by Aven Ellis
“Livy, that’s awesome! Let’s go have drinks and dinner Friday night to celebrate,” I say happily.
“It’s just an interview,” Livy says, putting her hand out to calm me down. “I don’t want to jinx it.”
“We still need to eat,” I counter.
Livy cocks an eyebrow up. “Maybe we’ll celebrate your first kiss with you know who on Friday night.”
“Stop,” I say, blushing.
“Mmmm, we very well could be drinking to that,” Livy says.
I draw an excited breath. I’m hours away now from seeing Beckett.
And only time will tell if kissing me is on Beckett’s agenda tonight.
I glance at my watch. It’s about to turn six, and I need to ask Mallory if she needs anything else before I leave for the night.
And get ready for my date with Beckett.
Please say no, I will her as I get up from my desk. Please don’t make me stay late tonight, not when I need to freshen up my makeup, change my clothes, transform from working girl to girl going to Beckett’s condo for dinner.
I’m about to clear my throat when I hear Mallory on the phone. And even though I’m four days into this job, I can tell Mallory is either talking to Tom or a client. How do I know this? Her voice is gone into super positive fake overdrive.
She has her back to me, so she can’t see me, but she’s studying hardwood floor pictures on her computer. I’m about to turn around when she swivels around and sees me. She motions for me to step into the office while she’s talking.
“Um, yes, I have the proposal ready for the meeting with Beckett next Wednesday . . . Yes, I’m thinking heavy on him posting his own videos to the Vine to connect with his fans. Or Snapchat . . .”
What? Is she high? Beckett on Snapchat? He would never, ever agree to that. And him shooting his own videos for the Vine? Gah, they’d be awkward and horrible if he has to star in his own production!
And if she had spent more than ten minutes researching him, she’d know that.
Suddenly Mallory throws her head back and laughs, interrupting my thoughts. “Tinder . . . I know! We could have him go on dates on Tinder and film it! That would be fantastic!”
I clench my jaw. Okay, not only is that asinine, and he’d never do it, but the last thing Beckett needs is to be going on dates with random girls from Tinder.
He needs to go on dates with me.
“Right, right . . . Okay, well I’ve got an appointment so I’m going to run . . .”
Yes! Mallory is leaving, so I’ll be able to run home and change. But first I think I need to ask her about the idea to try and get Beckett to do video features. It will not only flop but piss him off.
Mallory hangs up. “Oh, what a long day. I’m so glad to get that Beckett Riley plan put together.”
“Um, Mallory, can I say something?”
“Well, you do know how to speak, so I assume you can, Aubrey,” Mallory says, shooting me a sweet look. Then she grins. “Kidding, of course.”
Of course.
I ignore her bitchy comment and go ahead. “Mallory, I have done some research on Beckett Riley and—”
“Hopefully not to create a Pinterest board dedicated to him so you can gawk over him.”
Okay. I want to go around her desk, kick her chair to knock it off balance, and watch her bony butt land smack on the ground.
“Um, no, of course not,” I say.
Because who needs Pinterest when I have a date with the man himself tonight?
“Anyway,” I continue, “he’s incredibly awkward on camera if the questions aren’t related to hockey.”
“Oh, please, he only needs a little encouragement,” Mallory says, closing down her computer.
“I don’t think he’ll be receptive to this. I think Twitter or Instagram would be a better way to start him off.”
Mallory swivels around in her chair, her eyes narrowed at me. “You’ve been here four days. I’ve been in media for eight years. I don’t think I’ll be taking advice from you on how to handle a media plan.”
I feel my face burn hot. So much for the ‘open creative environment where all employees can contribute’ that I read about in the handbook on Tuesday.
“Okay,” I say simply. Then I clear my throat. “Unless you need anything else from me, I was going to leave for the evening.”
Mallory stands up. “Yes, I do.”
What? She hasn’t given me anything all day and now that it’s six o’clock, she wants to give me work?
“I want you to provide me with a statistical report on usage of Tinder and the Vine by young men. Give me addresses of hockey players with these accounts, how many followers they have, all the details you can think of.”
She’s throwing this at me because of my comment. Mallory thinks she can prove how right she is by numbers. Which she very well might be, but she’s not adding Beckett into her equation.
“Yes, of course,” I say. “What is the deadline?”
Mallory strides past me and reaches for her luxurious coat hung on the back of the door. “I’ll need it emailed to me before you leave tonight. So I can review at it at home, of course.”
My stomach drops out as I realize what this means. She’s doing this on purpose so I have to stay here, because my remote email access hasn’t been set up yet.
There’s no way I’ll be able to have dinner with Beckett tonight.
Chapter 14
The Aubrey Rules To Live By, Rule #14: When faced with a difficult situation at work and challenging people, the best thing to do is put your head down, work hard, and prove them wrong.
