The Rule Book (Rule Breakers #1)(25)
Good thing he couldn’t see that I had the mentality of a middle schooler when it came to my interest in him…which would surely go away sometime soon. Right as soon as I gave up dark chocolate and free samples from Sephora.
A reply came back almost immediately.
From: Brogan Starr
To: Lainey Taylor
Subject: Re: Meeting tomorrow
Who says I’m at the office? For someone who claims to know my whereabouts at all times, you’re doing a poor job.
Brogan Starr, CEO Starr Media Employer of uninformed 2nd assistants This definitely counted as flirting, right? I wasn’t just imagining it. What did it say about me that I wanted to flirt back? That you’re a normal, red-blooded American girl with a Kindle overloaded (never!) with office romances. I stretched my neck and gave myself a moment to come up with another reply. This was not flirting, this was Brogan being nice, as always, in his witty, typical way.
From: Lainey Taylor
To: Brogan Starr
Subject: Re: Meeting tomorrow
I’ll try to hone my schedule-stalking skills by next month’s meeting.
Lainey Taylor
Non-stalker Second Assistant
From: Brogan Starr
To: Lainey Taylor
Subject: Re: Meeting tomorrow
Good. You’ll know where to find me. Good night, Lainey.
Brogan Starr, CEO Starr Media “Good night, Mr. Starr,” I said. There’d be no sleeping any time soon on my end. Not with thoughts of rolled-up sleeves, strong hands, and a set of irresistible dimples to keep me up. What had changed his mind about me? Maybe, just maybe, I was finally fitting in to the company. I closed my laptop and smiled. What had I gotten myself into?
Chapter Nine
Lainey Taylor Rule of Life #77:
If you decide to trespass into your boss’s place, make sure he’s not home first.
I grabbed the leash off Jackson’s desk at the end of the workday a week later. I hadn’t seen Brogan the rest of the week after the email exchange, and there hadn’t been any other email interactions, which made me think that a) I’d imagined the whole thing, which would be entirely possible if I didn’t have the emails as evidence, or b) He really was just being friendly, nothing more. Which was entirely more plausible.
Jackson had already headed home and instructed me to walk and feed Bruce. This being the fourth time in the matter of a few weeks, I’d stopped getting that smarmy feeling whenever I stepped into Brogan’s condo.
The ten-minute trek to the apartment chilled me to the bone, and by the time I entered the building, every muscle in my body was tightened in on itself, trying to conserve heat and energy. In concept, I was a huge fan of cold weather. Pumpkin spice lattes, boots, and skinny jeans? Sign me up. But stick me in sub-sixty-degree weather for more than two minutes, and I was shivering more than a teacup Chihuahua. For a Portland girl, I was a wimp.
Bruce was sitting in the entryway, tail thumping against the floor, when I entered the posh apartment.
Before he could jump up, I put my hand out in front of me, standing my ground. I’d read a few online dog obedience articles during lunch today, and was willing to try anything to preserve my clothes. So here I stood in Brogan’s entryway, having a showdown at the O.K. Corral with this slobbery heathen.
There was only room for one alpha in the room, and it sure as heck wasn’t going to be Bruce. “Sit, boy.” I’d made the mistake of wearing tights with my boots this morning and did not want to walk ten blocks with holes running down the expanse of my thighs.
Bruce licked his chops and gave an exaggerated huff, but followed my command and plopped his butt down on the slate tile.
I smiled, relieved that I didn’t have to go through another round of chasing him down the hall, or dusting paw prints off my shirt. “Good boy.” Maybe he wasn’t too bad. We’d just gotten off to a rocky start.
I worked my way into the kitchen and picked up his food bowl, then moved over to the pantry to scoop some kibbles into the bowl. We’d found a good routine, Bruce not jumping all over me, and me getting as little dog saliva on my skin and clothing as possible. It’s not that I hated dogs. I mean come on, who didn’t love a cute Yorkie? But Bruce was, to put it in the best terms possible, a disgusting, slobbery dog. Drool pooled on the floor, slopping from his jowls as he waited for me to get two scoops of food from the pantry.
My lips curled in disgust. “We need to get you a bib, dude.”
Bruce huffed in response. Apparently he didn’t like my dig at his leaky mouth problem.
The food scoop had disappeared into the quicksand of kibble, and I had to dig to get it. As I was stooped over, sifting through the food, one inhalation shy of keeling over from the toxic fumes, there was a tug at my sweater. I ignored it as my fingers hit the metal scoop.
I measured out two cups and turned to drop it in Bruce’s food bowl, but was immediately thrown off balance. I turned and found a large chunk of my sweater in his mouth, his jaw working a hole in the thin fabric.
“What the hell? Your nasty food probably doesn’t taste great, but neither do my clothes.” I tugged my sweater out of his mouth, pulling it close to my body, and the soppy wet end wacked against my thigh.
He abandoned my sweater for dog food, not caring that he had, again, annihilated another sweater.
“What is with you and ruining my stuff?”