I straightened the files and placed them in my inbox. “Toughen up, Jackson. I’m here to stay, so you might as well get used to it.” Or at least, I hoped.
I could have sworn I heard “we’ll see about that” muttered under his breath, but I decided to be the bigger person and let it go.
My false confidence began to flag, though, when I glanced over at Brogan’s office. After what happened last night, I wasn’t so sure Jackson’s grumblings weren’t a smidge warranted. I crossed the line majorly, and that left me in limbo in terms of my job. If Brogan was one thing, he was a stickler for his damn rules.
Brogan hadn’t bothered to stop me before I left, and if he wasn’t going to bring it up again, I would chalk it up to a one-time loss of sanity and pretend it never happened. Because, let’s face it, a sane Lainey wouldn’t have risked her job like that. Even if his lips were enough to ruin me for all other men for the next decade at least.
By the time I went on my lunch break, Jackson was back to his normal self, pushing more filing my way and sending me on two coffee runs (a brave thing to trust a woman scorned with your coffee). But I didn’t care—I’d earned a new client on my own merit, and damn did it feel good.
After saying hi to Zelda on my way out, I took my peanut butter and jelly out to the park a few blocks from work, planning to call my mom. We hadn’t spoken since my less than amicable departure last Sunday, and my guilt-meter was teetering in the red.
As soon as I sat down on my usual bench, I pulled out my phone and dialed her number.
“Hey, Mom.”
“How are you?” Her voice lacked her normal cheer. I couldn’t tell if it was from the treatments or if she was pissed off at me still—rightfully so.
I sighed and scooped up enough courage to face the facts. I’d screwed up, and I needed to fix whatever I’d done to throw our relationship off kilter. “I’m sorry about last weekend. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
A heavy rush of air came through the receiver, and she was quiet for a moment. “Honey, I’m glad you care that much about your career. It’s important, and I handled it in the wrong way.”
I frowned, feeling even worse. Why the hell was she apologizing to me when I’d acted like an ass? “You don’t ever have to apologize, Mom. I was a jerk and ruined our weekend.” After the way Dad treated her, choosing his work over her ninety percent of the time, and by “work” I mean his secretary, I didn’t blame her for being a little bitter toward the career-obsessed.
“Let’s forget last weekend ever happened, sound good?” she said.
“Promise?”
“Yes.” I could hear the smile in her response.
I grinned, and a weight lifted off my chest. No matter how good my life was going, if things with my mom were strained, it sucked the beauty out of every other aspect, because nothing felt quite complete unless we were on good terms.
“How did your presentation go?”
I explained what had happened, and then how Brogan knew that it had been my work—minus the whole making out in his office detail. Somehow I didn’t think my mom would be as stoked as I was about my after-hour escapades. In fact, as much as I loved every second of his lips on my skin, even I was starting to question my choices. Because I wasn’t a kid in college anymore. This was my career, and I could have put it in jeopardy.
“I can’t believe that guy,” she said, appalled at Jackson’s behavior.
I tore the corner off my sandwich and shoved it into my mouth. “I honestly can’t either.” He’d always been a jerk, but I didn’t think he’d stoop to that level. Just went to show, people were like a fresh pint of Rocky Road ice cream: Smooth on top, but once you dug deeper, there was an overwhelming number of bumps and nuts.
“I’ll be back down to visit within the next few weeks. And I promise, this time I won’t bring work with me.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
“Love you.”
“You too, love bug.”
I hung up the phone and felt ten times lighter. Once I returned to the office, my email was full of new client information, and one message in particular that slapped a stupid smile on my face.
To: Lainey Taylor
From: Brogan Starr
Subject: Dog Walking
Are you free tonight? Bruce would love to see you. He’d also enjoy if you’d have homemade pasta with him and a bottle of wine.
