requiring everyone to be at least fifty years or older. I’ll have to check with Monica.

  “You seem to be enjoying your first day.”

  “Yes, thank you.” Her answer is so formal. Worse, she sounds tired and not at all interested in me. I’ve had a lot of offers in my day—not that I’ve accepted any of them—but I don’t lack for female attention. Maybe this is my problem. I’ve spent years honing my negotiating skills in the boardroom, but have ignored the female population so I have no skills in that area.

  The key to a good negotiation is to truly understand your target. I need to know everything there is to know about Lucia, and not just the kind of thing that I can read in her personnel file because the laws these days don’t allow you to ask questions like: are you married, do you have kids, are you willing to jump into bed with your boss? Instead, I have to engage in an in-person fact-finding mission which isn’t a bad task. I want to spend time with Lucia.

  “What’s your favorite color?”

  She blinks a couple times, surprised by my question. “Um, pink.”

  “Pink?” it’s my turn to be taken aback. My initial thought was to figure out all the things she liked and then I’d get a suit made, a new car, that sort of thing. I’m going to have to recalibrate.

  “It’s a pretty color,” she says defensively.

  “Yeah, of course. Really pretty.” I don’t own a thing in pink. Not even a necktie or a pocket square.

  “If you didn’t want to know, why did you ask?” She stabs a fork into her brownie.

  “I like pink. It’s my favorite color,” I claim.

  “I can tell you’re lying.” She mashes the brownie some more.

  This isn’t the energy I wanted. How did a simple question about her faves turn into this dessert murder? Maybe she prefers something else.

  “Do you like chocolate or ice cream?”

  “Why do I have to choose? I like them both.”

  The brownie would say otherwise.

  “But if you had to pick?”

  Her mouth takes on a stubborn expression. She does not want to pick. She wants it all and I want to give it all to her. All the ice cream, all the chocolate, all the pink flowers. I lean forward.

  “How about vacations? Do you like island ones or ski ones?”

  “Island or ski? I don’t have the money for either.”

  “Right. Those are out. I like the…what are they called? Homecations?”

  “Staycations.” There’s a slight downturn of her lips. Am I disappointing her with my questions? Quickly I review the conversation and realize it sounds like I’m interviewing her. New tactic, I decide.

  “I like brown,” I volunteer.

  “Brown? That’s such a boring color.”

  I stare at the head of mahogany locks striped with red and gold in front of me and shake my head. “It’s gorgeous. Brown’s the color of the earth, brownies, a chocolate Lab”—the most beautiful hair and eyes—“my office desk. It goes well with pink, too.” At least her pink cheeks and brown hair are a perfect pairing. I’d be willing to look at that palette all day long.

  Both her eyebrows go up while her mouth turns down in full-blown skepticism. She pushes her massacred brownie away and leans toward me. “Just be straight with me. Are you firing me? You said you didn’t have the power, but I don’t believe you. Just fire me and be done with it.”

  “It’s true.”

  “Then what game are you playing because I know you know that I’m the one that slapped you at the restaurant the other night.”

  “Oh, that.” I tug on my earlobe, trying to figure out the right thing to say because I know that my honest response—that I was seriously turned on by her reaction—is not the right one. In fact, if I say that, she’s likely to hit me again, which would be hard on her hand and would result in a dozen of unsavory rumors that would make her work here miserable. “I figured you had too much to drink.”

  “Me?” she yells, pointing a finger at herself. Nearly every head in the cafeteria turns in our direction. She tries to make herself smaller and repeats in a quieter, but still irritated, voice, “Me? I’m not the one who came up and said I was taking you home for the night.”

  “More’s the pity.” I fork some of the brownie crumbs into my mouth. It still tastes good.

  “You can’t say that unless you plan on firing me. It’s harassment.”

  I will never remember these rules. Monica said there would be a lawsuit and bad press if I didn’t keep my hands off an employee. I pointed out that we celebrated the marriage of two employees just last week, but Monica said it was different because they were equals and I can’t demote myself or promote Lucia. How is the takeover of one person more difficult than an entire company?

  “You want honesty?”

  “Yes.” She nods emphatically.

  “Who hired you in the first place?”

  “Monica.”

  “Exactly—and she and her team will be the ones doing the firing. I’m sorry I’m the head of the corporation, but I’m not apologizing for wanting you in my bed. If it makes you feel better, I’m willing to marry you for that pleasure.”

  I don’t get slapped this time, but the shower of sodas and waters isn’t much better.