**Amendment** This rule is SHIT, complete SHIT!
**Note** I’m so pissed off I can hardly see straight, let alone put together a report that is going to take me hours to do.
**Note #2** And this rule is costing me my date with Beckett, which makes me want to throw up. And cry. At the same time.
I sit down at my desk, furious. I’m so angry my hands are shaking. And I’m fighting every urge I have not to kick the hell out of my trash can. Scuffs be dammed.
I swallow hard. There’s no way I’ll finish this in an hour. Or even two.
“Aubrey?”
I look up and see Mallory standing at the edge of my desk.
“Yes?” I say, staring up at her.
“Have a wonderful evening. I so appreciate you taking the time to prepare this report. It will be good for you, so you can get a better grasp on how things work. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have an appointment to go see some Italian marble.”
Then she strides away, her perfume swirling around me in an expensive floral cloud.
Inside I scream. And resent the fact I still have to smell her after she’s left.
To look at fucking marble.
“Hey,” Charlotte says, getting up and moving over to me. “Are you okay?”
I see an expression of genuine concern on her delicate face. I want to trust her, but I have a rule about this. Never speak poorly about your coworkers or bosses to fellow employees. You never know when it will come back and bite you in the ass.
“Um, I’m fine, just have to change some plans,” I say, and as the words move past my lips, I feel sick to my stomach.
“I’m sorry,” she says softly. “Off the record, her last assistant got up and walked out after three weeks. But you didn’t hear that from me.”
So it’s not me. She’s just an epic bitch.
“Good to know,” I say, nodding. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Charlotte says, tucking a lock of her dark hair behind one ear. “And I have a stash of snacks in my cube, bottom left drawer. Help yourself if you get hungry.”
Hungry.
My throat swe
lls as I realize I’m not going to have my date with Beckett tonight. I need to tell him not to bother getting the Belgian beer and fries.
“Um, thanks,” I say, distracted by thoughts of having to cancel this date.
“I’ll let you get at it,” Charlotte says. “See you tomorrow.”
“Thank you,” I say. “For everything, Charlotte.”
“You’re welcome,” she says. Then she gathers up her stuff and heads out for the night.
I can hear various people around the office, but not many. I swallow hard and reach for my cell phone. My heart feels like lead as I shoot him a text.
Beckett, I’m so sorry. A project was dumped on my desk at six. Going to take hours. I’ll need to take a rain check. I’m so sorry.
I hope he hasn’t headed out yet. I’d feel horrible if he was stuck in traffic to get food for me.
There’s a bit of a wait before I get a reply, but finally he does.
If you’ve changed your mind about dinner, I get it.
What? What? He thinks I’m using work as an excuse to cancel? I type a message back.
The last thing on earth I want is to be stuck here when I could be with YOU, don’t you know that??????
I hit send without a second thought. Then I stare down at my phone, the realization of what I texted to him hitting me full force. Shit. Shit! I told him I liked him, for all intents and purposes, with that text, and what if he really only wants burgers and fries?
I toss my phone down on my desk in anger. I tap my foot underneath my desk to tamp down the urge to kick the living hell out of my trashcan.
I stare at my phone, willing him to respond.
But he doesn’t.
I swallow hard and realize he’s not going to answer. Either I freaked him out, or he thinks this is all a fib on my part to get out of the date because I’m not interested.
Oy.
I shift my attention to this report, which I know Mallory won’t even glance at. I’m half-tempted to copy and paste an article about the history of Lucky Charms to see if she even reads it.
But instead I begin putting information together. It will be a shitty report, no doubt about it, but if anyone asks I’ll happily provide the time constraints I was under and it is unrealistic to expect anything else.
And if they want to fire me for this, go for it.
I begin working, trying to ignore the heaviness that is in my heart. I check my phone about a half hour in—nope, not broken and half a battery charge on it—and realize Beckett isn’t going to answer.
I draw a breath and toggle over to my word document to copy in a link I found, and more people head out for the night. I see the cleaning people come around, and I figure I’ll soon be the last person here. You know, because ChicagoConnect is supposed to be about having work family balance.
I fume. Apparently another part of the employee handbook Mallory didn’t bother to read.
Buzz!
My heart stops. But now I’m almost afraid to look at it. If it’s not Beckett, I’ll be crushed. If it is Beckett, I’ll be afraid to read what he’s said.
Gah.
Okay. Okay. Answer it. It’s probably my mom or Livy anyway.
I screw up my face and flip the phone over.
It’s Beckett.
My heart explodes. I hold my breath as I glance down at his message.
Come downstairs to visitor parking in the garage. There will be a familiar Black Escalade waiting for you. Use password “Smart Ass” when asked and follow directions from there.
Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh! He’s not mad. He believed me. And not only did he believe me, he wants to see me right now.
