The Rule Book (Rule Breakers #1)

by Jennifer Blackwood

  “Please, Betsey, what did I ever do to you?” I begged.

  I tried prying the doors open, but they wouldn’t budge. “I will give you anything if you just give me my sweater back.” That included offering Jackson as a human sacrifice. Anything to get this back.

  I pressed the down button and figured if the doors opened, it would plop into my welcoming, broke as a joke arms. The hum of the elevator car moving was a comforting sound. Yes, the doors would open, the sweater would drop, and I’d make it to the meeting in time.

  “I promise to take the stairs every day from now on if you just spare the sweater. It’s Chanel, for Christ sake,” I pleaded.

  I was reduced to bargaining with a hunk of metal. Stupid Betsey.

  The fabric of my sweater must have gotten caught in the internal mechanisms, because as the elevator arrived, the cardigan shot to the top of doorway in a mangled heap and a horrible ripping sound confirmed this accessory was toast. A mix of a wail and a groan edged up my throat as I stared at the article of clothing. I stood there, stunned. It was like one of those terrible videos on YouTube of men dancing in thongs—horrifying, and yet I couldn’t look away.

  The doors flew open, and my cardigan dropped right in front of Jackson’s feet.

  He pursed his lips and stepped around it like it was road kill. “Typical,” he said, his stupid pert nose pointed to the sky. “I told you, Betsey only gives what she thinks you deserve.” Then he was off to the conference room while I stood there, staring at the mound of black cashmere on the floor.

  I gathered up the tattered fabric, squeezed it to my chest, and promised myself that I’d give it a proper burial in the bottom of my closet once I returned home tonight. Shoving the garment into my desk drawer, I followed Jackson into the conference room and took the only available seat at the oversize round conference table.

  The other employees, who’d either ignored my existence or gone out of their way to avoid me the first week, were now smiling, and all said hello to me when I sat down. They didn’t bother saying hi to Jackson, which the grinch didn’t seem to notice, or he just didn’t care.

  Brogan glanced over at me, and his eyes widened a fraction as his gaze dipped below my shoulders to the very low-cut top I’d had on under my cardigan. They quickly flickered back up to my eyes, and he cleared his throat and shifted restlessly in his seat. I couldn’t be 100 percent certain, but if I wagered a guess, that quick flit of movement to my chest erred more on the side of bang me than you’re breaking office dress code. Or that might have been a heaping serving of wishful thinking with a side dish of “I need to get some.”

  Down girl. He’s your boss, not an office pervert.

  He focused on the rest of the employees, who were talking amicably amongst themselves. As soon as he started talking they quieted down, and all seemed to be raptly listening. “Let’s get this meeting started, shall we?” His tone held an authoritative air while still remaining friendly. That is exactly how I would describe Brogan—commanding but also approachable.

  “Melissa, what do we have on projections for the new year?”

  She shuffled papers in front of her and said, “We’re slated to have at least forty new clients by next June.”

  “Triple it.” Brogan said and nodded toward the guy sitting next to Melissa. “What do you have on our return on investment projections, Gabe?”

  “I’m still working on it, but it looks like we’ll double our profits by the end of the fiscal year.”

  Brogan nodded, pleased. “That’s what I like to hear. Have the numbers on my desk by Friday.”

  Gabe smiled and gave a quick chin bob, which I assumed meant “sure thing” in dude talk.

  He worked his way around the table, each person sharing their reports from their specific departments.

  “What other news do we have?”

  Someone chimed in on an idea to save Starr Media money by cutting services that were weighing the company down and not providing much in terms of profit.

  “That’s a really great idea. Get on that as soon as you’re done with analytics.”

  I glanced around the room in awe. Odd, everyone seemed happy to be there. Nothing like the classes I’d taken in college, where students stared at the clock the second their butts hit their seats. No one was on their phone, perusing social media. No one was flicking pieces of paper or focusing on their computers. Every set of blue, green, hazel, and brown eyes was cast toward our CEO, hanging on every word he said. The only exception was Jackson (surprise, surprise). Then again, if it didn’t involve making people regret the day they were born, I doubted it would elicit more than an eye roll from him.

