“I appreciate you being upfront.” This was a lot to take in. For a split second, my thoughts flickered to my dad. Was this how it started with his mistress? Just an office fling that turned into a brand new family? I shook away that idea. This was a completely different situation—there was no other woman. But was this arrangement something I wanted? For once, I would give anything to be as meticulous as Zoey, equipped with lists and spreadsheets of pros and cons for every minute detail of life.
If I were to create one right now, it’d look something like this:
Pro: Brogan Starr wanted me.
My inner fourteen-year-old self, who practiced kissing on my JTT poster, was majorly fist-pumping at the moment.
Con: this was essentially a fling.
I mean, the word was off-putting enough. I wasn’t a disposable coffee cup to be tossed in the garbage as soon as someone had their fill. Plus, people had different expectations when it came to flings—someone got more attached than the other, and someone always got hurt. Something told me I wouldn’t come out on the winning end of this deal.
Pro: A fling with Brogan was way better than not having him at all.
That was self-explanatory.
Con: an expiration date already in place with the person who gave my paycheck.
No money meant no chemo payments. And even though Brogan promised that this wouldn’t get in the way of work—I didn’t see how this wouldn’t bleed into everyday interaction in the office.
Pro: Brogan
Again, self-explanatory. Because come on—hot, smart, tattooed man who could command a board room did something to me. There weren’t that many times where I could say that my ovaries took the front seat in decision making, but this rare occurrence wasn’t something I could ignore.
Con: Brogan was a nice guy (normally an excellent thing).
A lot of girls underestimated the effect of a nice guy. Sure, bad boys were appealing—who didn’t like a dangerous guy that would promise nothing but sin and heartbreak on the back of their Harley? But a nice guy, that was dangerous. Those were the guys that you’d want to bring home to mom. The type to bring you breakfast in bed and pick up tampons from the supermarket on his way home from work because you’re busy stuffing your face with ice cream and crying over the unfairness of Rose losing Jack in Titanic (there was totally room on that piece of driftwood for the both of them). Yes, the nice guys were the real danger, because something told me Brogan wouldn’t be someone I could recover from quickly, if and when this ended.
Okay, I was sick of coming up with negative aspects. Yes, he was my boss. Yes, this was probably really stupid, maybe more stupid than my teenage near-head-shaving incident, but dammit, if I couldn’t make poor choices with my money, I might as well dabble in dating suicide.
I realized I’d left him hanging as I lost myself in my mental pro and con list. When I looked up from my plate, Brogan sat staring, brows furrowed, swirling patterns with his fork into the marinara sauce on his plate. “I think this arrangement might work,” I said.
Brogan set his fork on the table and looked visibly relieved at my response. “Me, too.”
We’d both finished dinner at this point and worked our way to the kitchen to rinse our dishes and put them in the dishwasher.
The last bits of marinara drizzled into the sink as I rinsed the plate. If I’d been alone, I totally would have licked the plate clean, because that sauce was out of this world. “I don’t want any preferential treatment at work,” I added, remembering the sinking feeling in my stomach at the thought of Brogan letting me be the exception to his rules.
His lips pulled into a smile. “I wasn’t planning on it.” He grabbed my plate and handed me his dirty one to wash.
I leaned my hip against the counter and crossed my arms. “And if I screw up, I need to be held accountable, just like everyone else.” I paused, and my voice took on a harder edge. “I want my success to be earned, and don’t want anyone to mistakenly think that it’s because we’re hooking up.” Because right now I was in the trenches, working my way up doing menial tasks, but someday I’d be putting my degree to use, and I didn’t want anyone to question why.
He leveled an equally intense gaze at me. “I wouldn’t dream of it. You’ll work just as hard for your success as everyone else.”
“I think that settles it.” I smiled. “I’m in.”
He smiled and pulled me into a hug. My hands ran along his biceps, along the strong ridge of muscles that wound down his arms. “Me, too.”
Chapter Seventeen
Starr Media Handbook Rule #322
Emails will remain professional and polite.
Jackson had resumed his role as uninterested coworker by the time I came back to work the next day. He sat at his desk, slouched in his chair, tapping on his computer with one hand.
“More clients on your desk this morning.”
I looked up at him, trying to decipher his motives. Did he give these to me, feeling bad for giving me the shaft yesterday? Pity clients. Heck, I’d take them. The more clients I took on, the more job security I garnered.
“If you’re wondering why, it’s because I find them lackluster, and they bring down the rest of my portfolio.” He glared at me over the top of his computer and then went back to work.
Right. He was all sugar and spice today.
Two manila folders sat on my desk, and I pushed them aside while I booted up my computer.
My email pinged as soon as the programs loaded.
From: Brogan Starr
To: Lainey Taylor
Subject: Meatballs
I hope you didn’t bring the meatballs in the office. They have garlic and you might be meeting with a client today at 1:30. Don’t be late.
Brogan Starr, CEO Starr Media
I quickly replied:
From: Lainey Taylor
To: Brogan Starr
Subject: re: Meatballs
I wouldn’t dream of eating your balls at work. I look forward to the meeting.
