The Rule Book (Rule Breakers #1)

by Jennifer Blackwood

  “I was busy with school and studying. My parents were…” He trailed off. I would have prompted him to explain further, but a stormy expression bloomed across his face, darkening his features. From the way he reacted during the phone call to his father, I knew their relationship must be less than amicable.

  I clicked on the movie and cued it up. We both sat in the middle of the couch, nothing but a few inches between our hands as they rested at our sides. It occurred to me that I’d just invited myself over to watch movies with my boss. Who I’d just seen in a towel not thirty minutes prior. I so deserved to be canned.

  I hadn’t been on a first date in a long time. Being in Brogan’s house—uninvited, no less—was a far cry from a first date, but the whole fizzling situation going on in my stomach didn’t care about this tiny detail.

  We nestled in just as people in the movie started arriving for mandated detention, and I found it a little ironic that I was sitting next to someone who was a polar opposite to me—like Penny and Leonard from The Big Bang Theory. Wait, did that make me the science geek or the failed actress in that scenario? I guess if I lost my job, I was one step closer to working at the Cheesecake Factory. And I could probably pull off a dress better than Brogan.

  I folded my hands together in my lap and forced myself to stare at the movie, fighting the urge to glance over at Brogan. Which went about as well as trying to rein in my one-click finger while perusing Amazon. Even I didn’t have that kind of self-control.

  You ever get those déjà vu moments where you’re transported back to the horrible hellhole of seventh grade, and Lenny McCafferty, the star quarterback, is sitting on your couch in the basement, watching a movie with you? Except you’re not really watching the movie, more like not-so-discreetly checking this person out, and your eyes are burning because you’re overusing your peripheral vision? And instead of enjoying the movie, you wonder why you suddenly have turned into the world’s loudest breather, and you’re sweating in spots that you didn’t even know perspired? Yeah, that was me as I settled in on Brogan’s leather sofa.

  Except this time, I didn’t have braces or a horrible case of bacne, but the sudden worry of that tacos for lunch mixed with coffee sounded very unappetizing in terms of the breath department.

  Much like with my middle school crush, I’d been struck by a severe case of what I liked to call The Self-Awares. It was the perfect setup for a medical commercial.

  Hey you! Yeah, you, the one sitting on the couch like an antisocial dimwit. Are you suffering from a bad case of the self-awares? Unsure? Symptoms include:

  1. Awareness of how many freckles are on your skin. As a fair-skinned person spending a lot of time in the sun, this was inevitable, but since when did I have so many?

  2. Reduced resistance to environmental smells. They were hard to ignore when Brogan was fresh from the shower. A mixture of cologne and body wash wafted my direction, and my body instinctively leaned toward the smell.

  3. Poor body placement. I’d chosen the worst possible spot of the couch—the crack. Now my ass was sandwiched in between the cushions and vice grips might be required to excavate me. It was past the time of opportunity to move to either side of the crack because either Brogan would think I was trying to hit on him if I inched closer, or if I moved farther away, he might wonder my motivations.

  4. Peripheral vision overuse. Because, is he watching the movie or me?

  I had a truly severe case of the Self-Awares if I was over-thinking couch placement. Every time I was in Brogan’s vicinity this feeling would pop up, everything was so fresh, so new. Maybe it was the dry spell. Maybe it was his tattooed arms and muscular chest that discombobulated my damn neurons. Whatever it was, it took everything in me to hold on to my composure and keep my ass planted on my side of the couch.

  He put his arm on the top of the sofa, and from what I could see out of my burning eyes (Self-Awares Syndrome Symptom #4 at work) his fingers curled naturally into a fist near my shoulder. If I moved a couple of inches to my right, he’d technically be putting his arm around me. With this realization, the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end, and my pulse picked up a few notches. I closed my eyes and inhaled Brogan’s clean scent and idly wondered what body wash he used because I’d never smelled anything so masculine and delicious in my life.

  He shifted toward me, and my pulse ticked against my temple in rapid rhythm. “Let me get this straight. They send all these people to detention and then leave them alone? That sounds like a lawsuit waiting to happen.”

