The Rule Book (Rule Breakers #1)(64)

“Please, call me Brogan.” He extended his hand, he and Zoey shook, and the dip in her shoulders told me she was already under his spell.

He looked her over, his brows creasing. “Have we met before?”

“Maybe we ran into each other?” She shrugged.

I elbowed Zoey, not appreciating her reference to the whole hiding in the bushes incident.

His gaze flicked down to my shirt. “AC/DC is a good look for you.” He smiled, but not enough to elicit the dimple effect.

“I wasn’t expecting to run into anyone tonight.” Gah, why didn’t I take Zoey’s advice to dress up more?

I stopped that thought process. Like hell I needed to dress up for the guy who told me our fling, or whatever it was, had been a mistake. No, I wouldn’t care one bit what he thought of my wardrobe choice.

He held my gaze for a few seconds before saying anything. “Well, I just wanted to come over and make sure you were okay.” His swallowed hard and cleared his throat. “I can see that you are, so I’ll leave you to your girl time.” He wasn’t able to meet my eyes, instead opting to look at his group of friends.

Was Brogan…jealous? The sting of his rejection gave me pause in thinking this was anything more than him being friendly. Because that’s what Brogan did. He was nice to everyone. Everyone loved him. And everyone was content to not dig any deeper, only taking him at face value. Not me, unfortunately. Seems like I was the only one in the Emerald City who was glutton for punishment enough to want to know more about the one person who guarded his secrets tighter than a Las Vegas magician.

I wanted to know what each of those tattoos meant. I wanted to know why he stayed at the office long past when he needed to, and why he’d never watched the movies that were part of our pop culture growing up. It hit me like a stiletto to the stomach how badly I needed to know all of this.

A clean-cut guy with a fauxhawk strutted over to our little group and clapped a hand on Brogan’s back. “You singing Journey with us, bro?”

Brogan motioned to the guy, who seemed to have a few too many beers in him, and said, “Lainey, Zoey, this is Jace. He went to MIT with me, but the bastard moved to New York.”

Jace slugged him in the shoulder. “Wall Street isn’t as bad as you imagine, Starr. Not everyone’s a prick like your dad.”

I’d already gotten the sense that his dad wasn’t the nicest—I mean who sent their kid off to boarding school and deprived them of video games? But I could tell there was more to the story from the way Brogan leveled a glare at his friend.

Jace shook our hands. “Is this the Lainey that you were moping around about?” He jutted his chin to me, and if it hadn’t been so dark, I could have sworn Brogan’s cheeks turned ten shades of red in the span of a few seconds.

My heart jackhammered in my chest. Brogan was sulking about me? And he actually told someone about it?

He pointedly ignored Jace’s question and asked, “What are you ladies drinking?”

I swallowed hard and tried to read Brogan’s expression, but he kept his perma-smile affixed to his face. But those dimples were no longer kryptonite for me (okay, they totally were, but I was getting used to them).

“Blue Moon and a Tom Collins,” Zoey said. She never was one to turn down a possible free drink. Except from Pepé.

He turned to Zoey. “Nice choice in drink.”

She lifted her glass in a salute. “They’re highly underrated.”

“I whole-heartedly agree. Need a refill?”

Just as I said no, Zoey blurted out a yes. She elbowed me, and I remembered her “all bar expenses paid by other people” goal for tonight.

I rolled my eyes and nodded. “That would be really nice, thanks.”

The bartender brought us another round of drinks, and the guys stood in front of our bar stools, sipping beers. As Brogan looked out at the dance floor, I took the opportunity to take a greedy gaze at the tattoos running along his forearm. Especially the ellipses that covered most of the inside of his wrist. Above that was something scrawled in script, which I couldn’t read unless I was sitting a few inches closer. Just a few inches and my legs would brush his. Just a few inches and those deft hands could roam freely over my skin. Okay, my mind and body were totally not on the same page.

This had to stop. He didn’t want me. He’d made that clear. And I wasn’t some love-sick girl pining for Mr. Whatever. We were done.

He cleared his throat and said, “It’s Latin for ‘keep your friends close and your enemies closer.’”

I shifted in my seat, realizing my gaze was still awkwardly pinned on his arms.

Crap. Caught. “They’re interesting.”

He leaned in closer and murmured, “I like when you look at me.” His stubbled cheek brushed against mine, and his warm breath caressed my skin. A shudder rippled through me.

Boom. RIP ovaries, it was nice knowing you.

I choked on my beer. I didn’t know if this was my head playing games with me, my inner romantic filling in words that I wished he’d say, or if he’d actually just said he liked when I checked him out.

The guy was giving me whiplash. What kind of * leaves a girl crying in his apartment and then ignores her for a week? If he thought he could swoop in and expect me to just forgive him without batting an eye, he had another thing coming.