P.S.—I plan to eat them with garlic bread and garlic tater tots later tonight.
Lainey Taylor, Second assistant to Brogan Starr, Starr Media
Garlic lover
I smirked, thinking maybe I needed to tone it down on the next email, because that may have toed the line a bit.
A new event popped up on my schedule—a meeting with JD Sigmund, a news anchor that recently transferred over to MTV. I bounced in my seat as I stared at the notification. Four new clients within a month. At this rate, I’d have a full caseload by the end of next year.
I giggled as I read Brogan’s email for the fourth time.
“Please, by all means, share with the class what is so damn funny, newbie.” Jackson gave brow arch number two with a little splash of indignation to mix it up a bit.
“Just a funny email.”
“Did you get the YouTube one of that cat that logrolls a watermelon? Janice sent that this morning.”
“No.” And I felt oddly left out if everyone on the staff was getting goofy cat videos while my inbox remained empty.
Another email pinged in my inbox a few minutes later.
From: Brogan Starr
To: Lainey Taylor
Subject: re: Meatballs
Trying to ward off vampires, huh? Rumor has it the garlic thing is a myth, though holy water and a salt circle will do the trick. Are you free on Thursday?
-B
From: Lainey Taylor
To: Brogan Starr
Subject: re: Meatballs
Did you just make a Supernatural reference? I see the Netflix is paying off.
I’ll have to check my schedule. My boss runs a tight ship, and I might have a lot of work to do that night.
-L
From: Brogan Starr
To: Lainey Taylor
Subject: re: Meatballs
I’ll put in a good word to your boss.
-B
I smothered my grin with my hand and bounced my legs agai
nst the rung of my chair. Oh lordy, was I in trouble.
…
Brogan was on his computer when I finished walking Bruce the following night. He had a pair of black-rimmed reading glasses on as he focused on a spreadsheet. The glasses gave a cute geeky edge to his muscled exterior, something that was deliciously adorable.
“How’s the Henderson account coming?” I asked, plopping a tote and my purse on the coffee table.
“It’s going. Just finishing up.” He hit a few keys on the computer and then closed the laptop. He scrubbed his hands over his face, removing his glasses and propping them on the end table. His look of irritation dissipated when his gaze slid over me, replaced with a soft smile. “Damn, you are a much-needed sight for sore eyes. Come here, beautiful.” He grabbed my hand and pulled me onto the couch. My fingers ran along the stubble of his jaw as our lips brushed together.
“What’s in the bag?” He jutted his chin to the large sack on the table.
“Tonight’s festivities.” I grabbed the bag and set it on the couch next to him.
As he peered in the tote, his brows furrowed. “Is that a plastic gun?” He put his pinky through the trigger hole and picked it up, examining it.
“Is that a gun?” I scoffed. “It’s only the best gun known to man. The Zapper NES.”
He shook his head, but a smile played at his lips. “You lost me.”
“Have you never played Duck Hunt in your life?”
He just stared at me.
“Did you seriously live under a rock in the nineties?”
“Might as well have,” he muttered, and his smile fell momentarily. It quickly reappeared, though, and he said, “The gun’s part of the game, I assume? My parents believed that video games and television rotted brains, so the most I got was thirty minutes of PBS. Don’t worry, I’ve made up for it since then.” He nodded toward three different gaming consoles nestled in his entertainment system.
“Well, get ready to lose a few brain cells tonight, because we’re having an official Duck Hunt throw down.” I unearthed the Nintendo console from the bag and hooked up the cords to his TV.
“Can I at least pour us some wine?”
“Is that even a question? Wine goes with everything. Including…” I grabbed a bag of gummy worms from the bag and tossed them in Brogan’s lap.
He grimaced at the package and picked it up carefully, like it contained hazardous waste. “Wasn’t there something in our arrangement saying you’re not allowed to poison me?”
“It’s candy, not arsenic.”
He lifted a finger and said, “Ever hear that a clean system is a healthy system?”
Right of course. Mr. Organic wouldn’t eat a gummy worm. “Then mine must look like the inside of a garbage dump. You can’t knock ’em unless you try first.”
He rolled his eyes but opened the package. He squished the worm between his fingers and shuddered, looking like he was going to throw up right there on the spot. “This is just disgusting.”
I put my hands on my hips and gave an exaggerated sigh. “Just try it.”
“Wasn’t peer pressure supposed to end in high school?” he mused, his hand sliding up my thigh, momentarily making me forget what we were talking about. His lips kissed along my neck and goose bumps pebbled my flesh. Something told me I’d never get used to his touch.
He threw the bag of gummy worms to the side and continued working along my collarbone, then lower. “This is a much better alternative to candy,” he said, his hands slipping up my shirt.
If he thought he could get away with distracting me with his mouth and hands, well, he was right. But he wouldn’t win this time. I could muster up some self-restraint. “Did you hear that? I think there’s a chicken in your condo.”
He let out sigh and said, “I take back everything I said about admiring your determination.”
“It’s an endearing quality that you’ll learn to embrace with time.”
“Fine. But for the record, I’m only trying this so you stop giving me those puppy dog eyes. I can’t say no to anything when you give me looks like that.”
