The Aubrey Rules

by Aven Ellis

  “Well, we’re going over social media strategy so I could have probably come over in my pajamas for all he cares,” I say, sliding the mascara wand back into the bottle.

  “Well, if you stopped off at Nordstrom on the way home and got something sheer, lacy, and with a G-string to sleep in, your business meeting with The Captain might take a more interesting turn. Oh Captain,” Livy breathes. “Oh, My Captain, take me now.”

  “Livy!” I yell, embarrassment sweeping through me as I toss the mascara back into my makeup bag, “that’s not even on his radar screen.”

  “How do you know what’s on his radar screen?”

  “Argh.”

  “Hey, we haven’t even talked about your first day,” Livy says aloud. “Well, of course your first day included being asked out by Beck—”

  “No. Not asked out. Asked for a consultation,” I interrupt. “And I’ll sum up my day because I need to get going. My boss is threatened by younger women and marked her territory. I’m not a coordinator but staff to her as I actually had to bring her breakfast today. And lunch. And a snack. I’m sure I’ll be picking up her prescriptions and dry cleaning within days. Charlotte is the girl across from me and she’s nice. The HR guy, Stuart, was helpful with forms. The end.”

  “Okay I’ll take that for now but call me when you get back from Beckett’s,” Livy pleads. “I’m dying to hear what happens.”

  “Um, nothing but I’ll call you all the same,” I promise.

  We hang up. I slide a cuff bracelet onto my wrist, a metal one that Livy made for me last year that has the geometric design of folded ribbon.

  Then I reach for my Miss Dior Eau Fraiche and spritz some on the base of my throat. I adore this perfume, it’s fresh and floral and smells so good on my skin. Not that I need perfume for a business discussion, but I always wear perfume when going out—it’s one of my rules, after all—and this is no exception.

  I place the bottle back down on my silver tray and then head out, grabbing my tote off the hall table and slinging it over my shoulder. I pause to lock up, and then I head to the elevators.

  I’m about to hit the button when I stop myself. Nerves take over. Am I doing the right thing? I step back from the elevator, my brain challenging my emotions. I shouldn’t do this. I can’t. I could blow up my career. I could get a shit reputation in the social media circles if this ever got out. I’ve worked long hours and studied hard for years for this chance, to build this dream in Chicago, and I could lose everything by getting involved with Beckett.

  I’ve never, ever had a conflict like this before. Work is work. Personal is personal. I’m friendly with people in the office, I’m good at going to company team building events, but I always kept my personal life out of it.

  But Beckett became a part of your personal life before ChicagoConnect became a part of your work life, my heart challenges.

  Damn it. I’m overanalyzing this. Yes, it’s wrong what I’m about to do. But Beckett saved my interview, I owe him this. I know he won’t let anyone know we met.

  And maybe sometimes as an adult it’s okay to bend rules when you need to.

  So before I change my mind and cancel, I punch the up button.

  The doors chime open, and I nervously step inside. I would bite my lip, but I don’t want red lipstick on my teeth, so I pace the elevator instead as it climbs toward the 25th floor.

  Okay. I can be poised and professional about this. Well, calling him Captain Smart Ass isn’t professional, but I called him that before I knew him as a potential client so I’ll bend another rule on that.

  Jeez. I really will need a whole new notebook to write rules in for Beckett.

  The elevator chimes and the doors open to the 25th floor.

  Emotions swirl within me. Part panic. Part excitement. I’m tingling from head to toe as I move toward his unit. I take a deep breath, trying to feel some form of calm before I ring his doorbell. Damn it, I wish I took yoga with Livy. She would know some kind of calming breathing technique.

  Yeah, right. There is no breathing technique for dealing with gorgeous hockey players who invite you over for pizza.

  I take one more breath and ring his doorbell before I regain my brain and run back to my own unit.

  I wait, my heart thundering in my chest now. Then I hear footsteps and the sound of a lock being turned. But instead of opening the door, Beckett only opens it a crack.

  “I’ve rethought this,” Beckett says seriously, only a sliver of his face visible. “I’m not sure if tonight is a good idea.”

  I can’t even find the words to respond. I’m embarrassed and disappointed and I shouldn’t be and—

  “I mean, how well do I know you, Aubrey Paige? You could get in here and pull a Black Widow on me. Slip some drugs into my drink and rob me blind. You could have staged that whole fall in the elevator to meet me.”

  Then I see it. Well, a bit of it. After all, he’s still a sliver in my view but I can see part of his smile.

  And it’s crooked.

  Relief sweeps over me, and when I realize he’s getting me back for the serial killer accusation, I burst out laughing. He does, too, and opens the door for me.

  But I stop laughing the second I get a full view of him. Shit. Shit. He’s impossibly sexy in a gray crew sweater, white T-shirt, jeans that hug his massive legs. And he’s wearing a gray beanie, which I find hot as hell on him.

  I’m having dinner with this man.

  My brain knows the rules for this evening.

  But as I gaze into his smiling eyes, my heart is beginning to fight against my rules.