  “It was the eighties, what do you expect?” Okay, so I wasn’t even a blip on my parents’ radar in that decade, but I’d heard stories from my mom. And, according to her, the movies weren’t too far from the truth. I used this opportunity to reposition myself, making sure to put myself a little farther from Brogan and out of the dreaded crack. His gaze focused on the spot I’d just moved from, and I’d give up every couch make out session from my past to know what he was thinking at this exact moment. “Plus, what kind of story would it be if they couldn’t conspire against the principal?”

  “Did anyone ever tell you that you have horrible taste in movies?”

  “Quite the contrary. I always picked the flicks for movie night when I was in college. People trusted me with this important decision.”

  A wry smile twisted his lips, and he sat back against the couch. “Under duress? Or did you break into their house and take over their living room, too?” He bumped his knee into mine and let out a low chuckle that rumbled in my chest.

  I stared down at his sweats where they’d just connected with my leg, then took a quick glance up his chest, finally ending at his strong stubbled jaw. His tongue slid over his lips and his eyes twinkled with playfulness when he looked at me. He cracked an easy smile and his dimples made a reappearance.

  Hello, lady parts? Are you there? Nope, no answer, most likely due to the fact the rubble of my ovaries was scattered over a ten-mile radius. Seriously, how was this guy single?

  A 180 pound wall of pure muscle sat next to me with a few shreds of clothing in the way. Was it getting hot in here? The coffee from his French press must be giving me hallucinations. Brogan Starr actually loosening up and…flirting?

  I decided the best thing to do was to ignore it and keep my cool. “Ha. Ha.” I gave my best eye roll and focused my gaze back to the movie. “Just keep watching. I assure you, you’ll change your mind.”

  He folded his arms, putting his tattoos on full display, although from my non-obvious peripheral ogling, I couldn’t make out any specifics, just swirls of black ink against his skin. Teen me would high-five present-day me for this moment, aside from the fact that it was my boss and we were in this weird pity-Netflix time warp.

  “Wait, now they’re just toking up in school? What about the essay?”

  “Loosen up, Starr. They’ll get there. They have to realize how pigheaded they’ve been toward each other first.” Because if this movie taught me one thing as a teen, it was that people were more than the front they put on for other people. Just like there was more to Brogan than his hundreds of rules and CEO title.

  “That Andy dude’s father deserves to be punched in the face.” He scowled. Brogan leaned forward, his forearms resting on his legs as he watched, transfixed. Crappy movie choice, my ass. He was totally into it.

  I smiled. “That he does.”

  The last few minutes of the film played on the big screen, and I sighed. This movie never got old, no matter how many times I watched it.

  “Isn’t that the best?” Claire had just given John her earring, and all was right in the world of the best detention ever known to mankind.

  “I…have no words.” He said, still staring at the TV in what looked to be horror.

  I crossed my arms over my chest. “I don’t think we can be friends anymore,” I joked.

  His gaze flicked to mine, and my breath caught in my throat at the intensity of his eyes. “We aren’t friends. I’m your boss.” I coul
dn’t ignore the heat in his expression, the same flicker I saw the day my sweater fell victim to Betsy. I’d give anything for him to push me down on the couch and make me forget my name.

  “Right. It was just an expression.” I cleared my throat and shook off thoughts of couch fornication.

  He nodded. “Tonight was nice. It’s been a long time since I’ve hung out at home.”

  Something about that statement jogged me out of my little bubble of bliss. This guy lived and breathed his job. Not that I didn’t work unhealthy hours, too, but this cut way too close to home. It was bad enough I was infatuated with him, but I saw firsthand what happened with relationships with workaholics. Secret families weren’t a high risk with Brogan, but he was kind of married to his job. The experience with my dad was enough to give me pause. But I was getting way ahead of myself, because this wasn’t heading that direction. Not that I wouldn’t enjoy doing a personal inventory of every muscle on his body.

