The Aubrey Rules Page 3

  And I don’t care that I don’t have a filter. I’m thankful, and I want him to know it.

  Beckett smiles gently at me. “You don’t owe me anything. And that’s not true about being lost. You have moxie, remember? You would have found a way to get to that interview.”

  He reaches across and punches the button to keep the doors from closing. Hope fills me. Maybe . . . Oh, shit, I’m being delusional. Why would he want my number?

  He wouldn’t.

  Would he?

  And I shouldn’t want to give it to him if he does ask.

  But I do.

  Argh. What the hell is happening? A few hours ago I didn’t know he existed, and now I want to give him my number?

  “So, good luck, Aubrey,” Beckett says, interrupting my thoughts. I look up and find his brown eyes locked on mine. “I hope the job works out for you.”

  Pause.

  Damn it.

  “Thank you again,” I say.

  “You’re welcome.”

  I take a step out, and Beckett doesn’t say anything else. The moment is over.

  He punches the button, and I wave goodbye as the doors close.

  And then he’s gone.

  Chapter 4

  The Aubrey Rules To Live By, Rule #4: A long day always calls for pizza, wine, binge-watching TV, and debriefing with your very best friend.

  **Amendment** Talking about Beckett is simply describing part of my day and that’s all. But it's 100 percent nothing more than that. And if I were to Google him with Livy, it's purely for entertainment purposes and story enhancement.

  “Beckett Riley,” Livy says, her blue-green eyes wide with amazement. “You rode in a car with Beckett Riley. Unreal.”

  I open the lid on the pizza I ordered from Giordano’s. And because today was so stressful, I went ahead and added a side of garlic parmesan fries, too.

  And I swear I’ll run extra hard on the treadmill tomorrow, but right now I need comfort food.

  Because maybe if I eat enough fries, I’ll forget what an idiot I made of myself in front of Beckett today.

  “Livy,” I say slowly, “what part of falling flat on my face, kicking a wall, accusing him of being a potential serial killer, and telling him I was bloated do you not remember from the story?”

  I pause for a moment, snapping a pic of the pizza and fries so I can post it to my Instagram later.

  Livy puts her hands on my shoulders after I take my picture. “I don’t think you are grasping how huge this is,” she says. Then she shakes me. “You hung out with freaking Beckett Riley. Hockey superstar Beckett Riley!”

  “Um, I didn’t verify that on his driver’s license but apparently odds are good I did.”

  Livy squeals. “I still can’t believe this. He’s at the top of the list of the most eligible men in Chicago! And you hung out with him!”

  I can’t help but smile. Livy is my very best friend. We were paired up in the dorms at the University of Washington, and we’ve been, like, sisters ever since. It was Livy who brought me home one spring break to Chicago, and it changed my life. Because as soon as I stepped foot in this city, I had an overwhelming sense that this is where I belonged.

  “I know, it’s crazy,” I admit, handing Livy a plate.

  “He lives in this building,” Livy says, taking a slice of pizza and putting it on her plate. “You could see him again.”

  My stomach does this weird flip when she says that. But as soon as it does, I will it to stop.

  “So what? Do you think Beckett is going to ask me out if he sees me? No.”

  “What if he did? It would be the best love story ever,” Livy says.

  I burst out laughing. “Livy, the best love story ever doesn’t happen when you get involved with a professional athlete, unless it’s in a book. You know that first-hand. Besides, you’re a hopeless romantic. You probably think Beckett thinks I’m unique or something.”

  Livy runs a hand through her silky blond hair. “So? It could be the truth. And I bet he thinks you’re gorgeous.”

  I teasingly put my hand on her forehead. “Are you sick? Do you have a fever? Because you’re being delusional.”

  Livy ducks away and laughs. “None of the above, thank you.”

  We take seats at the breakfast counter. If this were my furniture and my own apartment, we’d be parked on the sofa in front of the TV, but since it’s not, I can’t take a chance on spilling anything.

  “So how was your day? Any good prospects?”

  Livy majored in art at UW and is an incredibly talented jewelry designer. Right now she’s living at home with her parents while she searches for anything remotely in her field. Our plan, once we both have decent jobs, is to get an apartment together.

  Livy takes a sip of her cab and shakes her head. “Zero. But I did have a sale on Etsy today.”

  “Who-hoo! You’re buying the pizza next time,” I tease.

  “Ha-ha, I might be able to buy you a fry with the profits,” Livy jokes. Then she studies my plate. “And I know I’ve seen you do this a million times, but I still can’t believe you eat fries with pizza. That’s gross.”

  “It’s delicious,” I declare. “I should have resisted, since I had the croissant with Beckett but—”

  “Beckett Riley. Freaking Beckett Riley! I can’t believe that happened,” Livy interrupts, circling back to him. “And I bet he’s a thousand times sexier in person than he is on TV.”

  “Google doesn’t do him justice,” I admit, picturing his tall, muscular frame, his thick, dark-brown hair, his chocolate-colored eyes.

  “So you did Google him.”

  My face grows hot. “Okay, I did. I Googled him. How could I not, Livy? I had no idea he was so famous.”

