“Oh.” She frowned. “Well, we’ll be there if you finish your calls early.”
“Thanks.”
I put my phone back to my ear and replayed the first message.
Hey, Lain. It’s me. Just letting you know I had a little mishap in the kitchen. Nothing to worry about, just a small fire. Bonus, I met a hot fireman today.
I rolled my eyes and skipped to the next message.
It’s me again. So, our landlord isn’t very happy about the whole smoke damage. Don’t worry, because I have it covered, but you might want to stay out of the apartment for a while. It’s…a little smoky. But hey, you like campfires, right?
Good lord, the girl burned water. I didn’t even want to know what she was attempting to cook. For someone who planned every detail of their life, you’d think using a measuring cup would come as second nature. I dialed her number, and she picked up on the second ring.
“Did you get my messages?” she squeaked, and the background was a muffled murmur of numerous men talking.
“Yep, I got both.”
“I’m so sorry. Things got a little out of hand with the brownies. I mean, a boxed mix shouldn’t be this difficult.”
“You made brownies?” Dear lord. What the hell possessed her to use the oven?
“Attempted. They’re better off as doorstops at the moment.” She sighed. “You know how Top Chef always gets me amped. I had the day off and wanted to give baking another try.”
I put my head in my hand and stifled my groan for her benefit. No use making her feel worse than she did. “How extensive is the damage?”
“Just a little black around the stove, and part of the counter’s melted, but other than that, nothing. I closed your room so your clothes wouldn’t get smoky.”
I leaned back in my chair and took a deep breath. It could have been so much worse. “Thanks.”
“It should be okay by the time you get home tonight.”
“Great thanks. And leave the baking to me next time, okay?”
“Right.”
We hung up, and I inhaled deeply, trying to use Zoey’s yoga breathing to center myself. Screwed up tweets? Check. Apartment caught on fire? Check. With that out of the way, I could safely move on to my next task of the day—emptying my bank account into the healthcare system. Good-bye, paycheck, it was nice knowing you for a whole forty minutes.
The hospital had been nice enough to add me on the account so I could easily make online payments (how selfless of them). I powered up my laptop and logged into the site, clicking on the bill portion.
The amount loaded on the screen, and the yoga breaths screeched to a halt. I sat there and blinked.
No. This couldn’t be right.
I refreshed the page five times just to make sure.
No, no, no.
I’d always heard bad things happened in threes. This must be a record.
I’d just checked the other week, and I was sure that there hadn’t been that many zeroes. This would take me four years to pay off if I didn’t have any other expenses. Surely this had to be a mistake. Yes, a clerical error, because even with crappy insurance, this fee seemed exorbitant.
My shaky fingers dialed the number of the billing company, and I sat through ten minutes of crappy, static-y hold music before I was queued in to a receptionist.
“Hello, St. Vincent Hospital billing center, this is Betty, how may I assist you?” she drawled in a thick southern accent.
Okay, Betty, get ready to make it rain, because I need a money tree right about now. “Hi, Betty. I’m calling about my mother’s bill. I logged into the site, and it seems like there’s been an error in the amount due.”
I gave her my information and she hmmed and huhhed and yes, ma’amed a few times before saying, “Yes, I see the account now.”
“And do you see there is a big mistake in the amount owed?”
“I’m sorry, sugar, but it seems the new chemo treatment is more expensive than the previous one they were administering. Your insurance doesn’t fully cover it.”
My heart fell through a trap door in my chest and plummeted straight to the floor.
“Oh.” My money tree, the one Betty was supposed to fix and replenish, was on fire, burning a hole in my dwindling bank account. My throat tightened, and I swallowed hard, trying to keep it together long enough to end the conversation.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart. Wish there was more I could do.”
Me, too! I wanted to scream, but poor Betty with her sweet southern accent wasn’t the one who decided my financial fate. As I learned earlier this morning, it sucked being on the receiving end of someone else’s misplaced anger. So instead of screaming at a woman who didn’t deserve it, I said, “Thanks,” and hung up the phone.
