The Rule Breaker

by Cat Carmine

  Copyright © 2018 by Cat Carmine

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  For all the good girls who secretly want to be bad girls.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Also by Cat Carmine

  About the Author

  One

  Eight inches of wood has never looked quite so terrifying.

  I take a swig of club soda and stare down the makeshift stage at the end of the bar. It’s barely a stage, really, more of a platform that looks like something the bar’s owner and his friends might have drunkenly cobbled together on a Sunday afternoon. But in less than an hour, I’m supposed to get up on that stage — or platform, or whatever — and do a reading from my new book. A book I wrote, a book I poured my heart and soul into.

  Terrifying doesn’t even begin to cover it, really.

  I swallow hard and push my phone back and forth on the sticky bar top, willing it to ring. It remains frustratingly, irritatingly silent. My sisters are supposed to be meeting me here, but they’re both late. I’m not too worried about Blake, because she’s literally never been on time for anything in her life — she was born ten days late, and she claims she’s been running behind ever since — but Rori is usually pretty punctual.

  The bar is fairly busy, but then, it’s just past five o’clock. Everyone in the place has that cheerful smile that comes with knowing you’re free from your corporate shackles for an entire evening. They’re relaxed, happy. Talking and laughing.

  Me? I’m wound so tight that my own skin feels like a pair of Spanx.

  I stare down at the black-mirrored screen of my phone and furrow my brow in concentration. Come on, damn you. Ring.

  Suddenly, the screen glows and vibrates. Rori’s name flashes on the display.

  I mentally pat myself on the back for my amazing telepathy, then pick up the phone.

  “Where are you?” Okay, it’s not exactly a polite greeting, but for once in my life, I’m too tense to worry about manners.

  On the other end of the line, Rori sighs. “I’m so sorry, sweetie. This board meeting is running late. We just took a break, but it looks like it’s going to be at least another hour once we reconvene. I’m trying to get out as soon as I possibly can.”

  I groan. What I really want to do is have a little freakout, but I try my best to keep my emotions under control. After all, I’m in public. Not exactly the time and place for a meltdown. So instead, I close my eyes and rub my temples.

  “You’re going to be here in time for the reading, right?” There’s a note of pleading in my voice that sounds more than a bit pathetic.

  “Of course! I wouldn’t miss it!”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, Emma. I’m sure. I definitely wouldn’t miss this. You and Blake should go ahead and eat without me, though.”

  “Blake’s not here yet either,” I mumble.

  “What? Oh, shit, Em, I’m sorry. So you’re sitting there all by yourself?”

  “Yeah, but it’s fine.”

  It’s not fine — it’s actually a wee bit horrible — but I don’t want to make Rori feel bad. She’s on the board of directors of this local community center, and I know it’s something she cares about. I get that.

  I mean, I’ll still kill her if she misses my book launch. But I get it.

  “Well, hang tight,” Rori says. “Veneer makes awesome grilled cheese sandwiches. You should order one and try to relax. I’ll be there as soon as I can, I promise.”

  “Relax? Do you even know who you’re talking to?” Relaxing is something other people do. The same people who wear sweatpants to the grocery store or who turn their alarms off on the weekend. People who aren’t me.

  Rori laughs. “I know. But try, Em. I’ll see you soon.”

  I let Rori go, and as soon as I disconnect the call I see a text message from my other sister, Blake.

  Missed the train. :((( Coming up with Mom & Dad instead. See you @ 7.

  I let out a frustrated sigh. Great. Now neither of them are going to make it for dinner.

  Tonight is a huge night for me, and yeah, I’m feeling a little bit peeved about being stuck here on my own. My brand new book is having its very own launch party here at Veneer, a bar in Manhattan. It had been organized by my publishing company, Good Grant Books. I have to do a reading from the book and then chat with people and hopefully sell and sign a few copies.

  Not going to lie — I’m a wreck. I’ve been a wreck ever since Solange, the publicist assigned to my book, informed me of this event a month ago. Since then, I’ve managed to talk myself up into quite the tizzy. Writing the book was one thing. But launching it is another thing entirely. I’ve never done a reading before in my life, and I can’t stop the vomit-inducing nightmare that I’m going to completely fuck it up somehow.

  But the best thing for stress is to face it head on. That’s what I’d advise anyone else, anyway. I’ve come in here twice over the last few weeks, to get myself acclimated with the space, and I’d invited Rori and Blake to have dinner with me here before the reading so that I could get comfortable with being here. The plan had seemed brilliant in theory, but look where it got me. Sitting in a bar by myself, with an overpriced blowout and my best white blouse and a bundle of nerves so tight an elephant tranquilizer wouldn’t put a dent in it.

  “Are you Emma?” The bartender asks, interrupting my thoughts.

