Authors: Aven Ellis
Chapter 12
The Aubrey Rules To Live By, Rule #12:
Expansion on Rule #3, in regards to dating athletes, actors, or musicians. Even if I were to flirt with the idea of dating a professional athlete—not that I’ll ever have the opportunity, mind you—I’ll never delude myself into thinking I’m the “special” one that can change everything. I learned from Livy on this one. Pass.
**Amendment**
It’s really not fair of me to make a gross generalization such as this. This rule should be amended. It’s a sign of maturity and emotional growth to admit when one is wrong, so if the right athlete comes along, I should be open to the experience.
**Amendment #2**
This rule is hereby amended if said athlete is named
Beckett Riley.
I step inside the condo after one super-long day. I close the door and lock it behind me. I exhale loudly, thankful that I’m finally home.
I begin unwinding all the winter layers I have on for the millionth time today, vowing not to put them on again until tomorrow. Unless there is a showing tonight and oh, please, I hope there isn’t after today. I need a bowl of cereal, yoga pants, and to stay put for the night.
I ran out of red flags by lunch. It’s official. By day two of professional employment, I have indeed confirmed my boss is a woman who doesn’t work, and my job is to be her personal assistant. I brought her lunch, and was later sent out to get her fresh-pressed juice for her skin in the afternoon, and while we were on the topic of skin, she directed me to swing by Neiman Marcus and pick up her favorite moisture cream. Then she gave me a pointed look, and mentioned that skin care is important and did I properly moisturize my skin?
Bitch.
After I’m out of my snow gear, I head down to the kitchen. I flip the lights and sigh heavily. I stand up on my tiptoes and study my reflection in the microwave. Is my skin bad? I’ve always been told I have beautiful, creamy, porcelain skin. Of course, people always suggest I get a spray tan but I don’t. A fake tan would be ridiculous on me.
And more to the point, I like my skin the way it is, even if guys seem to prefer tanned girls in bikinis better.
I frown. Ugh. Bikini season is what, six months away? Maybe I should be on Mallory’s diet plan.
But then I’d be crabby.
And I couldn’t eat fries.
It would never work.
All that aside, I spent my afternoon trudging up and down Michigan Avenue, and it was awful. I’m not going to learn anything here, except how
not
to be a boss if I ever become one. And this isn’t one of those jobs where you suck it up and it eventually gets better.
It’s one of those jobs where it only gets worse.
I open the pantry in defeat. If I was smart, I’d quit now while I was ahead.
But there’s one thing keeping me from doing so.
Beckett.
I grab a box of Lucky Charms and move to get a bowl. I couldn’t leave him with that agency to fend for himself. I know Beckett has a meeting with them late next week, and me working with him is what he’s going to demand. It’s me, or another agency. Non-negotiable.
So that part would be awesome, not only getting to work on a high profile social media account, but to be able to work with Beckett, for both personal and professional reasons.
I know Mallory will make my life hell as a result of this.
Yet when I think of helping Beckett, and being able to spend time with him doing so, I don’t care.
And after doing my homework in depth today, gawd, the boy needs
help.
I dump my cereal in the bowl, then head to the fridge to get the almond milk. I pour some over the top, grab a spoon, and turn on the TV in the kitchen to the Chicago Buffaloes game. Now I’m ready to eat and relax.
The game has gone to intermission, as Mallory didn’t dismiss me to go home until she was done online shopping at 7. So I’ve missed the first half or quarter or whatever it is they have in hockey.
“And now we’re going to go to Melanie Rogers, who is live with Beckett Riley,” the announcer says.
I pause from sorting out the oat cereal from the marshmallows. Suddenly Beckett is on air, his dark locks all disheveled and sweaty, and he’s wiping his face with a towel.
I feel my throat go dry.
Damn, he’s
hot.
A beautiful brunette reporter is standing next to him. She stares up at him, which she has to do because he’s so tall, and asks her question.
“Beckett, your score with twenty seconds left in the period gives the Buffaloes a 1-0 lead over Tucson. Can you walk me through that goal?”
“My teammates did a good job of setting me up to take that shot,” Beckett says. “We had good puck movement in the last minute, and Alexander made the perfect pass to get it to me so it’s all them.”
My heart flutters from the way he’s speaking. That answer comes so naturally to him. When it’s hockey, he’s comfortable talking to the media. Also, his answer—it’s not about him, but his
teammates.
They get the credit for everything that happens in the game tonight. He might be only 24, but he has wisdom and maturity beyond his years when he speaks about hockey.
And I know if the Buffaloes lose, Beckett will take the blame and put it on his back. That’s the kind of leader—and man—he is.
I watch as the reporter asks him one more question, and after he answers, he heads into the locker room.
“Back to you, Louis,” Melanie says.