  “Anytime.” I backtracked. “I mean…” I sighed. I really needed to work on thinking before I spoke in front of him. “Oh, you know what I mean.”

  “Yeah.” He smiled. “I do.”

  “I should be going. Thanks for listening. I feel a lot better.” Even though the stress of everything going on with my mom would likely flood back as soon as I got back to my apartment, it was nice to have a short reprieve.

  Just as I stood, he cleared his throat and held up a hand. “I’ll walk you out.” He pushed up from the couch, and the muscles in his biceps bunched together in the most delicious of ways. It took a moment of channeled concentration to fight back the urge to violate at least ten rules in his damn employee manual.

  He ushered me to the elevator, locking Bruce in the apartment. I turned to face him after I hit the down button. Just inches apart from him, I had to crane my neck to look at his face. If I took one step forward, our bodies would press flush against each other, and my hands would be forced to splay against his chest. Something that I’d like. A lot.

  His eyes searched mine with a softness that stole the air from my lungs. This new side of Brogan, with the joking and laughing…I wanted it to continue. But starting at seven on Monday, things would go back to normal—professional colleagues. Ones that nodded in the hallways and said a polite hello as they passed. The way it was supposed to be.

  “I—” He breathed the word, like an exhale. He lifted his hand, inches from my cheek when the elevator dinged and the doors slid open. His hand dropped to his side, and he pressed his lips together.

  What?? I wanted to scream. He couldn’t just leave me hanging like that. Surely he had something insightful to say. Such as I want to throw you over my shoulder and take you back to my condo and do unspeakable, delicious things to your body, or I think your excessive babbling and breaking into my apartment is sort of cute and am glad I hired you.

  “I’ll see you Monday.” He gave a nod and then proceeded to pat me on the shoulder.

  What the hell just happened? Did I…just get rejected?

  I did a quick mental inventory of the various types.

  Levels of rejection:

  Full-on rejection: dude swiping left on your Tinder pic. Burn.

  Semi-rejection: guy suddenly going dark on social media after a date. Rude.

  Quasi-rejection: trespassing into your boss’s apartment, forcing him to watch your favorite movie, and ending the night with a friendly pat on the shoulder in the same manner as someone consoling a kid who lost a t-ball game. Off-putting but understandable. Right?

  I stepped into the elevator, ignoring this odd sting of quasi-rejection. “Bright and early.”

  The elevator doors shut, and I leaned against the rail and stared at my flushed face in the mirrored panel. I was in so much trouble.

  Chapter Eleven

  Lainey Taylor Rule of Life #32

  If you don’t want to board a train to Crazy Town, stop trying to read into things. Seriously, stop.

  Zoey was in the middle of the living room on a yoga mat, posing in a sun salutation when I woke up. Jitters was belly-up on the couch, waiting for me to scratch his tummy as I passed him to grab my laptop.

  “How’s your upward froggy pose?”

  “This is cobra. And it wouldn’t hurt you to try this, you know.” She curved her spine and splayed her arms straight out on the mat, going into what I thought was a child’s pose. In college, I’d joined her in a yoga class and ended up falling asleep in that very position. Best sleep I ever had. Which was quickly interrupted by the instructor telling me to Namaste the hell out of her class. “Did you know that people in desk jobs are eighty percent more likely to get blood clots?”

  I moved toward the kitchen, grabbed my cuddle mug and poured a full cup of coffee. “And did you know that I’m 100 percent closer to dying each day I live?”

  She let out a deep belly breath and shook her head. “I really adore your stubbornness sometimes.”

  “It’s one of my many endearing qualities.” I smiled sweetly at her.

  “Yeah, yeah.” She continued with her yoga poses as Jitters eyed her¸ his tail playfully swatting the couch cushion.

  “I’m going home this weekend to see my mom. You able to hold down the fort?”

  “Yeah, I need to catch up on my paperwork. I’ll also be at the center,” she said.

  In Zoey’s spare time, she enjoyed working with kids at the youth center. All were from at-risk homes, and I didn’t doubt she would be the Michelle Pfeiffer those kids needed to stay out of trouble.