I grab my makeup bag out of my purse and quickly sweep some powder across my face. I swipe lipstick across my lips, blot with a tissue, and hurry to catch an elevator downstairs. Butterflies are dancing furiously in my stomach. My pulse is twinging. I push the down button on the wall again, willing an elevator to stop on my floor now so I can see Beckett.
The chime sounds. The doors open, so I step inside and wait for the elevator to descend to the garage level.
I watch anxiously as it descends each floor. Come on, come on, come on.
Finally I hit the visitor parking level. I step outside, greeted by the frigid Chicago air, and my eyes dart around for Beckett’s SUV.
And there it is.
I approach his Escalade, and when I’m near it, Beckett lowers the driver’s side window a crack, so I can only see his eyes.
“Password?” he asks, cocking an eyebrow.
I’m so done for this man.
“Smart Ass,” I say, arching my own eyebrow back.
“Get in on the other side. Make it quick.”
Curious, I head around the back of the car, to the passenger side. I open the door.
And then my mouth drops open in shock.
Because right on the console in between the seats Beckett has set up dinner. There’s a cheeseburger and fries and a Belgian beer, all waiting for me.
My hands fly to my mouth. “Beckett!” I cry, delighted by his thoughtfulness.
My eyes meet his, and his gorgeous brown eyes are shining brightly at me.
“Hop in,” he says.
I know I’m beaming as I get inside the car. I shut the door behind me, and I still can’t believe what I’m seeing.
“You brought me dinner,” I say, amazed.
“Well, you couldn’t come to my place right now, but I could deliver to you,” Beckett says, reaching for a French fry and popping it into his mouth.
“Thank you. You’ve made a really shit day perfect,” I say truthfully.
Beckett is silent for a moment as I pick up my cheeseburger. “Did you mean what you said in your text?”
I stare back at him, seeing nothing but need in his deep-brown eyes. And as I gaze into them, I realize I can read him. I can read him like I’ve read no other man in my life.
I see a glimmer of doubt. That this sexy, professional athlete, the one who could have any girl in any city at any time, needs to be reassured that I like him. I’m the one he wants, and he wants me to like him back.
And I burst out laughing.
Beckett’s expression turns to one of confusion.
“What’s so funny?”
I turn toward him. “Beckett, do you remember those notes in school? Check yes or check no if you like me?”
“Um, yeah?”
“This conversation reminds me of this. But I check yes.”
“What?”
“I meant what I said in my text. Which translates to ‘I like you.’”
Beckett’s face lights up. “So you do.”
“I do.”
He grins at me. “Good. Because I check yes, too.”
Oh my God!
“Yeah?”
“No doubt about it,” Beckett says, winking at me.
Okay. I’m seriously done.
Because I’m completely falling for this Canadian.
“You need to eat,” Beckett says, interrupting my thoughts.
I nod and take a bite of my cheeseburger, as I’m starving. Oh, man. It’s cheesy and delicious.
“So good,” I mumble as I eat.
Beckett picks up his own burger and takes a bite. “They are, aren’t they?”
I put my burger down. “You know your car is going to smell like French fries now. Trust me, my car smells like a bag of fries on a regular basis.”
Then I mentally kick myself. Did I tell Beckett that my car smells like fries?
Beckett selects another French fry to eat. “Small price to pay to have dinner with you.”
My heart melts.
“I’m sorry tonight got so messed up. M
allory threw this project on me because I pissed her off.”
“How did you do that?” he asks, pausing to dip his fry in truffle mayo.
“Because I told her there was no way you’d agree to going on Tinder, meet girls, and allow them to tape you going on dates.”
I glance at Beckett, who is staring at me as if I suddenly became a character from an alien sci-fi movie.
“What?” he asks.
“You heard me. I told her that was not the venue for you, and she basically told me to shut up and threw this report on my lap before walking out the door.”
Beckett sets his jaw. “I’d never agree to that. Is this what I’m paying for? Seriously?”
“You’re the client. Push back when it’s presented to you. Just play dumb when you hear it.”
“Shit.”
“I know.”
“If you weren’t here, I would have bailed last week.”
“Beckett, you still can,” I say. “I shouldn’t say this, but I’m not speaking as a person from ChicagoConnect. As the girl who checked yes, I’m saying don’t settle.”
Beckett studies me. “As the boy who checked yes, I only want to work with you, so they’re getting my business.”
Ooooooooooooh, I want to kiss him.
But since I’m eating a burger with onions this isn’t the best first kiss option.
“Anyway, I don’t want to think about it,” Beckett says. “I leave for Buffalo tomorrow afternoon. I have a game there on Saturday, and I’ll be back late on Saturday. So maybe we could have brunch on Sunday.”
My heart leaps inside my chest. “I’d like that.”