  Because my research mission this afternoon told me Beckett Riley, one of four boys who grew up in a close-knit family outside of Toronto, is one hell of a hockey player. He’s twenty-four. He was awarded the role of captain of the Chicago Buffaloes this year, overlooked in the NHL draft, and labeled too slow to have a shot to make it.

  Apparently Beckett was driven to prove them wrong. Article after article quoted his work ethic, his dedication to his sport, his focus. That while he is young, his leadership abilities superseded his age. In his short time as a professional, he’s earned a reputation for being tough, determined and serious. But also one who is extremely modest and credits his own success to his teammates.

  His seriousness came across in non-hockey questions, too. Guilty TV viewing? Beckett said he didn’t have any of those but liked documentaries about the ocean and in particular, Shark Week. His favorite meal? Anything with the right balance of protein, carbohydrates, and healthy fats.

  With each article I read, I couldn’t help but wonder if I saw the other side of Beckett today. The captain who felt comfortable enough to tease me. The one who didn’t mind some crazy girl calling him a smart ass.

  “Does he have a girlfriend?” Livy asks, interrupting my thoughts.

  Okay. I can’t lie to Livy, she’d see it in 0.5 seconds flat if I even tried.

  “Not that I could tell,” I say honestly. I put down the slice of pizza I’m holding. “There were old pictures of him with his long-time girlfriend, from a few years ago, but that was the last one. He’s in some recent pictures with girls, but in a group setting.”

  “Interesting,” Livy says, arching an eyebrow. “No girlfriend. Yet he takes the time to drive a stranger to an interview and have coffee with her afterward. Hmmmm.”

  “Oh hmmm nothing,” I insist. “Beckett helped me out. And he was waiting for me at Starbucks. I said I was hungry, and he was probably afraid I’d fall and pass out on him or something. So he’s nice.”

  “Right,” Livy says. “I don’t think so. No guy is that nice
.”

  Beckett is, I think, remembering how he calmed me down and bailed me out of a huge jam today. How his eyes danced at me when I went on one of my babble binges. How he seemed so genuine when he listened to me . . .

  Beckett is that kind of nice guy.

  “Come on, pull up his pics,” Livy says, pushing my iPad across the granite countertop toward me.

  I groan as I wipe my hands on a napkin. “Why? So I can remember again what an idiot I was in front of this famous hockey player?”

  “Stop it. Now show me your captain,” Livy demands.

  “My captain whatever,” I say, knowing my face is now bright red. “Hey, what TV show are we indulging in tonight? Keeping up with the Kardashians? Real Housewives? Or reliving Hart of Dixie?”

  “You’re blushing. You like him.”

  “What? No, that’s crazy. I can say he’s nice. But he’s a hockey player and from the pics I’ve seen, he likes girls who have the ability to wear really tiny dresses and have super-straight shiny hair.”

  Then my stomach tightens as the pictures I saw earlier flip through my brain. The girls were my age and while I think I’m pretty in my own right, these girls were gorgeous.

  “Okay, one, who cares about those girls, and two, you have no idea how gorgeous you are. I’m going to beat that into your head if I have to,” Livy says firmly.

  “Come on, every girl has something they’re insecure about,” I say. “Mine happens to be the five or ten pounds I should drop.”

  But I love carbs too much to stick with that plan.

  “Would you stop? You’re curvy. And sexy. You know I’ve wanted your boobs since the day I met you,” Livy says. “Sounds like Beckett noticed those hot curves in that little wrap dress of yours, too, from what you’re telling me.”

  “Argh, Livy, stop,” I say, my cheeks flaming now. “It’s all irrelevant. He wouldn’t be interested. And even if he was, he’s not someone I’d date if I’m following my rules. You know why.”

  “We both know Troy was awful,” Livy says, bringing up her football-playing ex-boyfriend, “and some athletes are cocky and cheat, but Beckett doesn’t seem like he’d be that way, Aubrey.”

  I pause for a moment. Beckett didn’t come across as an arrogant athlete at all. Or as a man who was slick and knew he could get any woman he wanted.

  He came across as genuine.

  I shake my head, as if I can shake the thought right out. Well, it doesn’t matter. Even if Beckett was the exception, that doesn’t mean he saw me as anything other than a crazy girl who was in dire need of getting to an interview. Period.

  “Now enough stalling! Bring up his picture,” Livy commands.

  “Okay, I’ll pull him up, but only because you insist on a visual with your story.”

  “Yes. I see how hard you are resisting the idea,” Livy says.

  “Shut up,” I tease.

  I pop open Google and key in Beckett’s name. Which nets me more than 1,000,000 results.

  But right in front of me is a smiling Beckett, his profile pic and bio info on the right-hand side of the screen.

  I hesitate for a moment as I see those beautiful brown eyes, the ones that shined at me this morning when I talked to him. While so many girls would be studying his income, his fame, his statistics as one of the top hockey players in the world, all I see is the sweetness in his eyes that he showed to me when we were alone together.

  And despite my rules, there is a part of me that wonders what if.

  What if Beckett was interested?

  But that’s crazy.

  Isn’t it?