  Chapter 8

  Lucia

  There is something wrong with me. I have not one ounce of self-control around that man. Tons of men are pigs. He’s not the first I’ve met in my life. I’ve had worse said to me before. What I don’t understand is why it makes me so angry when it comes out of his mouth. To the point that I lose any rational thought and assault him. And why doesn't he even look mad about it? That only makes me madder.

  “Are you okay?” I look up at Cesar, who is at his desk across from me. I force a smile but inside I feel anything but happy. I’m frustrated.

  “I’m great,” I lie, knowing he’s about to ask me about the lunchroom. So
far no one else has. I think someone is waiting for an opening. I’m sure that everyone is in shock that Mr. O’Hare hasn't fired me yet. I’ve resorted to calling him that instead of Finn because I need to have some kind of boundaries when it comes to that man.

  “That’s interesting. I thought your keyboard did something to you.” I look down at it, lifting my hands. “Are all the buttons still there?”

  “Sorry.” Cesar only laughs. “Ask me. I know you want to.”

  “I don’t know. I’m having fun coming up with different scenarios in my head of why you’d dump drinks over bossman's head.”

  “What’s winning?”

  “Since you're new here there aren’t many options. Otherwise I would have guessed he put you on Mrs. Roberts’ detail but you don’t know who that is so it wouldn't have made you mad. The only thing I can think of is he stole the last brownie? People fight over those things a lot more than you would think, but Finn started ordering extra a few months ago and things have calmed down in the breakroom.”

  “He gave me the last brownie.”

  “Well, I’m back to square one and I did not see that plot twist coming. Did I mention Finn is the one who always started these lunchroom fights about the brownies?”

  I snort a laugh. I don’t know if he’s teasing or not. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Ah yeah, cause I know it’s going to get me more details on whatever is happening cause this is clearly linked.” I bite my lip, thinking it over. I shouldn't gossip but I can’t help myself at this point. There are things I need to know or I’m going to go crazy. You mean obsess, a little voice in the back of my head says, sounding a lot like B.J. I shove it right to the back of my mind.

  “You’ve worked here a long time.”

  “Yep.” He leans closer, waiting for me to ask him my question.

  “Finn. I mean Mr. O’Hare. Is he a good guy?”

  “Yes.” There is not an ounce of hesitation. “Why do you think everyone is dying to know why you dumped soda on his head? He’s really good to all of the employees here so I think everyone is confused.” Great. Now everyone in the office is probably going to think I’m crazy. They all think he’s an angel but I know better. He’s not innocent.

  “And slapped him,” I mumble.

  “Slapped him?” Cesar half shouts. I look around. A few people turn to look our way. I motion with my hand for Cesar to lower his voice.

  “Slapped who?” He narrows his eyes on me. I remain quiet because I’ve already said too much. “You said slapped him?” I think he’s dumbfounded by my admission. “In the cafeteria? I’m going to need to get a new gossip source because mine is lacking in the juicy details they relay to me.”

  “I didn't slap him,” I defend myself. “Today,” I toss in there so it’s not a lie.

  “You’re an odd girl.” Cesar leans back in his chair. “I like it. Things will certainly be interesting with you here.” He turns back to his computer, going back to work. I try to do the same. It’s hard when Mr. O’Hare seems to walk by my desk for one reason or another every thirty minutes. I pretend not to notice, but my eyes keep drifting toward him with each pass that he makes. A wave of guilt washes over me when I see that he’s changed his clothes. It solidifies the fact that I need to stay away from him.

  How can he be both annoying and oddly endearing at the same time? It has to be his good looks. It’s playing with my mind. I’m a judgmental asshole. All these years I wondered how women could fall for these men that were so sure of themselves. But here I am doing the exact same thing like the hypocrite I’ve become. This is all Mr. O’Hare’s fault. If he weren’t so attractive this wouldn’t be happening. I now realize that I’d never seen someone that appealed so much to me. I wasn’t prepared to deal with the effect it would have on me.

  I keep obsessing over what it is about him that has me acting so unlike myself. My mind starts racing with all the crazy reasons why I’m so attracted to him. Maybe it’s that weird art thing that people are always going on about. The one where someone's face is perfectly symmetrical. It can’t be that. He only has one dimple. That might be because I smacked the other one off though. Oh, and a small scar on his jaw. It’s old and faded. I’m guessing from his childhood. Since I know that none of these thoughts are rational, I decide to stop driving myself crazy. Maybe it’s me that’s the problem.

  I do admit to myself that he checks off all my hotness boxes when it comes to looks. He walks by again. My eyes find his ass and then thighs. Oh, maybe it’s that. I once read a study that women are drawn to men with thick thighs. It’s science and not me at all.

