Brogan went to speak, and I put a finger up, signaling I wasn’t quite done giving him a piece of my mind.
“And another thing. The garlic rule is totally stupid. Everyone knows Luigi’s is the best place to eat, and your office rule is a total buzz kill. On a side note, it is really hard to rant when you’re standing there in a towel.” I’d at least managed to keep my gaze from meandering below chest-level. Okay, maybe my eyes wandered a couple times, but that just proved my herculean restraint, because it could have been much worse.
He blinked hard, and the corners of his mouth twitched in amusement. “Are you done?”
I crossed my arms and looked down at Bruce, who was wagging his tail, looking from me to Brogan. Damn dog. “Yes.”
His gaze softened. “Sit down.” The two words were quiet, but still held the authority of a man who ran a Fortune 500 company.
I shifted my eyes to his, not understanding. Surely he should have called security by now, or at the very least had Bruce chase me out the door. “What?”
“I said sit down.” He pointed to the leather sofa in the living room.
I was still fuming and feeling a bit sassy, heavy on the assy, when I said, “You know, for a boss, you’re awfully bossy.”
He shot me a look. “I’m going to let that slide because you’re having a shitty day.” As he led me to the living room, he motioned for me to sit on the sofa. “Do you like tea?”
“Coffee.”
He nodded. “Okay.”
I sat there alone in the living room, staring at the mantle. There were no pictures hung, just abstract art. A fire crackled in the hearth, and Bruce snuggled next to the heat, belly up on the white shag rug. I shifted on the sofa, feeling suddenly self-conscious that I’d just told my boss off while he was half-naked, and he hadn’t kicked me out.
He came back a few minutes later, fully clothed in a black T-shirt and gray sweats, carrying two steaming mugs and handing me one.
“Thank you.” I cleared the last bit of sniffles out of my nose and cupped the coffee with both hands.
Brogan cleared his throat and shifted restlessly on the couch. “I’m sorry to hear about your mom.”
I frowned, staring into the coffee. “Me, too. She’s my best friend.” I blinked back a few rogue tears that were trying their best to escape. What would I do if she didn’t make it through? I’d have Zoey, but my father was living his own life now, and my grandparents were long passed. I’d be a twenty-four-year-old orphan. Did that even count if you were past eighteen? “I don’t know what I’d do without her.”
He cut his eyes to me and said, “I hope it doesn’t come to that, but if it did, you’d be fine.” A small, comforting smile formed at the edge of his lips, and without the expensive business suits and corporate environment, he seemed so much younger than his work persona. His gaze softened, and for the first time since I’d met him, Brogan didn’t look like he minded being in the same room as me.
I smoothed my thumb over the rim of the coffee mug, wisps of steam curling into the air. How could he be so sure when I felt like the life I’d built was being ripped out like the pages of a story. “How do you know that? You don’t even know me.”
He placed his mug down on the coffee table and turned to me, his expression serious.
“Because if you were the type to give up, you wouldn’t come to work for me, and you certainly wouldn’t put up with a bunch of rules.” He used air quotes for emphasis.
Damn me putting my foot in my mouth. I really had no self-preservation whatsoever when it came to keeping this job. “That came out a little harsh, didn’t it?”
He smiled. “Yeah, but I understand. I know it’s not easy on a lot of people, but it’s how Starr Media runs.”
“Then why do you put all these ridiculous rules into effect?”
He let out a heavy sigh, and for a split second I could feel the weight of Brogan’s world heavy in my chest. The hundreds of calls every day. The thousands of questions. I loved working at a big corporation, but I would never want to run one. “Because if I didn’t, I leave myself open to the possibility of hurting my company. Starr Media means everything to me, and I’d never do anything to risk that.”
I tilted my head and did my best to hold back the sarcasm in my question. “How is a garlic breadstick going to hurt Starr Media?”
“You obviously haven’t been on the receiving end of a garlic-eating mouth-breather client.”
I blanched. “Can’t say I have.”
He leaned back and spread his arms across the top of the couch, making himself comfortable. “I used to play racquetball with a client who would eat Italian before playing, and he’d literally sweat garlic.” He shuddered.
“Gotcha. Personal vendetta against Italian.”
“My cross to bear. Although, I really do love Italian food. Just not on other people.”
I decided not to share that I knew this little tidbit from my perusal of his fridge the other week.