“I’ll keep that useful nugget of information tucked away.”
His hand caressed my cheek, and he gave me a smile that set my insides ablaze. “Use those powers for good, okay?” He looked at the candy in his hand and took a tentative bite. His expression went from disgust to revulsion in the span of a few seconds. “This tastes like shit.”
“It tastes like my childhood.” I picked up the bag and shoved a worm in my mouth.
His eyes widened as he watched me chew and swallow the candy. “Well, your childhood should have put you in a hyperglycemic coma by now.”
I couldn’t help the laughter that bubbled up, because Brogan freaking out about a gummy worm was the funniest thing I’d seen in at least a week.
“Excuse me, I need to wash the taste of shit down with something.” He moved his laptop from the couch cushion to the end table and disappeared into the kitchen. A couple minutes later, he came back, brandishing two glasses of red wine. He handed me the long-stemmed crystal, and I took a deep sip. This was a far cry from my three dollar beers. My taste buds would be weeping next time I went to a bar.
I placed my glass on a coaster on the coffee table and strode over to the console and turned it on. The good old hunter and dog flashed on the screen, accompanied by the pesky ducks. I hadn’t played this game in years. Ever since the newer gaming systems came out, this one had collected dust under my bed. But when Brogan said he hadn’t indulged in good ol’ nineties technology, I had to share something that was near and dear to my childhood.
After handing Brogan the controller, I instructed him on how the game worked. “Aim it at the ducks. The goal is to kill each one and you move to the next level.”
“Sounds simple enough.” He shrugged and pointed his controller at the television.
I smirked. “Mm-hmm.” Right. Only a novice would say that. Anyone well-versed in the Nintendo-sphere would know that getting each duck took a certain amount of skill and luck, and positioning the controller a quarter inch to the side of the duck because sometimes the screen was a little off with the laser.
I watched him as the loud cling of the trigger rapid-fired, and Brogan continued to miss the ducks flying across the screen. He cussed under his breath, and his brows pinched together in concentration. “What the hell? I had them!”
“It helps if you look through the sight instead of going all G-unit on them. Be one with the gun, boss.”
“Right.” He shook his head and plopped down on the couch, holding up the gun to me. “How about you show me how it’s done.”
I grabbed the controller from his hand and stuck out my tongue. “Gladly.”
The round started again and I shot each duck before they were able to fly off the screen.
“I don’t know how you just did that but I definitely like watching you with a gun in your hands.”
“Yeah?” I pretended to blow smoke from the plastic barrel. “You should see me play Mortal Combat then. I’m proficient with all sorts of weapons.” I wiggled my brows.
“I don’t know whether to be scared of you or turned on.”
A wave of heat licked through me. “Maybe a little bit of both.”
I tossed the controller onto the table and climbed on top of him, my legs on either side of his thighs. His fingers wrapped around my sides as he pulled me closer to him. Nothing beat the feel of his skin, the way his eyes softened when he looked at me… The way everything else slid away, my one reprieve during the toughest months of my life.
My palms cupped either side of his face, my hands slipping into his hair. He groaned and leaned into my touch as I massaged my fingers over his scalp.
“Scared is the last word I’d use when you’re on top of me.” His soft mouth met mine, and a sigh escaped my parted lips. A searing heat spread from where my mouth met his and cascaded down my spine as I arched my body into his. Even though we were close enough th
at the only barrier left was clothes, I needed more. How could someone so different from me elicit such a reaction? I didn’t even begin to understand him, but his willingness to try something that meant a lot to me was heartwarming. If we’d met in college, he’d be a best friend. Someone to share secrets and desires with. Someone I’d want to be around because I liked him as a person first and foremost. Because Brogan was a nice guy, and nice guys were always the most trouble.
His tongue slid across my lips at the same time his hands worked over my back. Any thoughts bumping around in my head quickly dissolved as our kiss deepened, and my grip on reality slipped into a haze of feather light touches, skin, and contented sighs.
Chapter Eighteen
Lainey Taylor Rule of Life #92
A sure way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.
“And, to make it worse, he live-tweeted the whole date. The guy forgot that we followed each other, and that I could see his status updates.”
Zoey and I were bent over in a fit of laughter on our bar stools, listening to Zelda’s account of her date from hell. I’d finally taken her up on her offer for a girls’ night and dragged Zoey along. Luckily, they were hitting it off, just as I’d hoped.
“How did it end?” Zoey asked, while I checked my phone for the tenth time since we sat down thirty minutes ago.
My persistence paid off, because a text sat in my inbox.
Brogan: I went down the cookie aisle and thought of you.
A smile plastered itself to my face, and I quickly texted back while trying to listen to Zelda’s story.
Lainey: I don’t know whether to be flattered or offended.
I focused back on the conversation between Zoey and Zelda just in time for Zelda’s lips to pull into a shit-eating grin.
“I tweeted him from the cab that he was stuck with the bill, and my lipstick wasn’t ‘ho red’ it was ‘guess you’re only getting your hand tonight’ red.”
“Oh my God. Did he tweet back?” Zoey asked.
The Rule Book (Rule Breakers #1) Page 16