  And right now, I don’t have a clue as to which part of me is going to win this battle tonight.

  Chapter 9

  The Aubrey Rules To Live By, Rule #9: Non-negotiable qualities I need in a boyfriend: kindness, intelligence, and a good sense of humor. Also being a talker is a bonus because I love to talk.

  **Note** Not that Beckett needs to have any of these qualities, of course. We’re in the process of becoming friends. And since I can’t date a client, and he’s an athlete on top of that, it’s irrelevant.

  **Note #2** Of course I’m not his type so even more irrelevant.

  **Note #3** And this night is about pizza and talking shop.

  **Note #4** So if the rule is solid and everything else is irrelevant, why do I get a fluttering in my chest when Beckett flashes me that grin?

  “Come on in,” Beckett says, snapping me from my thoughts.

  I blink and tear my eyes away from his huge, athletic frame and focus on his condo instead.

  It’s bigger than the unit I’m in. I move down the rustic hardwood of the entry way, and the first room I see is the living room, which has a fantastic leather sectional in a rich, whiskey brown. A coffee table made of reclaimed wood and metal sits upon a basket-weaved neutral rug. Steel floor lamps provide lighting, and the room is softened up by an array of cream pillows and throw blankets on the sofas in all different textures.

  Best of all, vintage hockey sticks are hung on the back wall in a pattern, bringing Beckett’s passion into the room.

  “Wow,” I say, stepping into the living room, “industrial modern.”

  I turn and glance at Beckett, who is smiling at me. “That’s what my designer calls it.”

  “Nice,” I say, moving around and studying it. “She or he did a fantastic job. This suits you.”

  “She did,” Beckett says, “and how do you think it suits me?”

  It’s masculine and sexy. But for once my mental filter works so I edit my answer before speaking.

  “It’s rugged and masculine,” I say. “And it has hockey. It’s you.”

  And sexy as hell like you are, I add, again in my head.

  “Thank you, I like it, too,” Beckett say
s. Then he clears his throat. “Come on, I’ll show you the kitchen.”

  I nod, and Beckett leads me to his kitchen, which is ah-ma-zing. It’s huge—similar to a chef’s kitchen—with reclaimed wood cabinets and floors, but given an edge with concrete countertops and stainless steel appliances. Drop pendant lighting in a cluster illuminates the huge kitchen island.

  “I love this kitchen,” I say as I take it in. And open to the kitchen I don’t find a table and chairs set, but another leather sofa and two huge chairs, with a window overlooking Lake Shore Drive behind them. A flat-screen TV hangs over the fireplace in the cozy seating area.

  I turn to Beckett and grin. “What, you don’t use kitchen tables and chairs?”

  “I have a dining room table,” Beckett says, “but I hardly ever eat there. When the guys come over we hang out in front of the TV, so I wanted it to be comfortable.”

  Hang out with the guys. Not girls.

  Not that it matters, of course.

  I clear my throat to refocus, and I realize the kitchen smells like French fries.

  “I smell fries,” I blurt out.

  “Well, I was told that was part of the consultation fee,” Beckett says, moving past me and opening his oven. “I picked these up for you right before you came over. I put them in the oven to keep them warm.”

  “Didn’t you order them with the pizza?” I ask.

  Beckett stares at me as if I’ve grown a second head. “Why would I get fries from a pizza place? You need to get fries from a fry place.”

  “There’s such a thing as a ‘fry place’?” I ask. “How come I didn’t know about this?”

  Beckett grabs a pot holder and removes the tray from the oven, setting it on top of the stove. And my eyes widen as I see the tray filled with perfectly cut French fries.

  “Apparently you don’t do your homework as well as I do,” Beckett teases. Then he gives me a serious look. “Which should have me question your ability doing my social media, but back to the fries—”

  “Okay, hold on,” I say, putting out my hand. “I’ve done my homework on you.”

  Oh, shit. Damn it, damn it, damn it! Damn my lack of a mental filter! Beckett stares at me with an amused expression, and I’m suddenly burning hot all over in embarrassment.

  I need to fix this. “I mean, since I found out you were a potential client,” I say.

  Beckett’s eyes light up. “Oh, you have, eh? Find anything interesting?”

  I want to die.

  But honesty seems to work with Beckett, so I’ll use that as my escape route.

  “Other than the fact that you haven’t used social media since November and you get tons of invitations to sorority dances, you’re the star of zillions of fan fics on Tumblr, and women say you explode their ovaries, no.”

  Now Beckett looks like he wants to take his beanie and pull it down over his whole face so I can’t see him. He’s so embarrassed, and I adore the fact that this superstar athlete hates this attention heaped upon him.

  “See? See why I hate social media?”

  Now I have him distracted. “Come on, Becks. The story about you being a ranch owner with love for horses and falling in love with Landon against the Montana sky was touching.”

  Then I grin at him, as I’ve told him the fan fic for him and his closest friend on the team, Landon Holder, a player who is also adored by the ladies. But unlike Beckett, Landon, who I discovered is nicknamed Landy, lives on social media and apparently loves the ladies back.

