Of all the spots in the city at the crack of dawn, not just any tall, hot guy was running my way. No, that would be totally awesome and fair of the universe. This man with the sweat soaked gray T-shirt, the material plastered to a set of nicely toned abs, was none other than the friendly neighborhood anti-antichrist.
A dog loped beside him, pulling at the leash to go faster. At my estimation, we’d intersect in the span of fifty steps.
Crap. I knew it was pure coincidence, running (oh, the irony) into him on a morning jog, but my personal vanity would not allow him to see me in such a disheveled pre-makeup, pre-hair-taming state.
This chance meeting could not happen—no, would not happen—if I could help it. I pushed Zoey off the paved path and into a grassy area with a few large oak trees and waist-high shrubs.
We were well-hidden from view when she asked, “What the hell?”
“That’s my boss.” I whispered.
“The Antichrist?” She moved to peer around the tree, and I grabbed her shoulders and pulled her back.
She let out an exasperated sigh and threw her arms out to the side. “Come on. He doesn’t know what I look like. Why can’t I take a little looksee?”
“Because someone staring at you from behind a tree is creepy.”
She raised a brow. “So is hiding from your boss behind a tree,” she deadpanned.
“Touché, but I’m willing to let that one slide if you are.”
“Yeah, that’s not going to happen any time this decade.”
She peered around the tree again and let out a low whistle. “I’d totally hit that if I were you.”
“Rule book,” I reminded her. Which he expected everyone to stick to. Everyone but himself, apparently.
“Screw the rule book. Maybe he could even smack your ass with it.”
I chuckled. “You’re sick.”
She wagged a finger at me. “Resourceful.”
As Brogan ran past the tree, the dog went nuts, pulling at his leash and barking in the direction of where Zoey and I stood hiding. I ducked deeper into the bushes, trying to conceal myself properly. Brogan pulled him back and lightly reprimanded him and then went back to long, purposeful strides.
He seemed to be off in his own world, his eyes unfocused and jaw clenched as he ran. If he’d seen us, he didn’t give any indication.
“I think I like this view even better.” She nodded toward Brogan’s retreating figure. His calf muscles strained against his skin, and the fabric of his shorts molded against his ass on every step.
For a few seconds I let myself consider what the routine of Mr. Starr looked like. If he was up this early and stayed at the office until nearly midnight during the week, I doubted the man got more than a few hours of sleep a night.
This was my first real clue to what he liked to do outside of work. He ran. And he was a Seahawks fan. I was two steps closer to writing his biography. Something about him made me want to know more—okay, maybe it was the fact that I was a snoop, but still, his ability to be so nice and yet so powerful intrigued me. My guess, he was a freak in the bedroom and unleashed some of that pent-up boardroom aggression on whoever was lucky enough to be tangled up in his sheets. That sounded deliciously amazing right about now.
Hello, your boss is literally the worst person to fantasize about.
I shook it off and chocked it up to being severely dehydrated. Yes, I was incredibly thirsty, and Brogan was definitely not my brand of Gatorade.
Boss: check
Already made a bad impression. Twice: check
Needed money more than sex: hesitant check
Plus, there was no ignoring the whole 300-page manual filled with insane rules that were better left for a SNL skit. Past experience had taught me that a person with that many rules came with a lot of baggage. And his did not need to take a layover in my thoughts (okay, brain, this is the part where you take a hint).
By the time we’d made our two-mile trek back to the apartment, I only had time for a quick rinse off. No time to wash my hair, so I’d pulled it back and hoped for the best.
I was almost functioning at full capacity when I took the light rail to work. I wiped the last of the sleep out of my eyes and entered the building.
Just as I pushed the button for the elevator, Brogan walked up beside me.
“Ah, it’s my second assistant.” He made a grand gesture of checking his watch and said, “I see your middle name precedes you.”
Brogan Starr: CEO and comedian, ladies and gentleman.
A hot flush started in my neck and worked its way up to my cheeks. Of course he would remember the one—okay, he had quite a few to choose from at this point—stupid thing I’d said yesterday. “Would hate to disappoint.”