I can’t get over the difference watching Beckett talk about hockey as opposed to when he’s interviewed for fun. I viewed a couple of these at work today and bookmarked a few more to see tonight. But as soon as the questions get personal, Beckett immediately turns awkward.
Since they are at intermission, I go back to the entry hall table and grab my iPad out of my tote. I bring it back to the kitchen and pull up one of the video clips I had saved.
I click on the video. This one is done by the Buffaloes pregame show host, Andrew Peters, and the title is “Questions and Answers with Beckett.”
I take another bite of my cereal, saving all the marshmallows for last as I always do, and watch.
“Today we’re going to do a fun little Q&A segment with our new captain, Beckett Riley, here at Buffaloes training camp. Beckett, are you ready?”
“Um,” Beckett says, looking gravely serious, “okay.”
Gah, Beckett appears as if he’s about to solve a complicated math equation involving pi rather than answer a stupid fun question.
“Great, let’s get to know you better, Captain. So who is your favorite Captain of all time? Kirk, Morgan, Crunch, Blackbeard, or Sparrow?”
I snicker. This is so meant to be funny. I vote for Cap’n Crunch myself, being that I love cereal.
Beckett furrows his brow.
“Come on, this is easy. Pick one,” I say aloud.
“Um, actually Captain Horatio Nelson is my favorite. He was a strong leader, and he was a master of naval strategy.”
I drop my spoon. Oh dear God. He’s so genuine and earnest he can’t play along.
The reporter seems thrown off, but recovers quickly. “Ah, the historical choice.”
“Yeah, I enjoy history,” Beckett says, rubbing the side of his face.
Wait. I’ve seen him do that before. At the conference table at ChicagoConnect. That’s his move when he’s uncomfortable. Beckett rubs his face when he feels out of his comfort zone.
“Okay, great, that’s something we didn’t know about you,” Andrew says eagerly. “Now, the next question. You are stranded on a deserted island. What three things do you want?”
Gah, why do I have a feeling this is going to go downhill really fast?
“Um,” Beckett says, concentrating. “Um . . .”
“Three things.”
“Um, yeah, some kind of saw so I could cut things. A compass. Tablets to turn salt water into fresh water.”
I groan.
Where is my Captain Smart Ass?
Where is he? Did I meet Beckett 2.0 in the elevator and Captain Riley is his super-serious twin?
“You sound very prepared, which is a quality we want in a captain,” Andrew improvises. “Okay, I know you have a lot to do so we’ll make this the last question. What would you plan for a romantic date?”
I cringe. Gaaaaaah, he couldn’t have asked a worse question!
Beckett looks as if he wants to jump in a manhole. There’s nothing but silence.
I think I hear crickets.
I put my hands over my eyes and peek at the screen. “Say something!” I yell aloud.
But the silence continues as Beckett rubs the side of his face again.
“Flowers? Champagne?” Andrew supplies, trying to fill the dead space.
“French fries?” I say. “Come on, Beckett. Anything is better than silence!”
“Um . . . I don’t know, I’m not good at that. I haven’t been on a date like that in a long time. Um, dinner?”
Andrew does the fake laugh. “Ah, very good. And there you have it, some Q&A fun with Beckett Riley. Thank you, Beckett.”
“Thanks,” Beckett says and immediately leaves.
The video stops and rolls to another one, and I click out of YouTube.
Okay. He needs media training. I’m not saying he has to be as natural and energetic as his friend Landy is in interviews, but he needs to loosen up a bit. And I know he has it in him—he
is
Captain Smart Ass, after all—he simply needs to share a bit of himself with his fans.
And his platform needs to definitely be focused on Instagram, Twitter, and Facebook, where he can share himself in a more comfortable format.
I get up and grab my notebook from my tote. I return to the counter and jot down all of these thoughts while eating my cereal.
Meanwhile, the game is back on, and the TV cuts to Beckett skating back out on the ice for the second period. Now I see the captain in action—strong, confident, athletic. There’s no hesitation on the ice, no doubting himself. Here Beckett is at home, it’s so easy to see that.
Just like he seemed at home the other night when you were alone with him,
my heart whispers.
My stomach flips excitedly in response to that thought. Thursday night I get to see him again, as the Buffaloes have back-to-back games tonight and tomorrow. There’s no work on the table. And it could be nothing more than friendship developing between us, but the way he held my wrist the other night tells me there is potential for us to be more.
With my amendments in place, I’m ready to see if Beckett wants more, too.
And Thursday night will tell if my amendments will be used or not.
Chapter 13
The Aubrey Rules To Live By, Rule #13:
Whenever I’m preparing for a big event in my life, discussing all the details with Livy is a MUST.
**Note**
This big event would be a date with Beckett tonight.
**Note #2**
If it’s a date, he only said fries and beer. So it might not be a date at all, but a neighbor/potential client/new friend being friendly.