I stared at the amount on the screen until my vision blurred and my head swam with words like “eternal debt” and “starvation.” Suddenly, playing the lottery didn’t seem like a bad idea.
I tamped down the hysteria that rolled in on the perimeters of my mind, waiting to blanket all my rational thoughts. No problem. I could live sparsely for the next few years. Discounted noodles were already my best friend, besides Zoey, so why not invite Spam and off-brand cereal to the party? It was all worth it if my mom didn’t have to worry about this. She had bigger things on her plate, mainly staying alive, which was all that mattered to me at this point. The money situation would work itself out. Eventually. When I was gray.
Plus, there wasn’t much I could do. Starr Media paid on salary, so no matter how many hours I worked, it didn’t mean I earned more. Hopefully Brogan gave out Christmas bonuses because I sure needed a Scrooge McMoneybags right about now.
Chapter Twenty
Lainey Taylor Rule of Life #92
Sometimes a fling is just a fling.
At a quarter till seven I shut down my computer and grabbed my coat off the rack. December had brought a wet, bitter cold that seeped into my bones, chilling me to the core. I tied the belt tighter on my trench and started my ten block trek to Brogan’s condo.
I hadn’t spoken to him the rest of the day after the less-than-amicable exchange in his office. This was the first time that he’d been upset at me, and I wasn’t quite sure what to expect when I got to his place. Were we supposed to ignore that I screwed up? Would he continue to be pissed? He hadn’t sent an email or message telling me not to come over, so I took that as a good sign. Plus, I had to go over anyway to walk Bruce.
It was strange to think that I didn’t go straight home after work anymore. Not that I was in any hurry to get back to my place. After the fire, it probably reeked of burned plastic (thanks, Zoey). And my roommate had to work overtime on her new project, anyway, so the company for dinner was appreciated. Nothing was sadder than eating ramen in an empty living room watching reruns of The Bachelor.
Luckily, tonight I didn’t have to. Anything Brogan cooked was bound to be eons better than whatever I could conjure up in my currently non-existent kitchen.
Plus, after twelve hours of nothing but conversations involving tweets, Cloud pictures, and the number of someone’s followers, I was ready for a much-needed reprieve.
On the surface, everything between us had been going great up until this morning. Getting to know him on a deeper level than joking about movies and funny requests from clients had proved more difficult. Any time I even hinted at asking more about his personal life and past, he’d shut down and mumble an I don’t know. I knew from the beginning Brogan was a private person, but I figured he’d open up with time…I hoped. It would be nice to know more than that his grandmother was Italian and liked to cook. In fact, that was pretty much all I knew. Which, after a few weeks of our relationship, didn’t bode well.
Bruce sat in the entryway wagging his tail when I walked through the door. Instead of jumping, he was now down to a scramble of paws that was a mix between tap and river dancing. I bent down and let him give me a kiss on the cheek. “Good to see you too, boy. Jitters is going to be very jealo
us.”
“Hey there.” Brogan stood in the doorway to the living room, and my heart leaped into my throat as his gaze lazily traced over me. “That skirt has been driving me insane all day.” He strode over and skimmed his fingers along the curve of my hip.
Wait, wasn’t he super pissed at me this morning? Okay, so I guessed he was done being mad at me. Interesting how he could flip it like a switch. Was that what I was supposed to do, too?
“I’m surprised you noticed, after what happened earlier,” I said cautiously. How could he be so nonchalant after threatening my job if I screwed up again?
His lips pressed soft kisses along my neck. “Office stays at the office.”
“Ah.” That made sense, I guess. And yet, totally ignoring what happened this morning was impossible. “Right.”
My misgivings must have been etched on my face because his eyes searched mine and his hands cupped my cheeks. “Are you okay with this? At work I run everything by my specifications. Nothing is personal. I have to treat you like I’d treat every other employee. We both agreed.”
Now I just felt stupid. Of course he had to do that. I didn’t expect preferential treatment, but I didn’t know how to act outside the office after being chewed out. Guess it was something I just needed to get used to.