-B
Brogan Starr, CEO Starr Media
CEO in need of a dog walker
Okay, breathe, he’s not firing you or exiling you to the mail room. Although, with the bottle of wine suggested in the email, the mail room wouldn’t be a bad place to sort some—ahem—mail. We hadn’t discussed the specifics of whatever this was. A fling? Office tryst? That sounded so cheesy, yet delightfully dirty. Whatever it was, it was going to stay on the down low, as evidenced from this email…as long as Bruce didn’t actually mean Bruce, because having wine with a dog was a little too country song for me. We’d hash out the details about this tonight, because vagaries wouldn’t cut it when we worked together every day.
I clicked on the reply button and began typing.
To: Brogan Starr
From: Lainey Taylor
Subject: re: Dog Walking
Maybe Bruce will appreciate garlic more than his owner.
Lainey Taylor, Second Assistant to Brogan Starr, Starr Media
Professional dog walker and wine drinker
To: Lainey Taylor
From: Brogan Starr
Subject: re: Dog Walking
Garlic, yes, but the owner might be better company.
Brogan Starr, CEO Starr Media.
Great conversationalist
To: Brogan Starr
From: Lainey Taylor
Subject: re: Dog Walking
But who can resist Bruce’s sloppy kisses?
Lainey Taylor, Second Assistant to Brogan Starr, Starr Media
Walker of a very kissable dog
To: Lainey Taylor
From: Brogan Starr
Subject: re: Dog Walking
Is it okay to be jealous of a dog?
Brogan Starr, CEO Starr Media.
Owner of a lady-stealing dog
…
Brogan was standing in the kitchen stirring a saucepan when I returned with Bruce to the apartment at seven. I’d done the usual trek to the park downtown, and I made sure to put his doggy bag in the dumpster outside the building two blocks away. While Brogan’s eccentricities had bothered me the first few weeks, they’d become something cute, something that made him stand out. What was it in a young CEO’s mind that made him tick a little differently than the men I was used to? And had he really bent all his rules for me from day one because he wanted me? I didn’t know how to feel about that—except that I didn’t like the thought of having special privileges because of his attraction to me.
After I unhooked the leash, Bruce padded to his doggy bed in the living room and flopped down with a huff, rolling around on his back, doing his pig snort deal. I shook my head and smiled. A nice alliance had formed, one where he didn’t eat my clothes, and I let him sniff eighty percent of the hydrants and bike racks along the city blocks. I drew the line at dry humping the neighbor’s poodle, who was way out of his league, because it was no use getting the poor guy’s hopes up.
The savory aroma of homemade marinara sauce floated through the apartment, and my mouth watered. I only had a chance to scarf down a granola bar on my way out of work, and anything that was warm and didn’t come from a box sounded particularly mind-blowing.
“That smells amazing.” I dropped my purse and keys on the counter and sidled up next to Brogan at the stove. Just being near him, the warmth of his body washing over me, was enough to frazzle my mind like ten too many tabs open on my internet browser.
“My grandmother’s recipe. She lives in Italy, and I gain about ten pounds every time I visit her.”
“Does she adopt?” Because my Top Ramen diet wou
ldn’t cut it for much longer. I could pull that off when I lived in the dorms in college, but eleven-hour work days left me needing more sustenance than broth and noodles. Every penny of the two paychecks I’d earned, except for my portion of the rent and a bare minimum in food, had been sent to my mom’s crap insurance that didn’t even begin to cover half her treatments. Sure, Mom wasn’t happy that I was spending my hard-earned cash on her, but what was I supposed to do? Indulge my purse and leggings addiction while she was too sick to work and the bills piled up? Nope. Not a chance. She tried sending my checks back a few times, and I ended up getting around that by directly depositing the money in the online billing account. Besides, blowing it on luxuries like silk scarves, Italian leather handbags, or steaks and chicken meant more that she’d have to pay off later down the road. I couldn’t let that happen. So Ramen and off-brand mac and cheese were it for the unforeseeable future.
He laughed and continued stirring the sauce. I unwound my scarf, and Brogan took his attention off the cooking, his jaw going slack for a moment as his gaze worked over my low-cut top. “I’m glad you came.” The formality we’d used with each other during office hours fell away as he ran his fingers along the curve of my spine, pulling me in for a long, slow kiss that simmered my insides. His lips had this uncanny ability to take me down to seven brain cells—just enough to keep my mouth functioning and air coming to my lungs. When he pulled away to continue stirring the sauce, I was left with swollen lips and an early onset heart arrhythmia.