**Note #3**
Gawwwwwwwwwwd, I’ll die if it’s not a date and really is just fries and beer.
“Sorry I’m late,” I say, taking out the chair at the table Livy is sitting at. “Mallory had me type up a bunch of labels before I could go.”
I shimmy out of my coat and remove my scarf and drape both over the back of the chair before taking a seat. I’m meeting Livy for lunch at her favorite restaurant, one of those organic salad-whole grain- juice-type places.
And with dismay I see she’s already ordered a basket of kale chips for us to share. Ugh, I
hate
kale. And kale chips in no way shape or form are as good as fries with lunch. Ever.
“Oh, actual work?” Livy asks, taking a sip of her water and interrupting my internal rant on kale.
“Don’t be crazy, Livy. I was typing labels for her apartment redecoration project.”
I glance down at the menu in front of me, thinking the salad with the poached egg and truffle oil sounds really good.
“So tonight is date night,” Livy says. “Are you cutting lunch early so you can swing by Nordstrom and get some sexy lingerie?”
I jerk my head up, and she’s smiling wickedly at me. I immediately feel fire burn in my cheeks.
“He’s
not
seeing my underwear tonight, Livy, thank you very much. I could wear panties with Hello Kitty on them I’m so confident of that not happening.”
“Hello, can I get you something to drink?”
Gah. The server is standing right next to me, and from the smirk on his face, totally heard that comment.
“A water would be fine,” I say, embarrassed.
He nods, and with the smile still on his face, he walks off.
As soon as he leaves, Livy bursts out laughing.
“I love you so much, Aubrey,” she says.
“Because my lack of a mental filter is hilarious?” I quip.
“Because you say whatever you think,” Livy says, reaching for a kale chip. “By the way, while I know you hate kale, you really should eat some. They’re so good and healthy, too.”
I’m pretty sure I’d rather have Beckett see me in Hello Kitty underwear than eat kale chips, but keep that thought to myself.
“But anyway, back to
you know who,
” Livy says. “How excited are you for tonight?”
I grin at Livy. We’ve decided to refer to Beckett as you know who in public to ensure nobody picks up on our conversation, or worse, records it with a stupid cell phone.
A tingling sensation sweeps through me at the thought of tonight.
“I’m excited but nervous,” I admit. “And we don’t know what it means, Livy. This could totally be hang out and have fries.”
“Um, he could hang out with his buddies,” Livy counters.
I consider that for a moment. “Well, maybe I’m a new buddy.”
“You’re so frustrating,” Livy declares. “From what you told me, he might be shy, but he’s into you.”
The server returns with my water and takes our orders. After he disappears, I lean across the table so I can speak a little more privately to Livy.
“He’s famous. He’s gorgeous. He could have
anyone,
” I say softly, doubt sweeping over me.
“That’s right,” Livy says, her blue-green eyes locking on mine. “And anyone could be
you.
”
“But I don’t get it,” I admit. “I’m not a size two. I’m not tan. I’m not the cool girl and—”
“Stop it. You’re
gorgeous,
Aubrey. You’re funny and quick and smart. Genuine. And I watched that YouTube video you sent me.
You know who
has an awkward dork side. He’s lucky to go out with
you.
”
“I love that he’s like that,” I say, feeling my heart melt. “I mean, his awkwardness is so real and endearing.”
Livy grins. “I know, I felt the same thing watching it. So cute.”
“Very cute,” I say, smiling back.
Livy’s phone buzzes on the table, and she flips it over. Then her eyes widen. “It’s Veronica Woo.”
“Take it,” I encourage. “Go outside and take it.”
Veronica Woo is a famous Chicago costume jewelry and accessories designer. Livy had applied for a job there a few weeks ago, and this is the job she is hoping and praying she gets an interview for.
“Hello?” Livy says, getting up and heading out of the dining area.
Excitement fills me as I think of this opportunity for her. Livy could be taking the first step toward starting her career. And hopefully she won’t be typing labels such as ‘Granite Options’ or getting moisturizers when she lands a job.
While she’s gone I retrieve my phone from my purse. I can kill time browsing through my Instagram feed. But I see I have a new text message. And my heart skips a beat when I see it’s from Beckett.
Do French fries count as entrée in your world or can I add a burger to the meal tonight? Or do you need a banana with 3.5 spots and a fresh-squeezed juice with wheatgrass instead?
I burst out laughing and text him back.
I do eat meals that aren’t fries. I’d love a cheeseburger. Don’t even go there with the banana.
He responds within seconds.
Sorry, I should have asked about the cheese. And yes, I said ‘about’ the Canadian way in case you were wondering.
I’m about to type a reply when Livy comes back. I see she’s grinning from ear to ear.
I put the phone down. “So? What happened?”