  I’d barely noticed him before — he was nothing more than the pair of hands that had been shoving small tumblers of club soda in front of me since I got here — but now I look up. He’s got a skinny, pinched face and an expression that says he thinks he’s decidedly too important to be working behind the bar of a dive like this. He looks like he’d rather be anywhere but here, actually.

  Me too, buddy. Me too.

  “Yes, I’m Emma,” I say hesitantly, pursing my lips.

  He slides a glass of red wine towards me. “Someone named Rori called and said I should bring this for you. Grilled cheese coming up, too.”

  Aw. I’m so surprised and touched that I don’t even bother telling him I don’t eat carbs. I thank him and take the glass of wine, softening a little. I guess I won’t be too upset with Rori, then.

  I mean, assuming she gets here in time for the reading. If not, murder still seems like fair game.

  I sip the wine. It’s surprisingly good. I don’t let myself have wine very often — those carbs add up, after all — but I suppose it’s okay to treat yourself once in a while.

  I take another sip. Damn. It’s really good. My eyes roll back in my head a little bit as I savor the flavors on my tongue. A tiny moan might escape my lips.

  “I’ll have w
hatever she’s having.”

  The deep voice draws me out of the moment, and I snap my eyes open.

  There’s a man sitting next to me. I hadn’t even noticed him come in, but I definitely notice him now.

  Okay, I’m not going to sugarcoat this in any way. The guy is hot. Like, dunk me in an ice bath hot. Like, is he a real person or an Instagram model hot. Like, peel my panties off this bar stool hot.

  He’s got dark hair that perfectly frames his face, grey eyes the color of a stormy sky, and the kind of jaw that you can imagine running your fingertips over. He’s got a hint of stubble and a smile that twists up at the corners in a way that’s part playful, part drop-dead sexy.

  “What?” I say, because I’m articulate like that.

  “I just thought I’d have whatever you’re having. Because judging by the expression on your face, it looks like it’s going down pretty damn smooth.”

  Oh God. That slight growl in his voice when he says that. The temperature of my skin raises by about ten degrees, and I shift in my seat.

  “I don’t know what it is, sorry.” Another brilliant line. And I’m the person who wrote a dating book, for God’s sake.

  He doesn’t answer. His eyes seem to rake over me, roaming over my chest, my stomach, my hips, the thighs that peek out of the dark grey pencil skirt I’m wearing. I take another swallow of my wine to try to cool myself down, but it only sends a warm buzz rushing through me.

  “You don’t know what it is?” he asks. There’s still that hint of a growl in his voice.

  “My sister bought it for me.”

  “Ah.” He sits back. “You’re here with your sister.”

  I swear there’s … a note of disappointment in his voice. I hastily shake my head.

  “No. I mean, she was supposed to meet me here but she couldn’t make it. This is my condolence prize.”

  He leans forward again. He’s wearing a white shirt and a dark suit — black, I think, or maybe charcoal. It’s hard to tell under the dim bar lighting. When he leans his forearms on the bar, his jacket sleeve raises just enough for me to glimpse a very expensive looking watch, latched over a perfectly masculine wrist.

  I’d say he doesn’t look like he belongs here, in a bar like this, but somehow he does. Then again, I get the feeling he’s the kind of guy who looks like he belongs wherever he goes.

  “I can’t imagine anyone standing you up,” he says. His grey eyes are watching me, and I swallow.

  “It wasn’t intentional,” I explain. “She had this meeting, and it ran late, and I guess she just …” I trail off. I realize there’s really no need to explain all of this to him. He’s only flirting. I swear I’m not usually this obtuse.

  Thank God, the holier-than-thou bartender arrives at that exact moment and shoves a blue platter with a grilled cheese sandwich in front of me.

  “The other half of my consolation prize,” I explain to the mystery man next to me.

  He grins. God, he has a nice smile. Perfect teeth. And are those … dimples? That seems excessive.

  I look down at my food. I’m suddenly afraid to touch it. It’s greasy and gooey and, okay, it looks delicious, but I’m not sure I want this guy to see me chowing down on this calorie-bomb. Not exactly the kind of image I usually like to project.

  I know it sounds shallow, but image matters to me. My sister Rori calls me Emma The Perfect — not to my face, mind you, but I’ve heard her say it to her friends — and even though I should be insulted, I actually get a little thrill out of it. I like people thinking I’m perfect. It’s why I spend so much money on blowouts and manicures and hurt-like-hell waxings. It’s why I get up and go to the gym at the asscrack of dawn every morning, even when all I want to do is lie there and be a slug. It’s why I live on a diet of kale and flax seeds and put collagen powder in my coffee, even though it’s kind of like adding drywall dust.

  It’s not just about appearances, though. I’m the one who sends thank-you cards after job interviews, who keeps everyone’s birthdays written down in my day planner, who can washi tape the shit out of anything. I like everything to be pretty, organized, perfect.