  After each member gave input on their division of the company, Brogan stood and smiled at everyone, the dimples making an appearance.

  “Keep up the great work, team.” He clasped his hands together, and everyone pushed away from their seats and strolled out of the conference room.

  As I gathered up my computer, I realized Brogan and I were the only ones left in the conference room.

  He cleared his throat and asked, “Did you get what you needed?”

  My head shot up to look at him. He was standing by the floor to ceiling window, light pooling around his features. “Needed?” If he’d read my thoughts at that exact second, he’d know that what I needed involved less articles of clothing and more chocolate (because chocolate is always the answer, no matter the question).

  “You said you left something downstairs earlier.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “I know you’ve read the manual, so I’m assuming you understand you’re violating dress code right now?” There was a teasing quality to his voice, and I was fairly certain this was payback for my smartass remark the first time we’d met. His gaze dropped below eye-level for a fraction of a second again…and was that a groan? It was so quiet that if I’d been breathing at that moment I might not have heard it. But there was definitely a noise coming from his direction.

  No, I had to be imagining things. Brogan Starr did not just look at my chest and groan. Right?

  “Yes, sir. I’ll get right on covering it up.” I crossed my arms and his eyes widened the slightest.

  He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple sliding along his throat. “Yes, I think that’s a good idea.” Something about the heated stare sent goose bumps skittering across my skin. A guy hadn’t looked at me like that in a long time—or at least, for most of my college career I’d been too busy with my nose in a textbook to notice. No, this had to be a hallucination caused by my epic dry spell. I was making more out of this than it was. Poor guy was just giving me a hard time, and I was turning it into one of those steamy romances I’d just read on my tablet.

  Just as I reached the door he called out, “I couldn’t help but notice you didn’t add anything in the meeting.” He grabbed a stack of papers from the table and tapped them against the surface. His thumb ran across the edge of his papers in a smooth, steady pattern. “Participation is highly encouraged.”

  “I didn’t know if it was my place to say anything.” Seriously, my days employed were in the single digits. What did I have to contribute to this meeting? I was Brogan’s assistant. Everything he needed to know, I’d already relayed to Jackson, who then gave that information to him.

  “Did you list Latte Fetcher on your resume?”

  I cocked my head and studied him for a moment, not quite sure what to make of this question. Was I supposed to have listed this? Last time I checked, my degree was worth more than basic beverage delivery services. “Of course not.”

  “Right. I’ve read your credentials. Many times. You have fresh ideas, and meetings are a chance to share them. It’s how I grow my company.” He leveled a look at me, with enough ferocity to sucker-punch the breath right out of my chest. A few years ago, during my backpacking trip across Europe, I’d thought I’d met some of the most stunningly handsome men on the planet. I mean, come on, accents. That alone was enough to send my swoon meter into
the red. But Brogan had such an intensely gorgeous face—even with his lips currently set in a frown— paired with an equally impressive body, and an air about him that could command a room. Every expectation I’d formed about what was truly attractive in the opposite sex was shattered. Brogan Starr broke hearts…and with those delicious forearms, quite possibly beds—not that I’d be finding that out.

  He tapped his papers against the table again, and my attention snapped back to him. All congeniality left his face when he said, “Show me I didn’t make a mistake hiring you.”

  “Right.” I frowned. I’d get right on that. Looked like I had a lot of work to do if I wanted to keep my job.

  …

  “We gather together to honor the short life of Chanel Cardigan Black Friday Find. Your time on our poor Lainey’s shoulders was cut short, but you were with her through rain and overcast days.” Zoey grabbed a cupcake from the package and took a ceremonial bite. “Do you have any words, Lain?”

  Another tradition we’d started in high school was clothing funerals. Whether a fashion trend died before we were ready to let go (I will never get over the baggy jeans fad) or something was beyond repair, we’d honor our favorite outfits by giving them a proper good-bye. We started out with sparkling cider freshman year, and by the time we reached college, it was boxed wine and Hostess cupcakes.

