Breaking the Rules
Breaking the Rules
Cat Lavoie
Breaking the Rules
By Cat Lavoie
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover Design by Laura Chapman
BREAKING THE RULES
Copyright © 2012, 2016 by Cat Lavoie
Second Edition
Previously Published by MARCHING INK, LLC / August 2012.
All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.
Contents
Breaking the Rules
Roxy to Ollie
Ollie to Roxy
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Epilogue - One Year Later
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also By Cat Lavoie
Breaking the Rules
When Roxy Rule’s best friend accepts a dream job overseas, she expects their relationship to continue as it’s always been—carefree and easy—until they share a heart-stopping kiss right before Ollie leaves for London. While Roxy is sure nothing can come between two lifelong besties, it’s hard to ignore the nagging thought that their kiss might have been more than a moment of temporary insanity.
* * *
As she tries to come to terms with her feelings for Ollie, Roxy is ambushed by her two sisters—both in full crisis mode. With the Rule siblings living under the same roof again, Roxy’s quiet little apartment in the city is anything but peaceful and she can't help getting caught up in her sisters' drama. Add a thankless job with the boss from hell and a fiancé set on planning the wedding of his dreams and Roxy’s world quickly starts to spiral.
* * *
After discovering that her seemingly solid relationship with Ollie had more than a few cracks long before he left town, Roxy decides it’s time to take control of her career, her love life, and her sisters – but can she really handle it all?
* * *
And can the Rule family keep it together – or will they break under the pressure?
This book is dedicated to my wonderful parents for their unconditional love and support. Merci pour tout.
To: Roxy Rule roxy.rule@kilborn.com
From: Oliver A. Frost oliverfrost@brentassociates.com
Subject: Guess What?
_______________________________________
* * *
Hey Rox!
* * *
So… I got the promotion.
* * *
This morning I woke up convinced that I wasn’t going to get it and now I have to pack my bags and leave for London in two weeks. Crazy, right?
* * *
Would you happen to know where my passport is? Do you think it’s expired?
* * *
Yes, I know I’ve earned the title of world’s worst roommate for leaving on such short notice. I’ll buy some wine on my way home and we can celebrate the fact that I’ll be out of your hair soon and you’ll have the apartment all to yourself.
* * *
I have to go before Mr. Brent notices that I’m not working and changes his mind.
Call you later.
* * *
Oliver A. Frost
Junior Architect
Brent & Associates – New York, NY
To: Oliver A Frost oliverfrost@brentassociates.com
From: Roxy Rule roxy.rule@kilborn.com
Subject: RE: Guess What?
_______________________________________
* * *
Ollie!!!!
* * *
Why aren’t you at your desk? I’ve been trying to call you but you’re not answering! I can’t wait to tell you how happy I am for you!
* * *
You’ve worked hard for this promotion and you deserve it. I’m so proud. Soon I’ll be able to tell everyone that my best friend is a one of those green architects who’s saving the planet. Maybe I should ask for an autograph now before you get so famous you stop taking my calls.
* * *
Or maybe I’m already too late?
* * *
Hugs,
Rox
P.S. Your passport is under your bed in the box marked IMPORTANT STUFF. Yes, it’s still valid.
* * *
Roxy Rule
Assistant to Greta Kilborn
Kilborn Public Relations
Chapter One
I’ve never been good at keeping secrets from Oliver Frost. It might be because I’m a terrible liar but, most likely, it’s because he’s known me all my life and can read my face like an open book. Every eyebrow twitch, every blink, every fake smile. And, right now, I feel like I’m strapped to a lie detector. At any second the needles might go haywire like they do in the movies when the devious main character is lying through her teeth.
Calm.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
Cough.
“I really don’t like the sound of that,” Ollie says, sitting on the edge of my bed, shaking his head. “Are you sure you don’t want me to go to the drugstore and get you some cough syrup or something? Or I could make you soup. Or tea with honey.”
Under normal circumstances, I’d appreciate all this attention. But I’ve been trying to get Ollie out of the apartment for the last twenty minutes so the last thing I need is him hovering over me. Maybe relying on my lackluster acting skills wasn’t the best idea. Faking an illness was all I could come up with to convince Ollie that I need to stay home without making him suspicious. My original plan was to accidentally ‘twist’ my ankle while walking up the stairs but, in the end, I decided to keep it simple and go for the common cold. There’s less limping involved.
I don’t think Ollie has any idea that I’ve been planning a surprise farewell party for him—which is a miracle since I’ve been sneaking around every night this week and coming home from the grocery store with enough food to feed a small army. The party is tonight and I have a million things to do. And I can’t do them with him here.
