Not like my sleuthing even worked because besides the fact that Brogan liked chocolate (which, seriously, I’d start to worry about the guy if he didn’t) and had quite possibly the grossest dog in the city, I was no closer to finding out anything about him.
Chapter Eight
Lainey Taylor Rule of Life #46
Never get in-between a girl and Bachelor night.
I snuggled into the recliner with my bowl of rocky road ice cream with exactly two minutes to spare. After stripping out of my ripped shirt and exchanging it for a comfy old tee, I made sure to call my mom for our weekly ritual: Bachelor co-watching.
“Are you ready? It’s almost starting.”
I reached for the remote and clicked through until I found the channel. The preview for this week’s Bachelor was just finishing up. “Rodger that.”
“Do you think he’s going to let that airhead Vanessa go this week?” Mom asked.
Zoey rushed into the room, toting a bag of microwave popcorn and a bowl. “Did I miss anything?”
“Mom thinks Vanessa is going to get voted off this week.”
Zoey had been an addition to our house ever since she lost her mom to a car accident in middle school. Soon after we started weekly rituals, movie nights, pajama parties, and it’d stuck even ten years later.
“No, he likes her boobs too much. I’m guessing it’s Jill,” said Zoey.
Mom let out a loud sigh that blasted through the speaker in my phone. “But Jill is so sweet.”
I eyed the phone while Zoey smirked. “Mom. Since when did that earn points with Derek?”
The line went silent for a moment, then she added, “Good point.”
“Okay, shh, it’s starting!” Zoey whisper-yelled.
The most sacred of all Taylor family traditions was Bachelor night. I’d only missed it once, and that was when I’d been in the ER with appendicitis. And even then, my mom had DVRed it, and we watched it as soon as I got home from the surgery.
“How was Dictator Jackson today?”
I shot Zoey a look. I hadn’t told my mom about the incidents at work because I didn’t want her to worry. She had enough on her plate. She didn’t need to hear about another man with control issues. She’d already had enough of that with Dad. When he wasn’t off, you know, having a secret life on the side. Although Jackson had one up on my dad because I highly doubted Mr. Comb Over was living a double life with two separate families. The guy probably didn’t even have a girlfriend.
In some ways, though, Brogan (barring the obvious attraction) reminded me a lot of my father. He had all the rules and hardcore policies. He was charismatic, just like my father had been…to one too many women, apparently. I’d just like to understand what made a person like that tick. Then again, if he really was anything like my dad, I should stay far, far away. Nothing but pain could come from that type of man.
My mom chuckled. “Who’s Dictator Jackson? Does he have a handlebar mustache?”
I eyed Zoey, signaling to keep her mouth shut. “My coworker. Complete d-bag.”
“Eh, screw him. If he’s that much of a jerk, he probably won’t last long in the company,” said Mom.
Yeah, not so sure about that. Jackson seemed so far up Brogan’s ass, he could be medically diagnosed as a polyp. “Mm-hmm.”
Zoey got up and made her way to the kitchen while Mom fired more questions my way. “Is your boss nice? You haven’t talked much about him these past couple weeks.”
Did it count as nice that he said nothing when I stared at his crotch? Or that, in fact, he was very nice, both on the eyes and personality-wise. So much so, that my shower head was getting a lot more action lately.
Mom didn’t need to hear about my boss and coworker woes, though. I needed her to be as stress free as possible, and I had Zoey to vent to in the meantime while she went through chemo.
Before I could answer, Derek just promised Jill she was getting a rose in tonight’s ceremony. “What a rat bastard. He’s so lying through his teeth,” I said.
We managed to make it through the whole episode without Mom needing an emergency bathroom break. Her intense nausea seemed to taper off a few days after chemo treatments, thankfully. As soon as the episode ended, I promised to call her after her chemo appointment in a few days, and hung up.
Zoey turned to me, almost tipping the bowl of popcorn sitting between us on the couch. “What was up with that earlier?”
“With what?” I popped a piece of popcorn in my mouth and stared at the TV.