  “Where were you last night? I didn’t hear you come in.”

  I smothered a smile, trying my best to contain my excitement “Brogan’s.”

  Her eyes widened. “Like, with Brogan?”

  “Not with him with him, just spent the evening on his couch.”

  “I need all the details, woman. Did he remove the stick out of his ass before he entered his home, or is that a twenty-four seven accessory?”

  “I kind of walked in on him as he got out of the shower.”

  Her brows disappeared under her bangs. “The plot thickens.”

  “That’s what she said,” I interjected. I could never pass up a good that’s what she said joke.

  She gave me a look. “The pun was totally intended. Okay, hold on—was he naked?”

  “In a towel, but I saw things.”

  “Things,” she repeated and gave a quizzical look.

  I raised my brow. “Things.”

  “And how did these things measure up?” She put her hands out, using them as a makeshift ruler. I shook my head, and she spread them wider. I shook my head again, and she gaped. “Dear God, woman. That just sounds unhealthy.”

  A delicious heat pulsed between my legs just thinking about his lean chest. The water droplets that clung to his skin. The edges where tanned skin met intricate tattoos. “I didn’t actually see it, so it might have been a mirage.”

  “And you just watched movies…on his couch? Or are we talking, like, Netflix and chill?”

  “Just a movie.” I frowned. Did it still count as friendly if I’d wished more had happened? I didn’t quite know how to feel about that yet. It had been a long time since I’d saddled back up for dating, and in terms of horses, Brogan was an Arabian. Wild, untouchable, not meant to be ridden by employees in any capacity. Why couldn’t I set my sights on a nice Paint. Or a show pony? Something safe.

  Not only was it against company policy, but if I went for him (which I totally wouldn’t, because I liked to think my hormones didn’t make me stupid), what happened if it ended badly? I couldn’t afford to lose this job.

  A cashmere scarf and riding boots were perfect accessories to pump up a dreary fall day. Red and yellow trees lined the sidewalks, and mist hung in the air, coating my clothing in a light sheen of raindrops. Like most of those living in the Pacific Northwest, I tugged my hood over my head tighter, opting out of an umbrella. Nobody but transplants used umbrellas, and I wasn’t going to start now.

 
As soon as I got in the building, I removed my coat and shook off the water beading on the fabric. I smiled to myself as I pushed the button to the fortieth floor, thinking back to the other night. The Brogan cold front had passed and was now turning into a major heat wave.

  Jackson was at his desk, typing away, when I breezed through the elevator doors, this time keeping my coat tightly fixed to my sides. A coffee cup was sitting in the middle of my desk, and I cut my gaze to Jackson.

  “Who left this here?” In a moment of weakness, I hoped it was Brogan, like a secret “I had so much fun the other night, here’s a cup of coffee because I think you’re awesome” kind of treat.

  “Zelda.”

  Relief and disappointment flooded over me. Of course it would be from my only friend in the company and not the man who I walked in on naked. Okay, almost naked. Wishful thinking. What dream world did I live in where CEOs of multi-billion dollar corporations doted on assistants? I really needed to lay off the office romances for a little bit because, much like Disney princesses, they were planting unrealistic ideas in my head, like the possibility that my boss could be smitten over me. Because in real life, if I screwed things up, it wasn’t just my life that would be ruined. “Oh? Do you know why?”

  He pointed to his pinched face and said, “Does this look like a face that cares enough to ask?”

  “No,” I said under my breath. “No, it doesn’t.”

  I gave a tentative smile as I tore open the note left under my coffee.

  Happy two-month anniversary at Starr Media. Here’s to many, many more!

  -Z

  Six weeks longer than my last two predecessors.

  I took a sip and groaned. My absolute favorite drink.

  “Double caramel mocha. Light on the whip,” said Zelda as she rounded the corner to the front of the office.

  “How did you know?”

  She put her hands on her hips, and her dangly earrings jingled as she talked. “Girl, it’s my job to know everything.”