The Aubrey Rules Read Free Page B

another sip of his coffee. “That’s just as bullshit as the answers I come up with in post-game interviews when we’ve had a crap game. But you should have an edge being able to come up with that kind of answer on the fly.”
    I chew my lip. “Um, thanks. I guess. ”
    “I didn’t mean to interrupt. Go on.”
    “So we go through all those and then come the personality questions,” I say, continuing. “And I was asked what my hobbies are.”
    “What are your hobbies?”
    “Are you interviewing me?”
    “Come on, I’m always the one being interviewed. Let me ask a question,” Beckett says, his eyes dancing at me.
    “Hmmm. And you say I’m odd.”
    He grins, and once again I feel that weird flutter thing in my chest.
    “Fair point. But come on, answer one question. I won’t ask you anything else.”
    I laugh. “Okay. I love to go out for dinner and drinks with friends. I love being on social media—obviously—and chatting with people and commenting on things. Shopping. Traveling. Going to flea markets on a lazy Sunday. But I also love a good TV show and comfy clothes for a night in, too.”
    Beckett leans back in his chair and casually stretches. “Interesting answers. So I take it you’re not a sports fan?”
    “No,” I say, popping another piece of croissant in my mouth. I chew and then say, “At UW I loved tailgating for football because we did it on a boat. The rest of it you can keep.”
    He grins, and I wince.
    “I mean, I’m not into it,” I say. “Sorry.”
    “Don’t be. So what happened after you listed your hobbies?”
    “Oh! Right. So I say all of this, talk to them about it, and then this woman looks up from her phone and says, ‘So what are your hobbies?’ and I was, like, ‘Oh, crap, did she hate my real ones?’”
    Beckett laughs. “So how did you respond?”
    “I asked her if she didn’t approve of my previous hobbies.”
    “You did? ”
    “Well, what could I do? Everyone else knew I answered the question, and I’d seem meek if I didn’t point out she was wrong. So I did.”
    “Wow. Good for you.”
    “Hockey players aren’t the only ones who have moxie.”
    He laughs, and I laugh with him. We chat for a bit longer about the interview and my hopes for getting the job, and before I know it, I’ve finished my croissant and pushed my plate aside.
    And I realize that I’m not ready to leave yet.
    Beckett is funny. I like the way he teases me, and there’s something so genuine about his interest in me—I truly believe he wants to know what is going on in my crazy head, even if I speak too fast and the words come out in a long jumble. He somehow takes in stride the fact that you never know what is going to fly out of my mouth because apparently I don’t have a working mental filter.
    “Ready?” Beckett asks, nodding at my empty plate.
    No, I think with surprise. I’m not.
    “Sure,” I lie, getting up.
    We slip into our coats, and as we step out, Beckett is approached by a fan in the lobby.
    “Becks,” the woman says, rushing up to him. “I’m the biggest hockey fan, can I please get a selfie with you?”
    He glances at me, and I nod.
    “Sure,” he says.
    The twenty-something woman grins and happily slides next to him. They lean in together and she snaps the pic.
    “You’ve made my life. Thank you so much!”
    “You’re welcome,” Beckett says quietly. “Thank you for your support.”
    She disappears, no doubt to post that picture on Instagram the first second she’s alone.
    “So, Becks, ” I say, teasing him, “how many of those will I find on Google if I key in your name?”
    “That’s Captain Smart Ass to you.”
    I giggle. “So are there millions of girls swooning over you on social media?”
    “How would I know? I don’t go on it.”
    “Beckett,” I say as I follow him to the parking garage, “how can you not be on social media? Even my mom is on Twitter and Instagram!”
    Whoa, that’s weird. I haven’t checked my phone the whole