She raised a brow. “So is hiding from your boss behind a tree,” she deadpanned.
“Touché, but I’m willing to let that one slide if you are.”
“Yeah, that’s not going to happen any time this decade.”
She peered around the tree again and let out a low whistle. “I’d totally hit that if I were you.”
“Rule book,” I reminded her. Which he expected everyone to stick to. Everyone but himself, apparently.
“Screw the rule book. Maybe he could even smack your ass with it.”
I chuckled. “You’re sick.”
She wagged a finger at me. “Resourceful.”
As Brogan ran past the tree, the dog went nuts, pulling at his leash and barking in the direction of where Zoey and I stood hiding. I ducked deeper into the bushes, trying to conceal myself properly. Brogan pulled him back and lightly reprimanded him and then went back to long, purposeful strides.
He seemed to be off in his own world, his eyes unfocused and jaw clenched as he ran. If he’d seen us, he didn’t give any indication.
“I think I like this view even better.” She nodded toward Brogan’s retreating figure. His calf muscles strained against his skin, and the fabric of his shorts molded against his ass on every step.
For a few seconds I let myself consider what the routine of Mr. Starr looked like. If he was up this early and stayed at the office until nearly midnight during the week, I doubted the man got more than a few hours of sleep a night.
This was my first real clue to what he liked to do outside of work. He ran. And he was a Seahawks fan. I was two steps closer to writing his biography. Something about him made me want to know more—okay, maybe it was the fact that I was a snoop, but still, his ability to be so nice and yet so powerful intrigued me. My guess, he was a freak in the bedroom and unleashed some of that pent-up boardroom aggression on whoever was lucky enough to be tangled up in his sheets. That sounded deliciously amazing right about now.
Hello, your boss is literally the worst person to fantasize about.
I shook it off and chocked it up to being severely dehydrated. Yes, I was incredibly thirsty, and Brogan was definitely not my brand of Gatorade.
Boss: check
Already made a bad impression. Twice: check
Needed money more than sex: hesitant check
Plus, there was no ignoring the whole 300-page manual filled with insane rules that were better left for a SNL skit. Past experience had taught me that a person with that many rules came with a lot of baggage. And his did not need to take a layover in my thoughts (okay, brain, this is the part where you take a hint).
By the time we’d made our two-mile trek back to the apartment, I only had time for a quick rinse off. No time to wash my hair, so I’d pulled it back and hoped for the best.
I was almost functioning at full capacity when I took the light rail to work. I wiped the last of the sleep out of my eyes and entered the building.
Just as I pushed the button for the elevator, Brogan walked up beside me.
“Ah, it’s my second assistant.” He made a grand gesture of checking his watch and said, “I see your middle name precedes you.”
Brogan Starr: CEO and comedian, ladies and gentleman.
A hot flush started in my neck and worked its way up to my cheeks. Of course he would remember the one—okay, he had quite a few to choose from at this point—stupid thing I’d said yesterday. “Would hate to disappoint.”
“Consider me impressed.” Brogan was wearing a charcoal-colored suit today, with an immaculately assembled black tie. His chin and cheeks were covered in stubble, and his lips appeared to be a couple shades darker than the past couple times I’d run into him. As if he’d read my mind, his tongue slid over his bottom lip, and I watched, completely transfixed.
My own mouth dried up faster than my bank account at a Sephora sale. Focus, Taylor. You do not want him. You like the idea of him. Yes, the idea of a powerful man with amazingly broad shoulders pushing you up against the wall of this elevator and pounding you harder than your head after six glasses of wine.
Okay, brain, so not helpful.
“I think you have a little something in your hair.” He reached to the back of my head and extracted a leaf.
The little glimmer of hope that I’d make it out of the elevator without humiliating myself died a slow and torturous death. I stared at the leaf in his hand and contemplated the possibility that somewhere in the world there was a contest for Most Awkward Girl Ever. I’d hands down win the shit out of that. My acceptance speech would consist of a faceplant on my way to the stage, and end with the contest judge announcing they’d called the wrong name just after I’d finished thanking my mother.