“You not wanting to talk about Mr. Epic Douchebag. Mama Taylor is usually privy to those juicy details.”
“You know how Mom gets. One whiff that I’m having trouble at work and then there’s a million questions. She’s already stressed enough with her treatments.”
“Secret’s safe with me.” Zoey pretended to zip her lips and throw away the key. “But what are you going to do about him?”
“What can I do? I just need to not screw up long enough to prove my worth there.”
She nodded.
“Is that dog hair?” She picked a hair off my knee and examined it.
I rolled my eyes. “Bruce hair. Don’t even get me started.”
“Bruce isn’t a coworker is he?”
I huffed out a laugh. “No. Bruce is half horse, half leaky faucet.”
“Jitters will be jealous that you’re fraternizing with other species.”
Zoey’s cat was currently curled up on the windowsill, looking at the city skyline. She’d promptly ignored me when I walked in, but I attributed that to her usual lack of shits given about anyone but Zoey.
Zoey pulled out her laptop from her leather satchel and opened an Excel spreadsheet with a rainbow of colors and formulas. It dawned on me that I hadn’t even bothered to ask about her day. As soon as I breezed through the door, it had been the Lainey Show. Really, I was winning in the friendship category this week. “How’s your workload? Any new clients?”
She shrugged. “I have a new client meeting next week. Getting used to all the logistics. Lots of paperwork. Nothing like I thought it’d be.”
“Right? The real world is so anticlimactic.” I pushed my head into the back of the couch and repositioned my feet on the coffee table.
Zoey rolled her eyes. “Not everything can be like the movies.”
“If it were, I’d have to do some major snooping in Brogan’s apartment for a torture room.”
“Hey, I saw those arms. I wouldn’t mind being the subject of his torture.”
“I’ll give you one of the employee manuals. That should have you screaming the safe word in no time.”
“Point taken,” she said, and went back to eating popcorn and checking social media.
I decided to open up my email and make sure I didn’t have any pressing issues that needed to be handled before the morning. A deluge of CC’d interoffice memos flooded my inbox as I scrolled down the list. Just as I was about to close down my email, a new message pinged. My heart stuttered as my eyes scanned the sender. Brogan.
My first thought was crap, I should not have snooped in his fridge; he totally knows I almost ate his garlic chicken. It was followed by the realization that the email was only addressed to me, something that had never happened before.
From: Brogan Starr
To: Lainey Taylor
Subject: Meeting tomorrow
Lainey,
Jackson will be out of the building tomorrow. Can you schedule a phone conference with Patrick Duvall tomorrow at 8pm. Tell him we’ll be discussing his client’s growth in media following.
-B
Brogan Starr, CEO Starr Media
Antichrist
My heart tapped tiny staccato beats against my ribcage. He’d emailed me—okay, because Jackson was off tomorrow, but still!—to handle someone as important as Patrick Duvall, and he’d snuck in a joke about being the devil. I quickly clicked the reply button and pondered how to respond. The appropriate reply would be a short On it, boss, but
when in the past few weeks had I been appropriate around Brogan Starr? No sense in starting now.
From: Lainey Taylor
To: Brogan Starr
Subject: Re: Meeting tomorrow
I will call him first thing in the morning. Hope you get to leave the office soon.
Lainey Taylor
Second Assistant to Anti-Antichrist
Person Suffering from Chronic Foot in Mouth Syndrome
Yes, this email was fishing—and slightly unprofessional. Except he totally started it. I couldn’t help wondering, though, where he was right now. In his office? Back in his barren apartment with Bruce slobbering on his leg? I didn’t even want to delve into the reasons why he might be thinking of me at such a late hour—because Ah! Brogan Starr was thinking about me after ten!
Good thing he couldn’t see that I had the mentality of a middle schooler when it came to my interest in him…which would surely go away sometime soon. Right as soon as I gave up dark chocolate and free samples from Sephora.
A reply came back almost immediately.
From: Brogan Starr
To: Lainey Taylor
Subject: Re: Meeting tomorrow
Who says I’m at the office? For someone who claims to know my whereabouts at all times, you’re doing a poor job.