“They want me to come in next week for an interview,” Livy says excitedly. “I’m blown away. I had a great conversation with the HR person, and they loved my portfolio, and it’s for an entry-level design position. This could happen!”
“Livy, that’s awesome! Let’s go have drinks and dinner Friday night to celebrate,” I say happily.
“It’s just an interview,” Livy says, putting her hand out to calm me down. “I don’t want to jinx it.”
“We still need to eat,” I counter.
Livy cocks an eyebrow up. “Maybe we’ll celebrate your first kiss with
you know who
on Friday night.”
“Stop,” I say, blushing.
“Mmmm, we very well could be drinking to that,” Livy says.
I draw an excited breath. I’m hours away now from seeing Beckett.
And only time will tell if kissing me is on Beckett’s agenda tonight.
I glance at my watch. It’s about to turn six, and I need to ask Mallory if she needs anything else before I leave for the night.
And get ready for my date with Beckett.
Please say no
, I will her as I get up from my desk. Please don’t make me stay late tonight, not when I need to freshen up my makeup, change my clothes, transform from working girl to girl going to Beckett’s condo for dinner.
I’m about to clear my throat when I hear Mallory on the phone. And even though I’m four days into this job, I can tell Mallory is either talking to Tom or a client. How do I know this? Her voice is gone into super positive fake overdrive.
She has her back to me, so she can’t see me, but she’s studying hardwood floor pictures on her computer. I’m about to turn around when she swivels around and sees me. She motions for me to step into the office while she’s talking.
“Um, yes, I have the proposal ready for the meeting with Beckett next Wednesday . . . Yes, I’m thinking heavy on him posting his own videos to the Vine to connect with his fans. Or Snapchat . . .”
What? Is she
high?
Beckett on Snapchat? He would never,
ever
agree to that. And him shooting his own videos for the Vine? Gah, they’d be awkward and horrible if he has to star in his own production!
And if she had spent more than ten minutes researching him, she’d know that.
Suddenly Mallory throws her head back and laughs, interrupting my thoughts. “Tinder . . . I know! We could have him go on dates on Tinder and film it! That would be fantastic!”
I clench my jaw. Okay, not only is that asinine, and he’d never do it, but the last thing Beckett needs is to be going on dates with random girls from Tinder.
He needs to go on dates with me.
“Right, right . . . Okay, well I’ve got an appointment so I’m going to run . . .”
Yes! Mallory is leaving, so I’ll be able to run home and change. But first I think I need to ask her about the idea to try and get Beckett to do video features. It will not only flop but piss him off.
Mallory hangs up. “Oh, what a long day. I’m so glad to get that Beckett Riley plan put together.”
“Um, Mallory, can I say something?”
“Well, you do know how to speak, so I assume you can, Aubrey,” Mallory says, shooting me a sweet look. Then she grins. “Kidding, of course.”
Of course.
I ignore her bitchy comment and go ahead. “Mallory, I have done some research on Beckett Riley and—”
“Hopefully not to create a Pinterest board dedicated to him so you can gawk over him.”
Okay. I want to go around her desk, kick her chair to knock it off balance, and watch her bony butt land smack on the ground.
“Um, no, of course not,” I say.
Because who needs Pinterest when I have a date with the man himself tonight?
“Anyway,” I continue, “he’s incredibly awkward on camera if the questions aren’t related to hockey.”
“Oh, please, he only needs a little encouragement,” Mallory says, closing down her computer.
“I don’t think he’ll be receptive to this. I think Twitter or Instagram would be a better way to start him off.”
Mallory swivels around in her chair, her eyes narrowed at me. “You’ve been here four days. I’ve been in media for eight years. I don’t think I’ll be taking advice from
you
on how to handle a media plan.”
I feel my face burn hot. So much for the ‘open creative environment where all employees can contribute’ that I read about in the handbook on Tuesday.
“Okay,” I say simply. Then I clear my throat. “Unless you need anything else from me, I was going to leave for the evening.”
Mallory stands up. “Yes, I do.”
What? She hasn’t given me anything all day and now that it’s six o’clock, she wants to give me work?
“I want you to provide me with a statistical report on usage of Tinder and the Vine by young men. Give me addresses of hockey players with these accounts, how many followers they have, all the details you can think of.”
She’s throwing this at me because of my comment. Mallory thinks she can prove how right she is by numbers. Which she very well might be, but she’s not adding
Beckett
into her equation.
“Yes, of course,” I say. “What is the deadline?”
Mallory strides past me and reaches for her luxurious coat hung on the back of the door. “I’ll need it emailed to me before you leave tonight. So I can review at it at home, of course.”
My stomach drops out as I realize what this means. She’s doing this on purpose so I have to stay here, because my remote email access hasn’t been set up yet.
There’s no way I’ll be able to have dinner with Beckett tonight.