The Rule Book (Rule Breakers #1)(15)
He tapped his papers against the table again, and my attention snapped back to him. All congeniality left his face when he said, “Show me I didn’t make a mistake hiring you.”
“Right.” I frowned. I’d get right on that. Looked like I had a lot of work to do if I wanted to keep my job.
…
“We gather together to honor the short life of Chanel Cardigan Black Friday Find. Your time on our poor Lainey’s shoulders was cut short, but you were with her through rain and overcast days.” Zoey grabbed a cupcake from the package and took a ceremonial bite. “Do you have any words, Lain?”
Another tradition we’d started in high school was clothing funerals. Whether a fashion trend died before we were ready to let go (I will never get over the baggy jeans fad) or something was beyond repair, we’d honor our favorite outfits by giving them a proper good-bye. We started out with sparkling cider freshman year, and by the time we reached college, it was boxed wine and Hostess cupcakes.
“You were a great sweater. You kept me warm on cold days.”
“Dependable as a good boyfriend,” Zoey chimed in.
I swilled my wine. The sad part was that I wouldn’t be able to afford anything that nice for a long time. I tried to take good care of my clothes, especially now, with my budget tighter than a pair of Spanx. “More. I didn’t need to put out for her.”
“I’ll drink to that.” She raised her wine, and we clinked glasses.
“To the best sweater a girl could ask for.” I took a sip of wine and tossed the coat into a cardboard box in my closet. I’d save it for a later date, when maybe in all the spare time I had (ha!) I’d take up sewing.
Zoey handed me the last cupcake in the container and asked, “Want to watch an episode of Gilmore Girls?”
“Only if it’s a Jess episode.”
Anything to get over the fact that work wasn’t all that it was cut out to be, and that little problem of not being able to get my boss’s brown eyes off my mind. “Deal.”
Chapter Six
Starr Media Handbook Rule #263
Animals are not permitted on Starr Media premises.
“Come in to my office,” Brogan says, his harsh voice piercing through the intercom.
“Yes, sir. Is something wrong?” I slide past the door and lean against it.
He frowns and furrows his brows as he pages through papers on his desk. “Your work performance is not up to Starr Media quality lately. I’m not happy with your progress.”
Sweat trickles down the curve of my spine, and I’m gasping for air. The room is closing in on me. I need this job more than anything—he must know that. “But I’ve done everything you’ve asked of me.”
“I want more,” he demands, hunger in his eyes.
“What do you want?” I don’t have more to give.
He rolls up his sleeves, revealing one delicious tattoo at a time, and gives me a dimpled smirk. “You.”
My alarm buzzed on my phone, and I shot straight up in bed. My bangs were matted against my forehead in a soggy clump, and my heart continued to pound against the wall of my chest. What the ever-loving hell was that? I mean, I guess I was still shaken from the meeting yesterday, but naughty office dreams about my boss were the last thing I needed.
I groaned and looked at the time. I still had four more snooze button presses before I had to roll out of bed. I collapsed back on my pillow and tried to lull myself back to sleep, rolling to my left side. Then the right. I tried fluffing my pillow and pulling my hair into a bun. No use—my body was jacked up from the weird Brogan dream. I groaned and rolled out of bed, resigned to the fact that I would not be getting any extra Zs this morning. Fine. Time for plan B. Liquid sustenance.
Morning didn’t start until I’d ingested at least four cups of coffee and they’d had time to kick in. Mom claimed she’d never drunk coffee while pregnant with me, but I was convinced that my addiction stemmed from main-lining the stuff in the womb.
With disheveled hair and sleep shorts and a tank, I lumbered my way out of bed and shuffled out to the kitchen. Coffee was already brewed and my favorite cup—I would cuddle you so hard— sat next to the pot, clean. Zoey was one of those annoying people that loved mornings, evidenced by her habit of doing sun salutation crap on a yoga mat in the middle of the living room while I pressed the snooze button seven times. At this moment, though, she was a goddess. Anyone who brewed morning coffee could do no wrong in my book.
Cup number three had just been consumed when Zoey bustled into the kitchen, humming something under her breath.
“She’s alive,” she said, moving toward the fridge and taking out a container of yogurt.
“Merrr,” I mumbled and stuck my hands out in front of me, stiffly, doing my best Frankenstein impression. One more cup and I would be eighty percent functional. After I’d tossed and turned last night, replaying the great sweater demise and wrestling with the fact that Brogan wasn’t completely convinced he’d made the right choice hiring me, it was well past three by the time I fell asleep.
“Did you eat anything? That rocket fuel’s going to burn a hole through your stomach on our run.” She pushed a Tastytart (or as I deemed it “cardboardtart” in terms of flavor) across the counter, and I just stared at the foil-wrapped pastry. Off-brand food sucked when I’d been spoiled the first twenty-three years of my life. Which automatically made me feel guilty for that thought crossing my mind, because the least I could do was give up Poptarts to save money for my mom.