Because, even if it was in a limited capacity, Brogan was mine. His condo had turned into a safety net, a bright spot in long, strenuous days and worry-filled nights. A few hours with him was enough to recalibrate my system. “You’re right. Everything’s cool.”
His lips pulled into a smile. “Good, because dinner’s ready.”
I dropped my bag on the counter, and he swept me into a hug. His lips found mine, and my body melted into his. A deep heaviness settled into my muscles as every part of me ached to connect with him. When his tongue swept past my lips, blissful numbness overtook me. Okay, yes, I could definitely let this morning go. “Good, because I’m starving. I’m going to be kitchenless for a couple weeks, so might as well pack it in now.”
A crease formed between his brows. “What? Why?”
“My roommate caused a kitchen fire.” I waved my hand dismissively, like this was a common hiccup when living with roommates—which I guess it was when living with Zoey.
His hands cupped my shoulders and concern washed over his features. “Are you okay? Is it livable?”
“Yes, just a little…pungent. Really, it’s nothing out of the norm. Zoey catches fire to anything she tries to cook.”
“So you live with an arsonist?”
“She’s harmless unless given a pot or pan. Then all bets are off.”
“Remind me never to let her in my house.” He mashed his lips together and cleared his throat. He shoved his hands in his pockets, and he shuffled nervously from foot to foot. “If you ever need a place to stay, there’s always room here for you.”
All of the anger and anxiety from today’s earlier events evaporated. Goose bumps cascaded over my skin at the thought of staying with Brogan, sleeping in his bed, waking up with my head on his chest. I didn’t know what that meant in terms of us, but I took his offer as a good sign. Opening up didn’t seem to come easy to him, so this was a huge relief. “Thanks. I appreciate that.”
Silence hung between us at the weight of the moment. This was a nice unexpected step forward in an otherwise crappy day.
A grin spread across his face, and he pressed his hand into the small of my back, leading me toward the dining room. “Right. We should eat before the food gets cold.”
White china plates were placed in our usual spots at the table. A steaming bowl of macaroni and cheese (the homemade kind, not Kraft) sat in the middle of the table, along with a plate of fluffy dinner rolls and a mixed greens vegetable dish.
We sat down at the table, and Bruce curled up on his pillow in the living room, snoring.
“This looks amazing.”
“I’m glad you think so. It’s been a lot of fun cooking for someone else.” He smiled at me, his dimples making an appearance. “Dinners together have been something I look forward to.”
Would I ever get used to him? Or would he always steal my breath away with kind gestures and easy smiles?
I speared my fork into the tender macaroni, and the cheese stretched between the pieces as I brought it to my mouth. The sharp cheddar hit my tongue, followed by the creamy sauce and noodles. My eyes rolled back in my head, and for a split second I hated Brogan for ruining Kraft Mac and Cheese for me.
I took a sip of wine and said, “This reminds me of my mom’s cooking.”
“Your mom’s Italian too?”
I shook my head. “She just likes to cook with a lot of cheese.” I pointed my fork at him. “Although never trust her with pre-sliced packages. She had this bad habit of not peeling the slips of paper separating the cheese when she made my sandwiches. Nothing more disappointing than biting into plastic. She went through this vegan phase, and the vegan cheese almost tasted like plastic, so honestly I couldn’t tell the difference at some point.”
He grimaced, and his fork froze halfway from his plate to his mouth. “Gross.”
“Oh, come on, didn’t your mom used to make horrible lunches? Please tell me I’m not the only one.”
Brogan shrugged and tore off a piece of bread. “Not really. I went to boarding school starting in seventh grade.”
“Oh? Like one of those all-boys ones where people stand on their desks and yell Yawp and write poetry?”
He pointed at me. “I actually did see Dead Poets Society. And no, it wasn’t nearly that exciting. But I did manage to singe off my eyebrows in chem lab. And we did sneak out to meet the all girls-school a few miles away.” A wicked grin crossed his face as he remembered the memory.