He ran his thumb over my lower lip. “Best part of my day, by far.” Both his hands found their way to my hips, and he tugged me in for another kiss. This one held the urgency of someone who knew what he wanted, someone who always got what he wanted. And when it came to Brogan, I was willing to give just that.
The sauce simmering on the stove picked up to a roaring boil, and Brogan broke away from the kiss to turn down the heat. In that split second of reprieve, I was able to remember my mission for tonight: figure out what the hell this was. As soon as I found the right moment.
I looked around the kitchen, unsure of what to do with my hands…besides manhandle Brogan, obviously. “Can I help you with anything?” I asked. The whole workplace fling was new to me, and I didn’t really know how it worked in terms of hook-up etiquette. Did we just get to the good stuff, or did I help out like a girlfriend would? Shove my hands in the butt pockets of his very well-fitting dress pants? Or remove his collared shirt, one button at a time? Decisions, decisions.
An embarrassingly loud growl erupted from my stomach, and Brogan quirked his brow. “You can be my taste tester for the sauce.”
“I like that idea,” I said. He gently guided the spoon toward my lips, and the flavor exploded on my tongue, a rich mixture of tomatoes and garlic and spices. I groaned, and my eyes fluttered shut. “Oh my God. That’s amazing.” Quite possibly the best thing that I’d eaten in a month.
I opened my eyes, and Brogan stood frozen, his gaze fixed on my mouth. His brown eyes dilated, holding a different type of hunger than the one rolling around in my stomach. That look transported me back to last night—the feel of his fingers running through my hair, the softness of his lips as they devoured mine. The sauce spoon still hovered inches from my lips, shaking ever so slightly in Brogan’s grip. For the first time, he looked unsure of himself. The boardroom persona had been stripped, leaving him open, vulnerable.
He must have realized the shift in his own demeanor, because he quickly deposited the spoon on the counter, clearing his throat. “I’ll make sure to relay the message to Nona.” We stood there in silence for a few moments, both staring at each other. He opened his mouth and closed it, as if he were debating what to say. Maybe, Meet me in my bed in thirty seconds, or, Please, let me help you out of these clothes and take total advantage of you and christen this leather couch.
Instead, he said, “Will you set the table? Plates are over there.” He pointed to a cupboard above the long expanse of granite. Okay, so no clothes would be coming off yet, but dinner was a step in the right direction.
“Sure.” I made my way to the cabinet and grabbed two plates. I set them on the table, along with utensils and napkins. The motions felt so comfortable, like we’d been doing this for years, almost like I belonged here. This was the second time feeling this way at his place…a dangerous thought when I didn’t know what this was between us. I barely knew the guy. He was my boss, and he was cooking me dinner. We’d kissed a whopping two times, and suddenly everything in my world was feeling a little topsy-turvy. Was this a typical occurrence in his household? With Brogan’s good looks and money, I doubted his bed stayed vacant for long.
“Everything okay?” He gave me a sideways glance as he poured the sauce in a bowl and extracted meatballs from the oven.
“Yeah.” Maybe? I didn’t know.
I sat down across from him at the table, tapping my fingers against the edge of the glass.
He cleared his throat again, this time shifting restlessly in his seat. “I don’t do this very often. Usually, it’s just me and Bruce.”
It made sense. Even if he could easily make anyone’s “Most Eligible Bachelor” list, he didn’t make it out of his office enough to even go on a date.
I snorted. “The conversation must be stimulating.”
“Bruce is good company. Excellent table manners.” He reached down and scratched Bruce’s pudgy head.
“My disappearing wardrobe is clear evidence.” I rolled my eyes.
Brogan’s mouth pulled into an attractive smile that set my pulse into an unsteady tailspin. “We’re still working on manners.” He looked down at Bruce and said, “I think we have a long way to go. I’d like to reimburse you for your ruined clothes.”