“Thanks. Must have fallen on me on my way to work.”
“Of course.” He smiled.
There was absolutely no way he could know I was at the park. And I’d play ignorant about that morning until the day I died.
He was merciful enough to steer the conversation in a different direction. “Any big plans for the weekend?” he asked.
“Hanging out with my roommate. We’re still getting situated in our apartment.” Not to mention I was still living out of boxes. I couldn’t help but think this was temporary. Something deep down was preventing me from unpacking, because I knew the second I cozied up to the idea that this was permanent, something would happen with my mom and I’d have to move back at a moment’s notice. “You?”
“I’ll be here.” He sighed and gave a conspiratorial grin. “Sometimes I feel like I’m here more than my own apartment.”
“You are.”
He quirked a brow.
Err…that didn’t sound creepy whatsoever.
Lainey Taylor, your friendly neighborhood stalker.
“Not that I track your every move. That would be slightly disturbing.”
He turned to me, a look of concern painted across his face for a quick second. It quickly faded as he resumed his typical easy-going smile. Only a little tenser. “Just slightly?” he asked.
Crap. He thought I was serious. I really wasn’t racking up any brownie points with the guy who signed my paychecks.
“Okay, very. And I was kidding. I’m in charge of your schedule, so it’s only right I know where you are during business hours.”
His look said it all: Riiiiight. “Tell me again how you passed the background check?” Even though I assumed he was most likely joking, there held a hint of unease in his voice.
“Would you believe I bribed HR with cookies?”
Must. Stop. Talking.
Joking around with him was the last thing I needed to be doing. He was my boss. And yet, my smart mouth refused to shut for one damn second. It was like the elevator ventilation system was laced with some sort of nerve gas that lifted inhibitions.
I stood there, unsure of what to do, or if I’d gone past the point of no return, and my comedy routine had landed me with a pink slip.
After a moment of painfully awkward silence, his lips cracked into a smile, and he chuckled. “Lainey Taylor, you are quite an interesting addition to my staff.”
“Interesting” was not exactly a ringing endorsement, but given the current situation, I wouldn’t complain about his choice in adjectives. Color me impressed, because nothing seemed to faze this guy. Calling him the devil? No big deal, rolled off his shoulders. Having a conversation about stalking in the elevator? Brushed it off like a pro. Why would I have assumed any different? I was sure if I’d told him I wanted to dress him up as Thor and lick Nutella off his bare chest (not a half-bad idea…), he’d nod and smile and pretend like I’d just asked him about the weather. This guy was the poster boy for even-keeled.
I nodded and decided it’d be smart not to speak anymore.
“It’s comforting to know I have such a dedicated employee who knows where I am,” he said, a hint of amusement in his voice.
Heat licked my cheeks, and I held back a groan. This was the part where the oversi
ze anvil fell on my head, right? If only I could just pluck the words out of the air and stuff them back into my mouth and pretend that I did not schedule-stalk my boss, that’d be much appreciated.
The elevator stopped at our floor, and we both exited. He kept walking toward his office as I plopped my purse down on my chair.
Before closing his door, he turned and said, “Have a nice day, Lainey. And if you need me, you know where I’ll be.” He winked.
I went to my desk and laid my head down for a couple minutes, deciding that I should surgically sew my mouth shut.
By the time lunch rolled around, I’d managed to keep a low profile and avoid any contact with Brogan. As soon as Jackson returned from his lunch break, I grabbed my PB and J and beelined it toward the staff room. Zelda was already there, along with a few other people that I recognized, but couldn’t remember their names.
“How’s it going, newbie?” With her, it came out as a term of endearment, unlike Jackson’s words laced with malice.
“Better today. Just trying to not put my foot in my mouth.”
“You get any more clients?” Zelda was the only other person at the company who seemed interested in my role with the firm. Apparently, it wasn’t common that a second assistant received clients (or so she’d told me), but with my thesis focusing on social media, and endorsement from HR, Brogan had decided to take a chance and give me an opportunity to prove myself.