  “You were a great sweater. You kept me warm on cold days.”

  “Dependable as a good boyfriend,” Zoey chimed in.

  I swilled my wine. The sad part was that I wouldn’t be able to afford anything that nice for a long time. I tried to take good care of my clothes, especially now, with my budget tighter than a pair of Spanx. “More. I didn’t need to put out for her.”

  “I’ll drink to that.” She raised her wine, and we clinked glasses.

  “To the best sweater a girl could ask for.” I took a sip of wine and tossed the coat into a cardboard box in my closet. I’d save it for a later date, when maybe in all the spare time I had (ha!) I’d take up sewing.

  Zoey handed me the last cupcake in the container and asked, “Want to watch an episode of Gilmore Girls?”

  “Only if it’s a Jess episode.”

  Anything to get over the fact that work wasn’t all that it was cut out to be, and that little problem of not being able to get my boss’s brown eyes off my mind. “Deal.”

  Chapter Six

  Starr Media Handbook Rule #263

  Animals are not permitted on Starr Media premises.

  “Come in to my office,” Brogan says, his harsh voice piercing through the intercom.

  “Yes, sir. Is something wrong?” I slide past the door and lean against it.

  He frowns and furrows his brows as he pages through papers on his desk. “Your work performance is not up to Starr Media quality lately. I’m not happy with your progress.”

  Sweat trickles down the curve of my spine, and I’m gasping for air. The room is closing in on me. I need this job more than anything—he must know that. “But I’ve done everything you’ve asked of me.”

  “I want more,” he demands, hunger in his eyes.

  “What do you want?” I don’t have more to give.

  He rolls up his sleeves, revealing one delicious tattoo at a time, and gives me a dimpled smirk. “You.”

  My alarm buzzed on my phone, and I shot straight up in bed. My bangs were matted against my forehead in a soggy clump, and my heart continued to pound against the wall of my chest. What the ever-loving hell was that? I mean, I guess I was still shaken from the meeting yesterday, but naughty office dreams about my boss were the last thing I needed.

  I groaned and looked at the time. I still had four more snooze button presses before I had to roll out of bed. I collapsed back on my pillow and tried to lull myself back to sleep, rolling to my left side. Then the right. I tried fluffing my pillow and pulling my hair into a bun. No use—my body was jacked up from the weird Brogan dream. I groaned and rolled out of bed, resigned to the fact that I would not be getting any extra Zs this morning. Fine. Time for plan B. Liquid sustenance.

  Morning didn’t start until I’d ingested at least four cups of coffee and they’d had time to kick in. Mom claimed she’d never drunk coffee while pregnant with me, but I was convinced that my addiction stemmed from main-lining the stuff in the womb.

  With disheveled hair and sleep shorts and a tank, I lumbered my way out of bed and shuffled out to the kitchen. Coffee was already brewed and my favorite cup—I would cuddle you so hard— sat next to the pot, clean. Zoey was one of those annoying people that loved mornings, evidenced by her habit of doing sun salutation crap on a yoga mat in the middle of the living room while I pressed the snooze button seven times. At this moment, though, she was a goddess. Anyone who brewed morning coffee could do no wrong in my book.

  Cup number three had just been consumed when Zoey bustled into the kitchen, humming something under her breath.

  “She’s alive,” she said, moving toward the fridge and taking out a container of yogurt.

  “Merrr,” I mumbled and stuck my hands out in front of me, stiffly, doing my best Frankenstein impression. One more cup and I would be eighty percent functional. After I’d tossed and turned last night, replaying the great sweater demise and wrestling with the fact that Brogan wasn’t completely convinced he’d made the right choice hiring me, it was well past three by the time I fell asleep.