  My eyes snap up again when this time he stops across from my desk. His back is to me. He stands there for a moment before turning to go back to his office, leaving behind a vase on the table behind Cesar filled with beautiful chocolate brown flowers and pink roses.

  Further confusing me. Which will only lead to one thing. I close my eyes. I will not obsess over this. But I think it’s far too late. That ship has sailed.

  Chapter 9

  Finn

  It takes a few days to custom make a suit, but it takes even longer to custom make one in petal pink as the tailor called it. I use the time to observe Lucia, who apparently goes by the nickname Lucky to her friends. She has not extended this courtesy to me, and according to the handbook that Monica gave me, I’m not to refer to an employee by a nickname unless expressly requested by said employee and even then I should refuse. We’ve got a helluvalot of rules in this place.

  During my quiet observation, I’ve discovered that Lucia likes chocolate and pink and glittery things from the pens I’ve seen on her desk after hours. She also has two more ugly suits in different shades of gray. I’ve decided I hate gray.

  “We should get rid of all my gray suits, Timothy.”

  “Of course.” He hands me the pink pants. Were they this pink in the tailor’s office? I feel like they weren’t. I step into them anyway and tuck in my white shirt.

  Lucia also enjoys her co-workers, lunch with her co-workers, afternoon breaks on the roof terrace and, according to Monica, who spies for me in order to keep me from committing an expensive mistake, happy hour with others from O’Hare. They talked about me because Lucia had a lot of questions, Monica admitted, which initially gave me hope, but when I learned that the majority of the questioning was whether I had a bad temper, hidden agendas, or other unsavory habits, I felt that progress had not been made.

  Timothy flips up my collar and drapes a cream, brown and pink striped tie around my neck.

  “You’ve been awfully quiet, Timothy. Don’t you like my new suit?”

  “It’s bright,” is his response.

  “That bad?” I shrug into the suit jacket, which lies perfectly across my broad shoulders. If it wasn’t for the color, it’d be perfect. Lucia better like this.

  “It’s very nice, sir,” Timothy lies. He tucks a dark brown patch of silk into my breast pocket and hands me my briefcase.

  I’m a bit self-conscious when I step out of the car in front of my building. There’s an audible gasp from someone to my right. I keep my head forward and march into the building.

  Monica is waiting for me when I get to my floor. Behind her are Lucia and Cesar, hovering like anxious birds.

  “Did our Gateway deal fall through?”

  “No sir, but you have gone viral.” Monica shoves a phone into my face. I cock my head to get a better glimpse.

  In the short time it took for me to exit my car, wait for the elevator, and ride up the twenty-three floors to my office, a photo of me with the caption He’s so fine I want him to choke me with his pink-clad thunder thighs. Hit me daddy! has twenty-six thousand likes and counting.

  “We as a society are running out of entertaining content,” I reply, handing the phone back to Monica and moving toward my office.

  “You should read the comments,” she says as she runs after me. “There are so many women who want your number. Should I reply?”
r />   There’s a choked sound but when I spin around everyone’s face is perfectly normal. Monica waits expectantly with her fingers hovering over her phone screen.

  “No, you should not reply.” I can’t think of a worse thing.

  “It’d be good for you. Take your mind off things here at the office.” Monica tries to blink in Lucia’s direction without Lucia taking notice.

  “Not interested.”

  The phone rings and saves me from being hounded by Monica.

  “Lucky—I mean, Lucia,” I correct myself at Monica’s glare, “come in and take some dictation.”

  “Sir?” Lucia says. We’ve never done dictation before because we aren’t in the sixties and I’m not Don Draper. I can actually type for myself, but, dammit, I want to look at Lucia’s legs.

  “Dictation. My office. Now.” Why does everything in life have to be so fucking hard?

  “Yessir.” She practically salutes me.

  “Wait!” Monica yells. We all freeze. She holds up a finger as she finishes her conversation. Face flushed, she hangs up the phone and then claps her hands. “Variety wants to interview you about the viral moment! This is good press. Should I say yes?”

  “No.”

  “It’d be good for the O’Hare image,” Monica presses.

  “No.” I point to Lucia. “Office.” I jerk my head.

  She hurries to her desk and then joins me. Monica tries to follow but I slam the door in her face. I’m not trying to harass anyone. I just want to look at my future wife’s legs. Is that so terrible? No, it’s not.

  “Sit,” I bark as I take my own seat.

  Lucia startles and then drops into the chair in front of the massive desk. My whole plan goes to shit when I realize that my view of her is only from the waist up. I can’t even see her lap. This is utter bullshit. Who designed this moronic desk anyway? It should be glass! Fuck this.

  I shove out of my chair and storm around the acre of wood until I reach Lucia. She backs away as I loom down.