I frowned. “No.” Not that I’d complain, because one client was a heck of a lot better than none, but my multi-task-loving self was itching to take on more.
“Don’t worry. Brogan will see you’re doing a good job and give you more in no time.”
That was the plan. Keep my head down. Stop making stupid comments. I could at least manage one of those things. “Do you know much about him?” If anyone did, it would be Zelda. She was friends with everyone in the office and knew all the gossip. Like how the previous second assistant was canned due to the fact that she slurped her tea too loud for Jackson’s liking (on the DL, of course).
“Like what? He’s here a lot and likes the Seahawks. He sometimes wears a jersey on Friday’s during this time of year.” Both were things I knew and completely unhelpful in my quest for achieving total Brogan stalker-dom.
“What does he like to do outside the office?”
She looked at me, studying my face. I made sure to keep my expression impassive. “Why? You looking to ask him out?” She quirked a brow.
“No,” I stuttered, and heat plumed across my cheeks. Was it bad that ever since I’d first seen him, I’d had a reoccurring dream of our clothes pooled on the floor and our bodies pressed together on the couch in his office? Yes, very bad. But this question was for research purposes only. Like any business associate, the more I knew about him, the more I’d be able to play to my strengths, win him over, and earn more clients.
“I was just kidding. You saw the tattoos, though, huh?”
I nodded. Those were just one of many reasons why I was drawn to him. But it was more than Brogan’s looks that interested me. His mere presence in the same room captivated my attention, a magnetic pull that I couldn’t ignore. Kind of like how I felt when I listened to John Legend hit those falsetto notes. Mind-numbing would be the only way to describe it. Brogan turned my mind into a bumbling mass of mush.
“Honestly, I’d climb him like a fucking mountaineer if given the chance, employee manual or not.”
“Zelda!” I tore off a piece of my sandwich, not willing to admit that, yes, I wholeheartedly agreed with that sentiment.
“What? He’s totally hot.”
I nodded. “Okay, yeah.”
“To answer your question—other than he’s a Seahawks fan and likes cinnamon in his coffee, that’s about it. He always loves hearing about everyone else, but keeps his personal life to himself.”
“How many years have you worked here?”
“Three.”
Wow. If she didn’t know anything, I doubted anyone else did—besides Jackson, and I definitely wasn’t going to pump him for information. How could a man hide everything about himself from people he saw every day? Then again, my dad did the same thing. I shuddered at the thought. Brogan was nothing like my dad. Probably.
“If you’re into the tattooed men, I have a few friends I can hook you up with. You should come out for drinks with us this weekend.”
Inside I was doing the happy dance at the fact that Zelda extended the invitation to hang out. Someone besides Zoey—because, let’s face it, after years of being best friends, she was obligated to hang out—wanted to spend time with me outside work. The initial high quickly deflated, though. Drinks meant money and money wasn’t something I was exactly rolling in at the moment. Fifteen dollar martinis added up pretty quickly in terms of what I could use toward Mom’s bills. “I’ll think about it,” I said.
Zelda nodded and took a bite of her tuna melt. “Just keep me posted. I’ll make sure Brent is there. He owns a tattoo shop downtown.” She wiggled her brows suggestively.
The thing was, I’d never really been into tattoos. In college, I’d dated clean-cut guys that most people would consider all-American, none of them lasting more than a couple months. In fact, I was pretty sure I was only into Brogan’s, which was both stupid and a tad bit problematic. Because how could I focus on work when I was lusting after my boss? Not that I was lusting after him.
If I had a penny for every time I’d lied to myself this week…
Maybe going out with Zelda’s friend would be a good thing.
I returned to my desk at twelve thirty on the dot. Jackson was nowhere to be found, so I assumed he was either making copies, filing, or off looking at comics on his phone. When I’d gone over to his desk to ask questions, the past few times he’d been so glued to his phone he didn’t see me come up.