Brogan Starr, CEO Starr Media
Employer of uninformed 2nd assistants
This definitely counted as flirting, right? I wasn’t just imagining it. What did it say about me that I wanted to flirt back? That you’re a normal, red-blooded American girl with a Kindle overloaded (never!) with office romances. I stretched my neck and gave myself a moment to come up with another reply. This was not flirting, this was Brogan being nice, as always, in his witty, typical way.
From: Lainey Taylor
To: Brogan Starr
Subject: Re: Meeting tomorrow
I’ll try to hone my schedule-stalking skills by next month’s meeting.
Lainey Taylor
Non-stalker Second Assistant
From: Brogan Starr
To: Lainey Taylor
Subject: Re: Meeting tomorrow
Good. You’ll know where to find me. Good night, Lainey.
Brogan Starr, CEO Starr Media
“Good night, Mr. Starr,” I said. There’d be no sleeping any time soon on my end. Not with thoughts of rolled-up sleeves, strong hands, and a set of irresistible dimples to keep me up. What had changed his mind about me? Maybe, just maybe, I was finally fitting in to the company. I closed my laptop and smiled. What had I gotten myself into?
Chapter Nine
Lainey Taylor Rule of Life #77:
If you decide to trespass into your boss’s place, make sure he’s not home first.
I grabbed the leash off Jackson’s desk at the end of the workday a week later. I hadn’t seen Brogan the rest of the week after the email exchange, and there hadn’t been any other email interactions, which made me think that a) I’d imagined the whole thing, which would be entirely possible if I didn’t have the emails as evidence, or b) He really was just being friendly, nothing more. Which was entirely more plausible.
Jackson had already headed home and instructed me to walk and feed Bruce. This being the fourth time in the matter of a few weeks, I’d stopped getting that smarmy feeling whenever I stepped into Brogan’s condo.
The ten-minute trek to the apartment chilled me to the bone, and by the time I entered the building, every muscle in my body was tightened in on itself, trying to conserve heat and energy. In concept, I was a huge fan of cold weather. Pumpkin spice lattes, boots, and skinny jeans? Sign me up. But stick me in sub-sixty-degree weather for more than two minutes, and I was shivering more than a teacup Chihuahua. For a Portland girl, I was a wimp.
Bruce was sitting in the entryway, tail thumping against the floor, when I entered the posh apartment.
Before he could jump up, I put my hand out in front of me, standing my ground. I’d read a few online dog obedience articles during lunch today, and was willing to try anything to preserve my clothes. So here I stood in Brogan’s entryway, having a showdown at the O.K. Corral with this slobbery heathen.
There was only room for one alpha in the room, and it sure as heck wasn’t going to be Bruce. “Sit, boy.” I’d made the mistake of wearing tights with my boots this morning and did not want to walk ten blocks with holes running down the expanse of my thighs.
Bruce licked his chops and gave an exaggerated huff, but followed my command and plopped his butt down on the slate tile.
I smiled, relieved that I didn’t have to go through another round of chasing him down the hall, or dusting paw prints off my shirt. “Good boy.” Maybe he wasn’t too bad. We’d just gotten off to a rocky start.
I worked my way into the kitchen and picked up his food bowl, then moved over to the pantry to scoop some kibbles into the bowl. We’d found a good routine, Bruce not jumping all over me, and me getting as little dog saliva on my skin and clothing as possible. It’s not that I hated dogs. I mean come on, who didn’t love a cute Yorkie? But Bruce was, to put it in the best terms possible, a disgusting, slobbery dog. Drool pooled on the floor, slopping from his jowls as he waited for me to get two scoops of food from the pantry.
My lips curled in disgust. “We need to get you a bib, dude.”
Bruce huffed in response. Apparently he didn’t like my dig at his leaky mouth problem.
The food scoop had disappeared into the quicksand of kibble, and I had to dig to get it. As I was stooped over, sifting through the food, one inhalation shy of keeling over from the toxic fumes, there was a tug at my sweater. I ignored it as my fingers hit the metal scoop.