I touch my supposedly feverish forehead and erupt into another coughing fit. “You should go,” I say in a raspy voice, grabbing a handful of tissues. “I wouldn’t want you to catch my germs and get sick before leaving for London.”
“Right,” Ollie says, turning away from me. “I can’t believe I’m leaving tomorrow.”
I can’t believe it either. I want to say something but I’m afraid we’ll start talking and get really sentimental and I can’t deal with that right now. I’ve been trying to keep myself busy so I don’t have to deal with it at all. But I know that sooner or later I’m going to have to face the fact that my best friend and roommate is flying halfway across the world to help supervise the construction of a new earth-friendly building in London. I choose later.
“You should really go or you’ll be late. I’ll call you if there’s anything I need, okay?”
He nods and plants a quick kiss on my forehead. I close my eyes an
d hope he can’t hear my heart beating out of my chest. I’m so close to pulling this off.
“Promise me you’ll rest and take it easy today?” Ollie says, picking up his messenger bag off the floor. “And if Greta calls, please don’t answer. Better yet, hang up on her.” He slings the bag over his shoulder and looks back at me. I wave and watch as he walks out of my room. A few seconds later I hear the front door close with a bang and start breathing again.
Time to get to work. I pull at the comforter and sit up, letting my legs dangle over the edge of the bed. As soon as my feet touch the floor, the day is officially going to begin and I’m not sure that’s what I want. Letting myself fall back into bed, I stare at the ceiling. If today were just any other ordinary day, Ollie would be screaming at me from the kitchen, telling me to get my butt out of bed. And by the time I stumbled to the coffeemaker in my bathrobe, he’d already be dressed and ready to go to work. It’s very hard to pretend like I’m not jealous of Ollie. He loves his job so much that he’s getting a fancy promotion. He’s living his dream. Ollie’s wanted to be an architect ever since he was a kid sneaking off to read Architectural Digest while the other boys were flipping through girlie magazines. When we were twelve years old, Ollie and I made a pact; he would become a famous architect and I would be a celebrity chef and open my own restaurant, which Ollie would have designed. Then I’d let him eat there for free, of course.
If Ollie is making his dream come true, I should be able to do the same, right? I stare at the bandage covering the throbbing paper cut on my right index finger. Who am I kidding? The only thing I’ve been opening lately is Greta’s mail. And I haven’t been doing a good job of it either. Mostly because I want to stab myself with the letter opener.
After a few more minutes of staring at the ceiling, I get up and make my way to the kitchen. As Ollie’s best friend, it’s my job to make this an evening he’ll never forget. I need to stop throwing a pity-party for myself and get going on decorating the apartment and preparing the food. Food. Maybe I’ll have a bit of breakfast first.
I rummage through the fridge and take out some yogurt and berries before putting them back on the shelf. Today feels like a bacon and eggs kind of day. As I’m flipping over the eggs in the frying pan, I take a sip of coffee and wince. My throat is a bit raw from all the pretend coughing I had to do earlier. How does the old saying go again? Feed a fake fever, starve a fake cold. Or is it the other way around? Either way, I pile the food on my plate and head out to the living room.
The apartment is way too quiet when Ollie’s not here. The TV isn’t blaring, his cell phone isn’t ringing every two minutes and he isn’t scolding me from across the room for putting a soda can in the garbage instead of recycling it. There’s too much time to think and I don’t like it one bit. Ollie left the paper scattered all over the coffee table and I grab the Arts and Entertainment section while reaching out to turn the radio on—playing around with the dial until I find the Golden Oldies station. I am becoming more like my parents each and every day. The moment I start sipping coffee while scanning the obituaries for the pictures of people I know, the transformation will be complete.
Before I have time to take a bite of breakfast, the phone rings and I almost drop my plate. Scared that it might be Ollie checking up on me, I try to make my voice sound as stuffy as possible before answering.
“Hello?”
“Roxy. Where are you? You’re late. You should have been here an hour ago.”
Greta, my boss. Clearly, she’s forgetting something.
“Hi, Greta. How are you? I’m not coming in today. You gave me the day off, remember?”
“Oh, right. Do you think you could swing by around two? I need you to prepare the papers for my presentation next week.”
I take a quick bite of scrambled egg before answering her. “They’re on your desk.”
“Right.” I hear her rummage through papers. “Where?”
“In the red folder with a Post-It that says Presentation Papers on it.” It’s the only folder I left on her desk.
“Right. I see it. So you’ll be in tomorrow?”
I sigh. Here we go again. “Tomorrow’s Saturday, Greta. I’ll be in on Monday.”
“Right.”