  That’s actually how I started writing my advice column. People were constantly coming to me for advice anyway, and I liked always being the one with the answers. I started writing my advice out and posting it on a blog a few years ago, and then suddenly strangers were writing to me, wanting my opinion on how to fix their marriages or their careers or how to handle a tricky etiquette situation. Eventually, New York Life picked up the column, and now it’s syndicated in a bunch of places, and yeah, my full-time job is telling people what to do.

  Kinda perfect for me, actually.

  Having the column definitely adds an extra layer of pressure, though. I’m always thinking about how I come across to other people. I never want to be seen as anything less than the girl who has it all together. Because who would take advice from someone they knew to be a hot mess? People listen to me because they think I have my shit together. And I do. I definitely do.

  Except right now, the guy next to me is looking over at me in a way that makes me feel like I definitely don’t. He grins and then glances down at the sandwich in front of me, and I swear he’s wondering if I’m really going to eat it, and so I squirm uncomfortably and nudge the plate an inch towards him.

  “Want half?” I ask him.

  He raises his eyebrows. His mouth is still twisted into a smirk, and I actually have to look away for a second. It’s too much, the way he’s looking at me right now.

  “I won’t be able to finish it,” I say. I dab daintily at my mouth with a napkin, even though I haven’t taken a bite yet.

  “I think you underestimate yourself,” he teases. “I think you could do anything you put your mind to.”

  My cheeks color, but I shake my head. “When it comes to some things, maybe. When it comes to sandwiches, I know my limits.”

  “Then I might take you up on your offer,” he says. His dark eyes glint playfully. “I have a very hard time saying no to beautiful women.”

  Oh God. My cheeks flame even hotter. I swear I’m usually very composed, and I’m certainly used to this city’s playboy types. I don’t know why this guy is turning me into a pile of something as gooey as the six kinds of cheese in this sandwich.

  I nudge the plate over another couple of inches, and he grabs half the sandwich. I delicately pick my half up. I can already feel the butter clinging to my fingertips. I’m going to have to do an extra hour at the gym tomorrow to make up for tonight’s transgressions.

  Except as soon as I take a bite of the sandwich, my eyes roll back in my head again. Another moan might escape my lips. Fuck the transgressions.

  “Good?” my mystery friend asks. There’s another smirk on his face, but I can’t even help myself.

  “I think this might be the best thing I’ve ever put in my mouth.”

  He laughs. Not the same sexy chuckle as earlier, but a full, loud barking laugh. It makes my stomach flip.

  “Well, then.” He seems at a loss for words. He shakes his head, still grinning. He takes a bite of his sandwich and rolls his eyes back in exaggeration.

  “See?” I point. “Best thing you’ve ever put in your mouth, right?”

  He swallows, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “It’s good, I’ll give you that,” he allows. “But I prefer to have my lips on something sweet.”

  He says it so innocently that it takes me another minute to realize he’s flirting again. My cheeks flame, and I stare down at the plate in front of me. The din of the bar seems to melt away, and all I can hear is the sound of my own breath. I’m practically panting. God, this is embarrassing. And so unlike me.

  I reach for my wine glass, needing a sip to ease my suddenly parched throat. But at that exact same moment, my mystery man reaches for another napkin. Our hands knock together, and my wine sloshes out of the glass...

  And all over my pristine white shirt.

  Fuck.

  F
uck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

  Two

  I stare at the wall of books. Shelves and shelves of them. Hardbacks, trade paperbacks, thick little pocket-sized paperbacks. New books with slick, gleaming spines and old books with faded colors and dated fonts. Everything Good Grant Books has published since it opened its doors in the mid-80s.

  Books. The one thing I know pretty much nothing about.

  If I was a more suspicious man, I’d almost bet my father was setting me up to fail. Why else would he make me CEO of a publishing company, of all things? I don’t think I’ve cracked a book since college.

  My father is the billionaire mastermind behind Good Grant Media, a conglomerate made up of about half of this country’s entertainment industry. Television networks, newspapers, radio stations, a major streaming platform, a few magazines — if you can watch, read, or listen to it, he probably owns at least some part of it.

  For a long time, I’d managed to avoid the empire entirely. Traveling after college and then living that #trustfundlife after that. Life was easy. And fun. And most of all, it involved interacting with my family as little as possible.

  But something happened this year. Something so terrible that it’s thrust me back into my father’s sight lines.

  My sister got married.

  You’d think that wouldn’t be a big deal, right? But Lacy — that’s my sister — was always the good daughter. I never had any interest in following in our father’s footsteps, but Lacy did. And for all his faults, I’ll give my father credit for this: he didn’t hold it against Lacy that she was his daughter and not his son. He loved that she was interested in the business, and he took her under his wing the same way he would have with me. Showed her the ropes. Groomed her to take over. She was twenty-six and poised to be one of the youngest and highest-paid female CEOs in the country.