I measured out two cups and turned to drop it in Bruce’s food bowl, but was immediately thrown off balance. I turned and found a large chunk of my sweater in his mouth, his jaw working a hole in the thin fabric.
“What the hell? Your nasty food probably doesn’t taste great, but neither do my clothes.” I tugged my sweater out of his mouth, pulling it close to my body, and the soppy wet end wacked against my thigh.
He abandoned my sweater for dog food, not caring that he had, again, annihilated another sweater.
“What is with you and ruining my stuff?”
I’d decided to hold off on the wet food until after our walk, since that was what seemed to give him the most gas. A less gassy Bruce equaled a happier Lainey.
I pulled my sweater tighter around me and grabbed his leash off the counter. The wet spot Bruce had used as a chew toy sopped against my leg, and I glared down at him.
He just wagged his tail in response. Monster. Hope the sweater gave him extra gas tonight—after I left.
I leashed him up, and we strode out to the elevators, his toenails clicking against the tile. I looked down at the mutt and shook my head. What was the story with Bruce anyway? Everything else in Brogan’s life seemed so clinical, clean, organized. This dog was a mess. What neat freak who couldn’t handle garlic in the workplace wanted a dog that farted non-stop and left a trail of drool like a slug along the slate floor? It didn’t make sense.
It wasn’t my job to speculate, though. It was my job to make enough money to not drown in health insurance debt for the rest of my life.
As soon as Bruce and I entered the street, I pulled my phone out of my purse and dialed home. Mom had just gone through another chemo treatment today, and I wanted to check on her. She picked up after the fourth ring, her voice weak.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Mom.”
She took a deep breath, exhaling into the phone. “How are you, sweetie?” Her voice trailed off, barely carrying through to my end of the call.
Dang, she’d sounded more tired than I’d heard her after prior treatments. “I’m okay. How are you? How did treatment go today?”
She paused for a moment, the silence saying more than anything else. I imagined her hunched over the toilet, all alone in the house, no one to take care of her. What if she passed out? What if she
had a bad reaction and no one was there to take her to the hospital? All the what-ifs washed over me and my gut twisted.
“It was tough.”
A cold sweat broke out on my back and everything suddenly felt too warm, too much. For her to admit this meant things were way worse than I’d originally envisioned. This was the same woman who shot a nail through her finger during a kitchen DIY project, and instead of freaking out, took a picture first and laughed the whole way to the emergency room. “The doctors don’t think these meds are working as well as they should be. I’m going on a new cocktail next week.”
My heart lodged itself in my throat, and I pinched my lips together to keep from letting out a sob. Obsessing over worst-case scenarios really wasn’t how I tended to live my life, but this was a living, breathing incarnation of my worst nightmare. In fact, nothing else was on the same playing field.
How many other treatment options were there? What if this next one didn’t work well either? Tight tendrils of fear gripped my chest, and it took me a second to work away the stiffness and realize I was the one who needed to be strong here. I wasn’t the one who was fighting cancer, because I refused to believe she was dy—I couldn’t even bring myself to think the word.
“Do you need me to come home? I can drive back this weekend.” If I actually had PTO, I’d leave right that second with the damn dog riding shotgun in my car. My voice warbled, and I blinked away the fresh sting in my eyes. Nope, I would keep it together. This was a setback, not a catastrophe.
She sighed, and her voice took on this breathy quality that I’d never quite heard from her before, like someone who was breathing through their mouth to keep from vomiting. “No. I’d like to be alone for a few days.”
I was a three-hour car ride away, and I felt completely and utterly helpless.
“Mom, it’s no problem. I’m here for you.” I had to offer at least once more, because in all honestly, I’d lasso the moon for this woman if there was a remote possibility of that making her feel better.
“I know, sweetie. But give me a few days, okay?”
I was twenty-four years old, and I didn’t care who knew it—I needed my mommy, and I wanted to comfort her, but I wasn’t about to go against her wishes. If she wanted to be alone, I had to respect that. Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes, and I quickly wiped them away with my jacket sleeve.
The Rule Book (Rule Breakers #1) Page 8
