The Rule Book (Rule Breakers #1)(13)

No, it couldn’t be.

I pulled harder, and a chill ran through me as I heard the distinct sound of fabric ripping.

Oh no.

Betsey, how could you do this to me? Didn’t she know that this was my favorite cardigan she had locked in her stupid Jaws of Life? I’d spent two hours in line on Black Friday and elbowed past old ladies to get this. I wanted to shake my fist at her. I wanted to do the Dawson ugly cry. I wanted my damn cardigan back.

I pulled a little harder and heard another rip. I’m sorry, Betsey, did I say Jaws of Life? I meant beautiful doors of metallic glory.

Brogan kept walking toward the conference room and called behind him, “You coming?” He looked over his shoulder and did a double take, his brows furrowing. “Everything all right?”

Totally okay. I often stood with my favorite Chanel cardigan in the elevator door just for kicks. “I’m great.”

“Then let’s get to the meeting. Can’t be late.” He jutted his thumb at the conference room and continued walking toward the sweet refuge that was just out of sweater-snag reach.

“Yes.” I moved forward, trying again to pull my cardigan out of the iron talons of the door, but I was rewarded with another soft rip in the material. It took everything in me not to whimper and break into a frenzied game of tug of war with the elevator over my beloved sweater.

He was almost at the conference room door. If he disappeared into it even for a few seconds, I could get my top free. Keep walking, just a little more.

As if he heard my thoughts, he stopped again and turned around.

I froze mid tug, trying my best to keep my face void of any indication of my inner freak-out. This was the most messed up game of red light green light ever.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he called back to me, almost at the conference room door.

My heart raced as I tried to come up with a reason, any reason to get him out of sight so I could properly lose it over the situation. “I realized I left something downstairs. I’ll meet you in there.”

“All right,” he said slowly, still unsure. “Timeliness is important, so try to be quick.”

Play it cool. He has no clue you’re stuck in Betsey’s death grip. “I won’t be late,” I reassured him. “Punctuality is my middle name. Well, it’s actually Jane, but it might as well be punctuality.” A laugh bubbled up, notes of hysteria mingling with the loud guffaw.

Oh God, just shut up so he walks away and you can get away with some dignity left. I smiled and said, “I’ll meet you in there before it starts.”

He nodded slowly and turned toward the conference room. “Sounds good.”

Things I’d most likely find on my desk by the end of the week: a random drug test form and a formal letter terminating my employment.

As soon as he was out of sight, I turned toward the elevator, set the coffees on the floor, shimmied out of my sweater, and tried pulling again. And, again, another soft rip started at the bottom hem.

“Please, Betsey, what did I ever do to you?” I begged.

I tried prying the doors open, but they wouldn’t budge. “I will give you anything if you just give me my sweater back.” That included offering Jackson as a human sacrifice. Anything to get this back.

I pressed the down button and figured if the doors opened, it would plop into my welcoming, broke as a joke arms. The hum of the elevator car moving was a comforting sound. Yes, the doors would open, the sweater would drop, and I’d make it to the meeting in time.

“I promise to take the stairs every day from now on if you just spare the sweater. It’s Chanel, for Christ sake,” I pleaded.

I was reduced to bargaining with a hunk of metal. Stupid Betsey.

The fabric of my sweater must have gotten caught in the internal mechanisms, because as the elevator arrived, the cardigan shot to the top of doorway in a mangled heap and a horrible ripping sound confirmed this accessory was toast. A mix of a wail and a groan edged up my throat as I stared at the article of clothing. I stood there, stunned. It was like one of those terrible videos on YouTube of men dancing in thongs—horrifying, and yet I couldn’t look away.

The doors flew open, and my cardigan dropped right in front of Jackson’s feet.

He pursed his lips and stepped around it like it was road kill. “Typical,” he said, his stupid pert nose pointed to the sky. “I told you, Betsey only gives what she thinks you deserve.” Then he was off to the conference room while I stood there, staring at the mound of black cashmere on the floor.

I gathered up the tattered fabric, squeezed it to my chest, and promised myself that I’d give it a proper burial in the bottom of my closet once I returned home tonight. Shoving the garment into my desk drawer, I followed Jackson into the conference room and took the only available seat at the oversize round conference table.

The other employees, who’d either ignored my existence or gone out of their way to avoid me the first week, were now smiling, and all said hello to me when I sat down. They didn’t bother saying hi to Jackson, which the grinch didn’t seem to notice, or he just didn’t care.

Brogan glanced over at me, and his eyes widened a fraction as his gaze dipped below my shoulders to the very low-cut top I’d had on under my cardigan. They quickly flickered back up to my eyes, and he cleared his throat and shifted restlessly in his seat. I couldn’t be 100 percent certain, but if I wagered a guess, that quick flit of movement to my chest erred more on the side of bang me than you’re breaking office dress code. Or that might have been a heaping serving of wishful thinking with a side dish of “I need to get some.”