The problem with composing a rulebook is that it sounds good on paper. In practice, it's rather like dieting while living above a bakery.
I woke up the morning after my run-in with Ethan with determination. Today was all about me. No men. No drama. Just productivity, personal growth, and shoes that didn't require bloodshed.
I slipped on sneakers (practical, comfy, boring) and reminded myself that I was already winning.
At work, I doubled down on Professional Tessa. I ignored my phone buzzing, the temptation to mindlessly swipe through dating apps, and even politely declined when Jenna forwarded me a meme titled Motorcycle Boyfriend Starter Pack.
"You're strong," I muttered to myself at my desk. "You're independent. You don't need dimples or leather jackets."
By lunchtime, my inbox was filled with client complaints, and my boss was hovering over me with his classic Are you done yet? look. I bowed my head, repeating my mantra. No distractions. No villains. Concentrate.
So naturally, that was the exact moment destiny deposited Ethan Hayes in my office.
I was halfway through recopying a snack-food campaign slogan ("Less Salt, More Flavor, More Fun!" thrilling, I know) when Jenna came by my cubicle, grinning like she'd just won the lottery.
"You'll never guess who just came in for a meeting," she whispered.
I didn't even look up. "If it's the IT guy who insists on nuking fish, I don't want to know."
"Better," she said, her eyes sparkling. "Motorcycle guy."
I froze. "What?
She leaned in close. "Your sidewalk savior. He's here. And get this he's our new client."
I finally turned, heart sinking. And there he was, across the office, leaning against the reception desk, chatting with my boss like he owned the place. Same dark hair, same impossible grin, same keys glinting from his jacket pocket.
The universe, it seemed, had a sense of humor.
Jenna elbowed me. "So… still playing by the rulebook?"
I groaned, letting my head drop onto my keyboard. "I'm doomed."
I tried to dissolve into my chair and turn invisible, but Jenna was already waving him over like she was hosting a speed-dating event.
"Ethan!" she trilled. "Have you met Tessa? She's one of our best."
Traitor.
I put on my best professional smile as he turned to me. Up close, he was worse. His sleeves were pushed up, revealing forearms that could've had their own Instagram account, and his smile had the kind of confidence that only comes from knowing it works.
"Hey," he said, voice low, easy. "We meet again. You look less. gravity-challenged today.".
I glared. "I was not gravity-challenged. The sidewalk was uneven."
"Uh-huh," he said, nodding seriously. "The classic sidewalk defense."
Jenna stifled a giggle and then because she's evil suddenly remembered that she had "emails to send" and scurried off, leaving me behind.
"So," I said, quickly pulling my notebook in front of me again. "You're… the client?"
"That's me." He leaned on the edge of my desk, too comfortable by a long shot. "My company has a new product line we're launching. I was told you're the wizard who can make boring things sound exciting."
I ignored the skips of my heart. "I prefer 'strategic communicator'."
He smiled. "Sounds exciting."
I pulled out my notepad, not allowing him to see that I was shaken. "Let's start with some basics of your brand identity. Keywords. Tone. Audience demographics."
"Wow," he said. "Getting down to business right off the bat. No small talk?"
"No," I replied curtly. "Small talk is a waste of time."
He tilted his head to the side. "I thought we clicked yesterday. Sidewalk rescue, shoe critique. That was practically a meet-cute."
I spilled my pen. "This is not a meet-cute. This is a client meeting."
His grin expanded. "Sure. Whatever you say."
I scribbled Rule #5: Never trust a man who uses the phrase 'meet-cute' in the margin of my notebook.
When my boss returned to drag Ethan into the conference room, my heart was still beating double-time. I told myself it was annoyance. Professional annoyance.
But inside, I knew the truth: the rulebook was already at risk.
The conference room door finally shut behind Ethan, and I fell back into my chair like I'd just survived a natural disaster. Which, in a way, I had. A dimples-and-motorcycle disaster.
I yanked out my notebook, frowning at my partially written notes.
• Target audience: twenty-to-thirty-somethings.
• Brand personality: bold, edgy, confident.
• Tessa's pulse: apparently unstable around clients with smirks.
I put a big, angry slash through the last one.
"Whew." Jenna collapsed into the chair beside me, eyes sparkling like Christmas morning. "That was tense."
"It was a meeting," I said stiffly. "Meetings are not tense. They're boring."
"Oh no." She shook her head dramatically. "That was not boring. That was the kind of banter people pay Netflix subscriptions for. If my love life had half that tension, I'd be married already."
I groaned. "He's a client. He's… wrong."
"Wrong," Jenna repeated, drawing invisible quotation marks in the air. "Or dangerously right in a way you're too scared to admit?"
"Rulebook," I reminded her, holding up my notebook like a shield in the air. "No more wrong guys. And Ethan is basically a checklist of wrong. Motorcycle. Smirk. Arms. Don't get me started on the arms."
She smiled wickedly. "So you did notice the arms."
"I did not," I said crisply, stuffing the notebook into my bag. "I noticed unprofessional distractions."
"Mm-hm." She leaned forward. "If you're rewriting the rulebook, you might as well add: No men with motorcycles, forearms, or personalities. That should cover it."
I shot her my best death glare, but she only grinned more.
The problem was, she wasn't wrong. Something about Ethan already smelled like trouble. And if there was one thing my history had taught me, it was that ignoring troubles never ended well.
So I did the only thing I could.
I doubled down on the rulebook.
I told myself I was focused. Strong. Invincible.
But later, in bed, I caught myself replaying his smile in my head like some sort of traitor.
And that's when I knew: the universe was setting me up for another disaster.