At around three, the elevator opened, and a petite guy with a T-shirt that swallowed his thin frame came through the doors with something that I could only describe as a small horse pulling him on a leash. Sweat beaded his face as he tried to contain the animal, and his arms strained as he gripped the leather harness. Jackson was in a meeting with one of our clients, which meant I needed to do damage control ASAP.
I waived my arms, trying to get his attention, which was focused on the door at the end of the hallway—Brogan’s office.
“Excuse me,” I said to the kid. He couldn’t have been older than nineteen, and obviously hadn’t hit his growth spurt yet.
The kid ignored me and walked toward the office.
I stood from my desk and said louder, “Excuse me. Dogs aren’t allowed at Starr Media.”
The baby-faced dog walker continued to ignore my existence, and all my patience disappeared.
“Hey, asshole. I’m talking to you,” I shouted.
But I was too late, and the guy and miniature pony of a dog were through Brogan’s office door faster than I could get out from behind my desk.
The kid shot me a look and handed the leash to Brogan, then exited the office. I quickly recognized the dog as the one from this morning. Well, crap. I really wasn’t having much success with the whole “keeping stupid comments inside” today.
“For someone who says they studied the rule book, you have a knack for breaking them, Lainey,” said Brogan. There was a hint of a smile in his voice as he crouched down and the dog licked the side of Brogan’s cheek. Yuck. I was all for animals showing love, just not when it involved copious amounts of saliva. “Do that again, and I’ll be forced to write you up.” He looked up at me, this time his expression dead serious.
Again I wondered why he didn’t write me up right here and now, considering my predecessors would have surely been ushered off the premises with a small cardboard box of their belongings if they’d done half the stuff I’d managed to accomplish in the first couple of weeks. Whatever the reason, I considered myself lucky and wouldn’t try to push my luck any further.
Brogan’s sleeve slid up his arm as he pette
d the dog, revealing an ellipses tattoo on his wrist along with an intricate swirl of black ink. The fabric slid back down after each stroke, and I stood there, mesmerized. Static interference fuzzed over my coherent thoughts, and replaced them with things like mild jealousy over a canine and strong manicured hands.
It took me a second to process what he’d said, since I was still focused on his arms and there being a dog in an office. The dog’s tongue lolled out of his mouth, and drool pooled on the floor in front of him. His tail swished against the floor as Brogan scratched the top of his head.
I shook my head, trying to regain some semblance of higher brain function. He’d said something before I went into my tattoo hypnosis.
Right. Rules. No cussing. “It won’t happen again.” Yeah, because I really was doing so well at following them as is.
A little daydream scenario crossed my mind of Brogan punishing me for breaking a rule.
That’ll be five ass-smacks for your disobedience.
“Oh no, I’m so sorry, Mr. Starr. I’ve been such a very bad girl. Please punish me with those big, strong hands of yours.”
Then he’d bend me over his desk, pull up my skirt and his palm would smack my—
“Lainey.”
By the way he was staring at me, I could tell I’d zoned out for a little too long with that fantasy. Is this what long-term dating hiatus did to the body? Maybe I needed to join a dating site, because I’d never meet anyone if I was at work during all of my waking hours.
He cocked his head and looked at me. “Have you been working on Willington’s account today?”
I cleared my throat and snapped back to reality. “Yes. I’ve made three posts and used the pictures from his vacation.”
He nodded. “Good. He’ll be pleased.”
The dog let out a low woof and began pacing around the room. I still could not get over the fact that this beast was in the building. What was this, take your dog to work day?
“That’s an, um, interesting dog you have.” Could I have possibly picked a worse adjective?
He smiled and pointed to the dog. “Lainey, this is Bruce. Bruce, Lainey.”
I’d never been introduced to a dog before, so I wasn’t quite clear on the protocol. Shake a paw? Pat on the head? Doggie etiquette shouldn’t be this damn confusing. This would be one of those instances where a special rule in the employee manual might actually prove helpful.
The Rule Book (Rule Breakers #1) Page 6