  “Did you eat anything? That rocket fuel’s going to burn a hole through your stomach on our run.” She pushed a Tastytart (or as I deemed it “cardboardtart” in terms of flavor) across the counter, and I just stared at the foil-wrapped pastry. Off-brand food sucked when I’d been spoiled the first twenty-three years of my life. Which automatically made me feel guilty for that thought crossing my mind, because the least I could do was give up Poptarts to save money for my mom.

  “Run?” I feigned ignorance. Maybe if I played dumb, she’d take mercy on me, and I could get away with not working up a sweat before heading to the office. My strategy had succeeded a total of two times, both while Zoey was recovering from a wine bender. Chances weren’t looking too good at the moment.

  Her lips twitched, but she held her ground, her hand planted on her unfairly perfect hourglass waist. “I distinctly remember you promising to be my running partner this morning.”

  I pointed my Tastytart at her and took a bite out of the corner. “You took unfair advantage of my wine-induced state last night.” It was cruel and unusual to ask promises from a person taking pulls directly from a box of Franzia. We kept it classy.

  Even though I was currently feeling the not so pretty after effects of all that wine, I had a hard time saying no to Zoey. We’d always ran together in college, since our campus wasn’t always the safest at night and early morning, and the routine had stuck when we moved to Seattle.

  “I didn’t realize my best friend would leave me to fend for myself to get abducted on the streets of Seattle and end up on an episode of Dateline. They’ll find my body parts chopped up and stored in the freezer of some guy who neighbors describe as ‘nice, but just a little off.’ Do you really want that for me?”

  Good lord she was in fine form today, laying on the guilt thicker than extra-chunky peanut butter. Really, it was impressive. Sixteen more ounces of coffee and I’d be able to come up with a worthy retort. Until then, it was zombie nation up in my noggin. “Fine. One more cup of coffee and I’ll be ready.”

  “Sorry, cutting you off. Can’t have you yacking all over when we run the waterfront.” She grabbed my mug and poured the rest of my coffee down the sink.

  “The service in this place sucks,” I jeered. I scooted off the stool and headed toward my room to get dressed while Zoey chuckled to herself in the kitchen.

  Waterfront Seattle was devoid of the usual hustle and bustle at six in the morning. Much like Portland, a lot of the active business professionals ran along the water. The November chill cut straight through my bones until we were well into our second mi
le along the bay.

  Zoey hated running—something I never understood because she was always so excited up until the point our feet hit the pavement—and she was puffing along with short, shallow breaths.

  I’d run cross-country in high school and college, and when I ran, everything fell into perspective. I hadn’t been able to get out all week because of my crazy schedule, and the twitchy desire to let off steam had become so bad that I was willing to sacrifice an extra hour of sleep for some much needed exercise.

  I was contemplating my goal of finding another deal on Black Friday in a few weeks when Zoey elbowed me in the ribs. I tore out one earphone and shot her a look. “What?”

  “Look at that tall, dark, and give me some of this.” She nodded toward a man running toward us, and I fumbled a few steps.

  No.

  Why?

  Of all the spots in the city at the crack of dawn, not just any tall, hot guy was running my way. No, that would be totally awesome and fair of the universe. This man with the sweat soaked gray T-shirt, the material plastered to a set of nicely toned abs, was none other than the friendly neighborhood anti-antichrist.

  A dog loped beside him, pulling at the leash to go faster. At my estimation, we’d intersect in the span of fifty steps.

  Crap. I knew it was pure coincidence, running (oh, the irony) into him on a morning jog, but my personal vanity would not allow him to see me in such a disheveled pre-makeup, pre-hair-taming state.

  This chance meeting could not happen—no, would not happen—if I could help it. I pushed Zoey off the paved path and into a grassy area with a few large oak trees and waist-high shrubs.

  We were well-hidden from view when she asked, “What the hell?”

  “That’s my boss.” I whispered.

  “The Antichrist?” She moved to peer around the tree, and I grabbed her shoulders and pulled her back.

  She let out an exasperated sigh and threw her arms out to the side. “Come on. He doesn’t know what I look like. Why can’t I take a little looksee?”

  “Because someone staring at you from behind a tree is creepy.”