I thought about saying no to this, but when would be the next time I could afford nice clothes? Plus, I wouldn’t need new clothes if it weren’t for Bruce. “You can add it to my paycheck.”
“I’ll let Tony know first thing in the morning.”
I nodded and bit into the tender meatball with the perfect amount of garlic and seasonings. Juice dripped down my lips, and I quickly blotted the mess with my napkin. “These are amazing balls.” Oh my God, did that really just come out of my mouth? My eyes widened, and if there was a beach nearby, I’d have gladly shoved my head in the sand right about now. “Meatballs. I meant meatballs.”
“Your way with words never ceases to amaze me, Taylor.” He had the audacity to smirk. “I’m glad you like my meatballs.”
I cleared my throat and tried to steer the conversation back on track. “Is it another recipe from your grandma?”
This time a genuine smile crossed his face, one that made the corners of his eyes crinkle. “Yes. I made a few alterations to the recipe, though.”
I took another bite and rolled it around on my tongue, trying to place the flavor. “Nutmeg?”
He nodded, impressed. “Yes.”
We went back to eating, and as I stared at him from across the expanse of the table, I wondered how this could possibly work out. Flirting and kissing were one thing, but what did this mean? I couldn’t possibly go to work and pretend nothing was going on between us and then come over in the evenings while he cooked me amazing Italian food, could I?
Umm, yes, I totally could if it involved these meatballs.
My normal go with the flow mentality had been thrown severely off-kilter by last night’s events, and the lull in conversation posed perfect timing for the question that had gnawed at me the entire day.
“Brogan?” I finally said, not able to contemplate these thoughts one more minute like a damn lunatic.
“Yeah?”
“I don’t want this”—I pointed between us—“to affect my job.” I couldn’t move forward with this if it put my job in jeopardy, no matter how much I liked his sweet mouth on mine. “I have my mom to think about.”
His expression turned serious, and he dragged the tines of his fork over the edge of his plate. “Nothing that hap
pens outside the office will influence my opinion of you at work.”
“Good.” Right, one element of my neuroses out of the way. Now I could focus on the big question. “Then what is it that you want out of this? I want things to be clear.” Because we all knew where ambiguities went. A straight course to crazyville, and I sure as hell wasn’t boarding that train.
He sighed and pushed around the spaghetti on his plate. “You’re smart and beautiful and I like spending time with you—I don’t know if I can put a label on that. I haven’t done this in a really long time, so I’m out of practice with the whole dating thing.”
“I like spending time with you, too. And I don’t need a label—I’m not in high school.” Praise Jesus, hallelujah. “But I think we need to have some rules.”
His brow lifted a fraction, but a smile still played at his lips. “The rule breaker is opting for rules? I think I’m having a stroke over here.”
“Quick, where’s your Life Alert button?”
His lips twitched. “Maybe I should invest in one. Wouldn’t want to be left stranded if I broke a hip.”
“You could wear it around like Flavor Flav’s clock necklace.”
“I…” He paused shaking his head. “I have no clue who that is.”
I groaned and rolled my eyes. “I have so much to teach you, Mr. Starr.”
His nostrils flared at the use of his name, and he sucked in a deep, jagged breath. “Is that so?” He liked when I called him that, it was clear. Maybe I took a little too much satisfaction in knowing this.
He swiped his thumb across the expanse of his lower lip and gave me an appraising look. “You’re right. Rules are probably a good thing.”
I motioned to him. “You’re the rule master. What do you propose?”
He paused for a minute, taking a sip of his wine and dabbing his mouth with his napkin. “I’ve never done anything like this—I really don’t know the proper protocol. But let’s keep it simple. One: no one in the office can know. Two: we can’t be together at work again. It’s too risky. And three: no attachments.”
“No attachments?”
“I can’t commit to anything serious. Not with the company still early in its creation.” He looked up from his plate, and his eyes took on this sad quality that I’d never quite seen before. “If you can’t handle that, we can pretend last night never happened. I don’t want to pressure you.”
The Rule Book (Rule Breakers #1) Page 15
