The Aubrey Rules by Aven Ellis

feeling it, too.
    Beckett clears his throat. “I’m good, no worries.”
    “Okay.”
    A silence falls between us, and I decide it’s my turn to fill it.
    “Sorry. Talking about Mallory got me all worked up,” I admit.
    Beckett smiles at me. “I can see that.”
    I grab one of his throw pillows and hide my face in it. “Gah, Beckett, I shouldn’t even be telling you this. I’ve never been so unprofessional in all my life.”
    I feel the pillow being pulled away from my face, and Beckett is peering at me.
    “Is that in the rule book?” Beckett asks.
    I blink. “You remember the rule book?”
    “Of course I do.”
    I swallow hard. My rules that were meant to keep my life organized and focused are being challenged on all fronts by this man and the feelings I’m starting to have for him.
    “Yes,” I admit, “it is one of my rules.”
    “Do you know what I like about you? You’re honest. You’re the most honest person I’ve ever met.”
    Guilt floods me. “Well, I’m not ethical. Work and personal should be separate.”
    “Is this personal?” Beckett asks softly.
    “I think you know it is.”
    “Then it stays between us,” Beckett says simply. “I met you before I even knew what ChicagoConnect was. And looking around that conference table, I would have walked if it weren’t for you.”
    My heart leaps at his words. “Really?”
    “Yeah,” Beckett says. “So much bullshit. Mallory would tweet stupid stuff on my account, I have no doubt about it. And don’t laugh because I said doubt,” Beckett warns.
    I can’t resist laughing. “That’s like asking me to be quiet.”
    “True,” Beckett agrees, smiling at me.
    “So we . . .” I hesitate, as I don’t even know what to call us. “We’re friends. Outside of ChicagoConnect, assuming we get the account. Is that how this is going to be?”
    Beckett rubs his hand over his face. “Yeah, for now.”
    Could be more? Is that what he means?
    “But because you’re real,” Beckett says, interrupting my thoughts, “and you’re honest, I want you to handle my accounts. You won’t post stupid shit. You’ll find a way to make me interesting.”
    I realize Beckett doesn’t think he’s interesting. Good Lord, why would he think that?
    “I don’t have to ‘make’ you interesting,” I say.
    “I’m not interesting, Aubrey,” Beckett says firmly. “I mean, not in the way Landy is with his modeling on the side or Pierre with his cool French accent, or any other guy on the team. The guys in the locker room, they talk to the media, talk to fans, and it’s so easy for them. For me it’s painful. I panic about what to say. Even in a setting that’s supposed to be fun.”
    Physically I ache for him. I can tell from his words this has been a struggle, something I do without even thinking. Talking to people is easy for me. And I never realized how I took it for granted until this moment.
    “Tell me one,” I say, encouraging him.
    “Tell you what?”
    “An episode where you felt uncomfortable,” I urge.
    Beckett tugs down on his beanie. “Okay. Casino Night. Last month. I had to man a table and talk to season ticket holders as I dealt cards. I panicked the whole night about what to say. So I ended up barely talking except to say idiotic stuff. Then they interviewed me on camera and I became all serious and halting, and I know people thought I was a dork. I saw the comments on social media the next day.”
    Oh, God. I can see how he put that label square on himself, then reading asshole comments people left for him—
    Right now I hate social media.
    “Beckett,” I say reassuringly, “if I handle your accounts, I’ll manage everything. You’ll never have to read those comments because you don’t need idiots like that getting in your head. You’re shy. That’s what is driving your awkwardness. Not being a dork.”
    Beckett shakes his head. “I’m a dork, Aubrey.”
    “The only thing you’re a dork about is thinking you’re a