“You need to follow that exactly. Do you understand?”
I tilted my head at him, wondering why this was so important. Besides the fact that I was going to be in my boss’s house when he most likely—100 percent likely—wouldn’t be okay with it. “Yes.” He was making this such a bigger deal than it needed to be. It was a dog. Eating dog food. This wasn’t business calculus.
Before I went to make copies for Jackson, my phone rang. I picked it up with much less anxiety than during my first week on the job. “Starr Media, Brogan Starr’s assistant Lainey speaking. How may I help you?”
A smooth voice caressed my ear. “I’d like to speak to Brogan. Tell him it’s his father calling.”
After the whole Gizzara incident, I knew better than to deny his dad. “Yes, sir.” I put him on hold and buzzed through to Brogan’s office. “Mr. Starr?”
His gruff voice came through the intercom. “Yes?”
“Your dad’s on the other line. I put him through.”
“You what?” he growled.
Okay, so family calling work wasn’t a good thing. “I’m sorry, I assumed since it was your dad…”
“Have you ever heard the phrase assuming makes an a—”
I scrunched my eyes shut and inwardly cursed myself. Seriously, I could not get this right. “Yes. I’ll make sure to ask next time.”
Before I said anything else, the red light on my phone disappeared. Even if he was pissed, he at least took the call.
A few seconds later, muffled shouting came from his office. I couldn’t make out most of what he was saying, but choice words cut through the walls and streamed into the entryway.
Note to self: Don’t put Brogan’s dad through if he ever phoned the office again.
I walked to Brogan’s apartment building after leaving the office at seven. I stared at the lone silver key in my sweaty palm, the metal catching in the light outside Brogan’s door. I had a feeling that Brogan would have a conniption of epic proportions if he knew I had access to his personal sanctuary right now. This went way beyond a picked-up picture frame.
I let out a deep breath and put the key in the door. Before I could tell what was happening, a brown blur leaped from the ground and tackled me to the floor. My back hit the tile with a muffled thud as my boots slipped out beneath me. Drool splattered across my face as Bruce stood on my chest, licking at my hair, pulling strands out of my French braid.
My arms shielded my face, taking the brunt of the tongue assault. “Jesus, Bruce, I need to be wined and dined before making out.” Sad truth, this was the most action I’d seen in months. With everything going on, I wasn’t left with much time for things like picking up dudes at bars. Although I was still kicking myself for not talking to the guy reading Emerson on the light rail.
Bruce backed off my shirt and sat beside me, tongue still lolling out of his mouth.
“Does this mean we’re friends now? Earlier you wanted to bite my head off. I need a man who doesn’t go hot and cold.”
He let out a loud woof, which I took as an insult because he ripped a fart near my face and then trotted into the apartment with his tail wagging.
I closed the door behind me and glanced down at the gaping hole in my shirt that hadn’t been there prior to my opening the door. A piece of fabric was stuck to one of Bruce’s nails and flopped around on the floor as he pranced around the kitchen island. A special circle in hell was reserved for this dog.
Bruce trotted over to a set of matching silver bowls. He pawed at the empty one and let out a high-pitched whine.
“Yeah, yeah.” I looked around the expanse of the kitchen, all the granite counters clear of anything indicating where Bruce’s food might be. “Help me out here a little? I don’t know where your food’s stored.”
Was it possible for a dog to have a condescending glare? Bruce really knew how to channel the “you dumbass” look. Jackson must have been rubbing off on him. He huffed out a sigh and loped over to a cabinet and sat in front of it. He pawed at the door and let out another loud fart.
“Maybe you need to get a different brand of food,” I muttered and pinched my nose as the smell assaulted my nostrils.
He growled, and I rolled my eyes and opened the cupboard. Boxes and cans of organic food were stacked with expert precision on the top half of the pantry, and a clear bin with dog food was at the bottom.
I scooped out two cups worth of dry food and Bruce went airborne, dashing toward the bowl. A skittering of puppy paws tap danced across the wood as he impatiently waited for me to drop the food in his dish.
“Sit.” I commanded.
Bruce barked in response, his butt not coming any closer to the floor.
“Sit.” I repeated.