  I absently watch as Livy clicks on the ‘Images’ tab to bring up thousands of pictures of Beckett.

  But all I see is the Beckett I met today. The one who smells like spice and pine, the one who was so kind to me when I was panicking, the one who actually liked that I called him Captain Smart Ass.

  And even though I know it’s insane, I find myself wishing I could see him again.

  Chapter 5

  The Aubrey Rules To Live By, #5: The most important first impression when starting your new job is the first one. Dress professional. Be early. Show a positive attitude. And it’s cliché, but never let them see you sweat.

  I can’t believe I’m here.

  I look around the hip, rustic waiting area of the ChicagoConnect offices. I’m sitting on a leather couch, surrounded by exposed brick walls and cool drop lighting features. One wall has a huge “ChicagoConnect” sign in a fun, 60’s-style font.

  But I’m not sitting here waiting for a second interview. It’s Monday, and I’m here to start my new job.

  As the new Social Media Coordinator.

  It happened so fast. On Friday I was keeping my fingers crossed for a second interview when, out of the blue, I was offered the job by Mallory Slone, the same woman who didn’t listen to my hobbies.

  I was taken aback. I mean, I thought I was a round or two away from getting the job but she said I was easily the most qualified candidate, and she didn’t want to waste time. Not only did she offer me the position but asked if I could start on Monday. Apparently a big client was interviewing them, and it would be a break in a new category they want to represent. ChicagoConnect wanted to show a full dedicated staff at this meeting.

  So here I am. Not only starting work, but getting to sit in on a huge client pitch, too.

  Gah, I’m so excited!

  I fidget anxiously in my chair. I was told to be here at 8:30. So of course I arrived right at 8:15. And I didn’t even fall in the elevator or need Beckett to drive me this time.

  Beckett.

  I chew the inside of my lip as I absently scroll through my Twitter feed while I wait. This is madness, that I’m still thinking about him. I am a blip in his life, a random funny girl he met, and he’s moved on. He probably wouldn’t even remember me if he saw me.

  But for me, I’m haunted. Well, okay, I’m not helping matters by stalking him on the Internet but he posts nothing of himself. Man, he wasn’t kidding when he said he hates using social media. His last tweet was a picture of downtown Manhattan from a New York road trip. In November. And he posted the exact same thing on his Instagram.

  However, other forms of social media are full of Beckett—YouTube, Vine, Tumblr—all clips and GIFs and pictures from his fans. And yes, I explored all of those this past week.

  And discovered that hockey players are hot.

  Specifically, Beckett in his uniform scoring a goal—scorching hot.

  The door to the agency opens, and my thoughts of Beckett scoring a goal are interrupted by the arrival of my new boss. Mallory sweeps through the door, draped head to toe in a chic black outfit. I study her as I rise to greet her. Mallory is a senior social media account supervisor and appears to be in her late-twenties. Her brown hair is cut into an edgy bob. She has oversized sunglasses covering her eyes. She’s wearing a gorgeous, fitted, double-breasted black wool coat with a flounce hem, no doubt covering a chic dress. Black tights and Christian Louboutin pumps complete her image as the powerful career woman.

  “Hello, Aubrey, follow me,” she says as she whisks past me.

  “Okay,” I say, gathering my things and hurrying to keep up with her.

  Her perfume is thick and leaves a vapor trail in her wake. Mallory doesn’t say a word as she weaves her way through the cubicles and offices that make up ChicagoConnect. She moves at epic speed on the hardwood floors, and I’m practically power walking so I don’t fall behind.

  At last we reach her office, and she thrusts the key into the lock, opening the door.

  “Once we go over your duties, I expect you to have my office ready in the morning before I get here,” Mallory says as she flips on the lights. “Please power up my computer and have the lights on for me.�
��

  “Yes, Mallory,” I say, nodding.

  Her office is the exact opposite of the fun, relaxed vibe of the rest of ChicagoConnect. Everything is modern and white, and impeccably neat. Very few things sit on her desk, and the window behind her has a view of Michigan Avenue below.

  “I don’t have time to get into the details of your position at the moment,” Mallory says briskly, removing her sunglasses, “but right off the bat, this is an entry-level position, Aubrey. It’s extremely unusual for someone to get to rise to a position like mine as fast as I did. So be prepared to pay your dues accordingly.”

  If it weren’t one of my rules to not let my mouth fall open at work, it would be on the floor right now. I swear that comment just sounded like she was marking her territory against me.

  Open mind. First day. Stay cool.

  “Of course,” I say, my voice reflecting calm while my brain has thrown up a red flag.

  “However, this morning, it’s critical we prepare for the client meeting today,” she says, slipping out of her coat and hanging it on the hook behind the door. “I’ll need for you to run downstairs and get coffee for ten people. An assortment of bagels and muffins and pastries. Of course, I won’t eat any of those high carbohydrate items, or I might as well plant it on my hips, you know what I’m saying, right, Aubrey?”

  Mallory has to be a size zero. In her black dress, she appears pencil thin. She could eat ten muffins, and she’d probably look better for it.

  And why do I think she is somehow suggesting that I need to pass up the muffin tray?