  “You need fries,” Beckett says firmly.

  I suppress a smile. He’s cute when he’s embarrassed. I even detect a flush of pink across his cheekbones, and the two sides of Beckett are so polar opposite—the sweet, shy, embarrassed Beckett I’m getting to know as opposed to the warrior captain I saw on YouTube throwing down punches to defend a teammate.

  “I do need fries,” I say, moving next to him.

  “Now if we were in Canada I’d offer you poutine,” he says.

  “What’s that?” I ask, curious.

  “Fries served with gravy and cheese curds,” he explains.

  “Fries with gravy? Genius!”

  Beckett laughs. “Yeah, it is. But tonight no poutine. Just fries. Go ahead, try one.”

  I pick one up off the tray and pop it into my mouth. Oh, my. It’s delicious.

  “What do you think?” Beckett asks, leaning against the island and facing me.

  “It’s crispy on the outside and fluffy on the inside and perfectly salted,” I say enthusiastically. “They’re fantastic, Beckett. Where did you get these?”

  “Frietkoten Belgian Fries & Beer,” Beckett says. “Inside the Chicago French Market. They sell them in these cones, and you have a ton of options for dipping them. And they have a great selection of Belgian beers on tap, too.”

  “Get out, there’s a French market? With a fry stand?” I ask, delighted by this news. “How did you find this? I need to see this!”

  Beckett grins at me, that grin makes me melt. “You wanted fries. So I found one of the best fry places in Chicago for you.”

  I freeze as I take in his words. “You went to this trouble for me?”

  “It’s not trouble,” Beckett says modestly. “Here, you can look at it while I get some stuff out.”

  I move next to him and he picks up his phone. Beckett swipes a few things and brings up the market on his iPhone. I try to act focused, but inside I’m fighting butterflies in my stomach. What he did is probably one of the nicest things a man has ever done for me.

  I know it doesn’t mean anything to him, but to me it does. It shows me the kind of person he is. Thoughtful. Wanting to make someone else happy with a simple gestur—

  Athlete.

  Client.

  Rules.

  And I’m not his type.

  I shake the thoughts from my head and study the pictures as Beckett opens his fridge.

  “This place seems so fun,” I say, going through the pictures on Yelp. “This would be an awesome thing for you to do and take pictures of to put on Instagram.”

  “People don’t want to see me eat fries,” Beckett says, removing some items and coming back over to the island with some containers in his hands.

  “Oh bullshit on that,” I say. “People want to see anything you do. It would get a ton of retweets and posts on Tumblr. You need to do it.”

  Beckett laughs loudly, and I peek up at him. “What?”

  “You’re so honest.”

  “Is there any other way to be?” I ask, studying him. I watch as his large brown eyes go serious.

  “I’d like to think there isn’t, but a lot of people aren’t.”

  He’s speaking from his life experience. I know that. But I also know this isn’t the place to push farther on something so personal.

  “What are those?” I say, glancing at the containers in his hands.

  “Not ranch.”

  I laugh. “Oh, next you are going to tell me there’s pepperoni on my pizza, and I’ll have to leave due to inadequate compensation.”

  “These are your dipping sauces,” Beckett says, setting them down. “I have curry ketchup, truffle mayo, and wasabi mayo.”

  “Are you kidding? This is fantastic!” I say excitedly.

  “So you aren’t leaving due to inadequate compensation?”

  “Shut up,” I say, laughing.

  He laughs and slides a pizza box toward me. “That’s yours. What can I get you to drink? I have beer, red wine, water.”

  “A glass of wine would be nice,” I say.

  “You got it,” Beckett says. He opens a door, and I see it’s a walk-in wine refrigerator.

  “Where can I find plates?” I ask, moving to help him.

  “
First cabinet on the left.”

  I open it up and retrieve two plates.

  “Do you want fries?” I call out.

  “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but sure.”

  “You won’t regret it,” I say cheerfully.

  Beckett steps out of the wine refrigerator and studies me, his gorgeous brown eyes locked on mine. “I don’t think I will,” he says softly.

  My breath catches in my throat. I know he’s referring to French fries, but I’m not.

  And I know this is against everything I thought I wanted, every quality I wrote up, every rule I wanted to live by.

  I never wanted a man like Beckett.

  My personal life never interfered with my work.

  As I stand here in Beckett’s kitchen with him, I know the potential is here for disaster.

  But as I study his handsome face, I find myself not caring.

  Beckett clears his throat. “I’ll get the wine if you don’t mind getting me some pizza.”

  “Of course, you’re the client.”

  “Do not,” Beckett says, grinning, “call me that. I’m Captain Smart Ass to you.”

  I burst out laughing as I put some pepperoni pizza onto his plate, along with some fries.

  “Do you want any of the sauces?” I ask as Beckett opens the bottle.

  “I’ll try the truffle mayo.”

  I nod and take our plates to the living area. Beckett follows with a bottle of wine and two wineglasses. I set the plates on the coffee table and take a seat on the couch, and Beckett sits down next to me and pours our wine.