“I bet you were quite popular with the ladies.” I smirked and took another bite of pasta. I would bet my next paycheck that younger Brogan charmed the plaid skirts off many prep school girls.
A twinkle lit his eyes as he said, “I lacked any skill when it came to the opposite sex. Could barely form a coherent sentence around them.” He chuckled.
The Hallelujah Chorus broke out, angels sang, and the Red Sea parted. Brogan was finally opening up, even if it was just a little. To think of him as an awkward, gawky teen was completely charming. It went to show that the nice guys in high school really did turn out okay. And Brogan was more than okay. Maybe that should be a PSA in high schools: Awkward, gawky teenager? Don’t worry, you’ll end up being a billionaire CEO by the time you hit thirty. Keep doing your thing, nerds.
I cocked my head. “I find that hard to believe.”
“It’s all true. Even when I started my company at twenty-two, I was painfully shy around women. Just ask Jackson.”
“I’d need to see it to believe it.” Brogan, Mr. Tall, Dark, and Tattooed, shy around women? I’d pay good money to see that. Even though he remained somewhat reserved in our interactions, he still managed to make me swoon without even trying.
“Cross my heart.” He made the motion with his fingers. “I was a late bloomer, much to my father’s dismay.” He grumbled the last statement, and his expression darkened.
A boarding school boy with daddy issues? Oh, the plot thickens. “You don’t get along with your dad?” I already knew the answer to this one after the shouty phone call during my first few weeks at the company. Even still, I couldn’t help but want to know more, especially when he was finally opening up to me.
His frown deepened, and a crease formed on the bridge of his nose. “I don’t really like to talk about him.”
“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours. I bet my daddy issues can trump whatever your dad did.” I joked, keeping my voice light, when in reality, talking about my dad was the equivalent of dunking my eyeballs in bleach.
“I doubt that,” he muttered.
“Did your dad live a secret life for fifteen years and have another family he visited every other week?”
His eyes widened at this, and he bristled. “Th
at’s horrible. I’m sorry.”
“It’s in the past. I haven’t talked to him in a long time. It’s better this way.”
“Sometimes it is.” He nodded solemnly. “Still, no one should have to go through that.” He pushed a few noodles around on his plate, staring into space. Still not sharing anything about his family.
“I don’t mean to pry.” Let’s be real here, I totally did. “I just want to hear more about you. I feel like I’m the only one that ever shares anything personal, and I don’t want this to be one-sided.” Future conversations would be pretty boring if it continued this way.
Awful flashbacks of family dinners washed over me with this déjà vu moment. Mom would ask Dad about his day, and he would shrug noncommittally. To think, he kept a whole other family hidden from us for years.
By no means did I believe I was the other girl in Brogan’s life—because, come on, the guy barely had time for work and his dog—but I didn’t want to fall into the same holding pattern that my mom had been in for twenty-seven years.
I pressed on. “Is that why you have so many rules? Because of him?” I couldn’t help it. Brogan was like a damn bag of Doritos. Once opened I wanted to devour the whole thing. Even if it meant prying a little hard for information.
“Lainey.” This time his voice was much harsher. “Stop pushing.”
The pressure in my head continued to press against my skull. I’d tried hard to be patient, but it was clear I wasn’t going to get through to him. His secrets, his desires, they all remained locked behind a door, and he wasn’t ever going to give me the key. “Unbelievable. All I want is to know a little more about you. I’m not even asking for much. Shit, I ask about school lunches, and you treat me like I’m interrogating you.”
He threw up his hands. “That’s what it feels like.”
Oh hell no. He would not pin this on me. Heat sizzled on the back of my neck, and I put my fork down. “I might be nosy, but like hell am I shining a police light on you.” Everything from five years ago came pouring back. The call from my mom, listening to her cry over the phone while I sat helpless in my dorm room. Googling my half-siblings and spending the rest of the day in the bathroom, sick from the news.
The Rule Book (Rule Breakers #1) Page 18