Con: Brogan was a nice guy (normally an excellent thing).
A lot of girls underestimated the effect of a nice guy. Sure, bad boys were appealing—who didn’t like a dangerous guy that would promise nothing but sin and heartbreak on the back of their Harley? But a nice guy, that was dangerous. Those were the guys that you’d want to bring home to mom. The type to bring you breakfast in bed and pick up tampons from the supermarket on his way home from work because you’re busy stuffing your face with ice cream and crying over the unfairness of Rose losing Jack in Titanic (there was totally room on that piece of driftwood for the both of them). Yes, the nice guys were the real danger, because something told me Brogan wouldn’t be someone I could recover from quickly, if and when this ended.
Okay, I was sick of coming up with negative aspects. Yes, he was my boss. Yes, this was probably really stupid, maybe more stupid than my teenage near-head-shaving incident, but dammit, if I couldn’t make poor choices with my money, I might as well dabble in dating suicide.
I realized I’d left him hanging as I lost myself in my mental pro and con list. When I looked up from my plate, Brogan sat staring, brows furrowed, swirling patterns with his fork into the marinara sauce on his plate. “I think this arrangement might work,” I said.
Brogan set his fork on the table and looked visibly relieved at my response. “Me, too.”
We’d both finished dinner at this point and worked our way to the kitchen to rinse our dishes and put them in the dishwasher.
The last bits of marinara drizzled into the sink as I rinsed the plate. If I’d been alone, I totally would have licked the plate clean, because that sauce was out of this world. “I don’t want any preferential treatment at work,” I added, remembering the sinking feeling in my stomach at the thought of Brogan letting me be the exception to his rules.
His lips pulled into a smile. “I wasn’t planning on it.” He grabbed my plate and handed me his dirty one to wash.
I leaned my hip against the counter and crossed my arms. “And if I screw up, I need to be held accountable, just like everyone else.” I paused, and my voice took on a harder edge. “I want my success to be earned, and don’t want anyone to mistakenly think that it’s because we’re hooking up.” Because right now I was in the trenches, working my way up doing menial tasks, but someday I’d be putting my degree to use, and I didn’t want anyone to question why.
He leveled an equally intense gaze at me. “I wouldn’t dream of it. You’ll work just as hard for your success as everyone else.”
“I think that settles it.” I smiled. “I’m in.”
He smiled and pulled me into a hug. My hands ran along his biceps, along the strong ridge of muscles that wound down his arms. “Me, too.”
Chapter Seventeen
Starr Media Handbook Rule #322
Emails will remain professional and polite.
Jackson had resumed his role as uninterested coworker by the time I came back to work the next day. He sat at his desk, slouched in his chair, tapping on his computer with one hand.
“More clients on your desk this morning.”
I looked up at him, trying to decipher his motives. Did he give these to me, feeling bad for giving me the shaft yesterday? Pity clients. Heck, I’d take them. The more clients I took on, the more job security I garnered.
“If you’re wondering why, it’s because I find them lackluster, and they bring down the rest of my portfolio.” He glared at me over the top of his computer and then went back to work.
Right. He was all sugar and spice today.
Two manila folders sat on my desk, and I pushed them aside while I booted up my computer.
My email pinged as soon as the programs loaded.
From: Brogan Starr
To: Lainey Taylor
Subject: Meatballs
I hope you didn’t bring the meatballs in the office. They have garlic and you might be meeting with a client today at 1:30. Don’t be late.
Brogan Starr, CEO Starr Media I quickly replied:
From: Lainey Taylor
To: Brogan Starr
Subject: re: Meatballs
I wouldn’t dream of eating your balls at work. I look forward to the meeting.
P.S.—I plan to eat them with garlic bread and garlic tater tots later tonight.
Lainey Taylor, Second assistant to Brogan Starr, Starr Media Garlic lover
I smirked, thinking maybe I needed to tone it down on the next email, because that may have toed the line a bit.
A new event popped up on my schedule—a meeting with JD Sigmund, a news anchor that recently transferred over to MTV. I bounced in my seat as I stared at the notification. Four new clients within a month. At this rate, I’d have a full caseload by the end of next year.
I giggled as I read Brogan’s email for the fourth time.
“Please, by all means, share with the class what is so damn funny, newbie.” Jackson gave brow arch number two with a little splash of indignation to mix it up a bit.