“How are you liking it so far?” The muscles in his bicep bunched together as he took a sip of his tea. Ovaries, meet arm porn, your new best friend.
I folded the wax paper of my sandwich wrapper in half and creased the seam with my thumb. “It’s been nice. I made it through the employee manual…finally.”
“Learn anything good?”
I looked up from the wrapper and eyed him. “You’re breaking the dress code in at least two ways.”
He looked down at his clothes and then back at me, smiling. Two dimples indented his cheeks, and I realized how incredibly unfair it was that someone could be that gorgeous and not airbrushed by professionals in a magazine.
“Guess I am.”
“You’ve met the boss. What’s he like? Uptight like that rule book?”
His lips tipped up in one corner as he regarded me with his piercing brown eyes. “I don’t know if uptight would be my first choice.”
I chuckled. “Really? I hear he’s called the Antichrist.”
His brows rose. “Oh, really. That one’s new to me.”
“Huh.” I fiddled with the wrapper. “Jackson said it was a pretty well-known nickname around the office.” Maybe the guy worked in a different department than everyone else. Heck, he was a lot nicer than all the other employees I’d (not) talked to yesterday and today.
He let out a loud laugh that echoed throughout the break room. “Very interesting. Thanks for the heads up.” He grabbed the string to the tea bag and absentmindedly dunked it in the water. Veins corded deliciously up his arms and my brain went into zombie mode. Except instead of my inner monologue chanting must eat brains, it was must touch veeeeeeeins. “What’s your name?” he asked, bringing me out of my stupor.
I cleared my throat, heat tingeing my cheeks. “Lainey Taylor. Newly appointed second assistant to the Antichrist.”
Mr. Dimples mashed his lips together, and I couldn’t tell if the glint in his eyes was because he was amused or slightly annoyed. Maybe a bit of both. Great, I guess I was back to square one with making friends here. He backed toward the door and leaned against the frame. Really odd. Where I came from, people tended to give their name after someone else introduced themselves. This guy? Nada. I doubted 200 exits up the I-5 corridor were enough to see a shift in social customs.
He bit down on his full bottom lip and looked like he was really enjoying this awkward silence that had me squirming in my seat. I balled up the sandwich wrapper just to give my hands something to do. Really, these people needed to work on their social skills. Where was the welcoming committee? Mental note: start welcome committee if one doesn’t exist.
“It’s really nice meeting you, Lainey,” he said.
He put his hand on the doorframe, and just before he left the room, I called, “Do I get your name?”
“You can call me the Antichrist.” And with that, he breezed out into the hallway and disappeared into his office.
My heart screeched to a halt, and that turkey Panini turned to a solid brick in the bottom of my stomach.
Shit.
I tried to come up with anything to say to smooth over the situation, like a “ha ha just kidding, I totally knew it was you the whole time, old buddy, old pal” (cue maniacal laughter), but all I could do was stare at his retreating form. For the love of all that’s holy, I just called Brogan Starr—THE Brogan Starr!— the Antichrist to his face. I lowered my head to the table and kept it there. If it was possible to die of mortification, now would be as good of time as any. Well, I’d better pack up my desk now. Bet I set a new record.
Chapter Three
Lainey Taylor Rule of Life #1
A girl is only as strong as her closest girlfriend.
My best friend Zoey was curled up on the loveseat, watching a rerun of Gilmore Girls when I entered our downtown apartment at nine that evening. The crazy thing about leaving at eight thirty was that there were still people flitting about the office that late, meaning I needed to step up my game if I wanted to make a good impression.
She glanced up from the TV and frowned as she took in the drastically more disheveled version of this morning’s look. “Should I even ask how your day went?”
“If you mean the day in which I called my boss the devil to his face? Nope, don’t want to talk about it.” But she already knew this after I’d sent an SOS Kill me now text promptly after the incident had occurred.
She just nodded. That was one thing I loved about Zoey. She never pushed for more information before I was ready to dish. “Leftovers are in the fridge,” she said.
I froze and took a deep whiff, checking for any evidence of smoke or burned food. Nope, just our raspberry vanilla wall plug in. Not a hint Zoey had touched a spatula or a pan. “You cooked?”