Days off are never really off when you work for somebody like my boss. I know I shouldn’t be doing this but I can’t help it. “Greta, don’t forget about tonight. Your niece has a ballet recital at seven. The tickets are in your wallet. I’ve arranged for flowers to be delivered at the office before you leave. The flowers are for your niece. Bring them to her.”
“Which niece is it again?”
We’ve already been through this twice this week but I don’t miss a beat. “Abigail. There’ll be a card with the flowers.”
“Okay. Thanks, Roxy. I don’t know what I’d do without you. You’re a lifesaver. When you come in tomorrow we’ll talk about a raise.”
“See you Monday, Greta,” I say, putting the phone down. The promise of a raise has been dangled before me so many times that I feel like a cat swapping at a piece of yarn that’s always a bit out of reach. And now I’m fed up of swapping at dead air. As soon as Greta mentions a raise, I know she’s already forgotten about it.
When I’m at the office, I can organize and choreograph every minute of Greta’s day from her morning coffee to her late-afternoon cup of mint tea but now—when it’s my time I need to make good use of—I can’t get myself off the couch. There are so many things that need to get done for Ollie’s party and I know that, at some point, I made a list. But I can’t find it. Still, I’m sure that the list didn’t mention anything about taking a nap and sitting in front of the TV with a pint of mint-chocolate-chip ice cream. That’s the thing about being a working girl; you miss out on the wonderful world of daytime TV. And then when you get a rare day off, you get sucked in by Boot Camp for Out-of-Control Teens and Paternity Tests Revealed for an hour. Or two. Or more.
By the time four pm rolls around, I am in full panic mode. I still need to clean and decorate the apartment, get out of my ratty pajamas and arrange all the food on platters.
I jump up when the phone rings. I remember to use my stuffy voice again. This pretending-to-be-sick game is quite exhausting.
“Hello?” I croak.
“Darling, you sound sick. Are you ill?”
Ethan. My boyfriend. Fiancé, actually. I go back to my normal voice. “I’m fine. It’s a long story. I had to pretend to be sick so Oll-”
“Anyway,” he interrupts. “I’m just calling to tell you that I’m headed to a meeting and I’ll be late for the party.”
“Oh,” I say, trying not to sound too disappointed.
“And,” he continues, “if the meeting ends late, I might just skip the party altogether.”
“But I’m making bacon-wrapped scallops. You love my bacon-wrapped scallops,” I whine, as if anyone would ever rearrange their schedule for bacon-wrapped scallops. Well, I would—but that’s just the foodie in me. My friend Adam says I only live and breathe for my next meal. That might be a slight exaggeration but I do love to cook and, of course, eat. In fact, I’m hungry right now. What was that recipe I saw someone make on TV this morning? Ravioli with prosciutto and a tomato-basil purée. It looked delicious. I wonder if I should make that for dinner tomorrow. I could serve it with French baguette garlic bread and baby mixed greens with a balsamic dressing and... Wait. I won’t have anybody to serve it to tomorrow. I’ll be alone.
“Roxy. Roxy? Are you there?”
“Sorry,” I say, shaking my head. “Please try to make it, okay? It would mean a lot to me.”
“I’ll do my best,” he sighs. “Roxy?”
“Yes.”
“I was planning on telling you later. But I really think you’ll be happy about this and I can’t wait.”
There’s a hint of mischief in his voice. What is Ethan up to? We’ve been having discussions about our wedding lately and the only thing we’ve agreed on is to stop talking ab
out the wedding because we can’t agree on anything—the time, the place, or the guests. Our latest Discussion-That-Turned-Into-An-Argument revolved around napkins clashing with the tablecloths. When I suggested we hire a wedding planner, he’d dismissed the idea right away saying it would be too expensive.
“Go on,” I urge, relieved that we might finally be getting somewhere with the wedding plans.
“I just booked us two open tickets to St. Thomas. Private resort. Villa overlooking the water. We can go swimming with the dolphins and take scuba-diving lessons and spend all day on the beach. I’ve got great brochures to show you.”
So I guess we’re way beyond discussing the wedding planner now. Ethan knows I’ve been dreaming of going to Paris since I was a kid. We haven’t discussed—or argued—about it yet, but I always assumed Paris would be an option for our honeymoon.
“Sweetie. I was hoping we could discuss the honeymoon. You know I’ve always wanted to...”
“Actually, I was thinking we could have the whole thing there. The wedding and the honeymoon.”
“What about my mom?” I stammer. “My mom hates to fly. She won’t even get on a plane to visit Steffi in San Francisco. And we’ll never be able to get the entire Covington clan to St. Thomas. Don’t you have something like fifty cousins?”