Law #2: Don't Play with a Player: A Sweet Office Romance Story (Laws of Love) by Agnes Canestri (i am reading a book TXT) 📗

“Uhm, thanks,” I mumble. I don’t dare to blink at him.

My face must look like I sunbathed on the Grand Canyon’s highest peak without protection. At midday.

“No problem. Do you want me to assist you out, or can you manage?” There is a teasing edge to his voice, but his expression is serious.

“No, Mr.—” His eyes narrow, and I correct myself. “No, Devon. Thanks. I’ll be fine on my own.”

His blue irises illuminate when he hears me switch to his first name. He flashes me a smile that would be heart-melting if I were into the all-teeth, plump lips, and dimples kind of look.

Which I am not.

Not one bit.

“I’m glad we’re starting out on a friendly basis,” he says. “I hope our relationship will only improve from here.”

“Sure. I hope so too.” I smile. “I might not have much experience, but I always aim to please.”

My last word comes out with an unintended hitch. I try to stop it from rolling off my tongue, but it’s too late. Even as I pronounced it, I realize my innocent expression could sound ambiguous to a man of Devon’s reputation.

I don’t want Devon to interpret my accent as an out-of-place, provocative remark, so I hurriedly add, “Sorry, I didn’t mean please like, please…I meant… “

My eyes meet Devon’s.

From the way his jaw goes slack, I deduce he wasn’t thinking of any potential double-meaning before I so ineptly put my foot into my mouth.

Devon struggles to keep a straight face. “That’s….uhm, that’s good to know.”

Wanting to end our meeting with a positive and professional note, I stick out my hand to him to try again. “Thank you, Devon. I’m looking forward to working with you.”

He takes my hand and shakes it again. “Me, too. You can come in around nine tomorrow. That’s when I usually arrive. Katja, my secretary, will sort out your contract and arrange everything else.”

I ignore how the way his palm closed around my fingers felt right. Not too strong, but not too soft. Confident, but not pushy.

But of course, he is a CEO, so he should be an expert in shaking hands.

“Sounds good. See you tomorrow,” I reply, then turn to the door and shuffle out.

I keep my head high but peer down at my shoes so I don’t trip again. I’ve had enough clumsiness for one day.

Outside his office, I bump into Katja.

She’s close to the door, as if she retreated from it the minute she heard me coming.

“How did it go?” she asks eagerly, her intimidatingly square jaw widening.

With her Russian braids, she looks like the main female lead in one of my favorite plays from Chekhov. A hint of accent in her raspy voice strengthens the similarity.

“I’m hired,” I mumble, still dumbfounded from the events of the past half an hour.

One of Katja’s thin eyebrows lifts, and from the asymmetrical line it makes, I realize she must have drawn it with a pencil. “Interesting. You’re not his typical choice. It’s for the better, though. Your predecessor—” She stops and shakes her head. “You know what? It doesn’t matter.”

Before I can inquire what she meant by her enigmatic words, Katja taps on a desk that stands across from her own.

It’s empty except for a white notepad, a pen, and a pencil holder bearing the company logo. The objects shimmy from the weight of her palm.

“This here,” she tips her head downward, “will be your territory. You can decorate it with your own objects, but please avoid any plants that have flowers, for Devon’s sake.”

Why should Devon be contrary to flowers?

Before I can voice my question, Katja turns and walks back to her table.

“I need to send out a couple of urgent emails,” she says while lowering to her chair. “You’ll wait for me, and then we’ll sort out your contract and the rest.” With that, she ducks her head and begins to type frenetically.

I’d love some sugary treat to boost my brain, because it’s swimming in a foggy state ever since I left Devon’s office, but Katja’s voice is so categorical that I don’t dare ask whether I can go get a snack.

I take a seat at the desk, which is now officially mine and rest my chin on my palms.

As I stare into nothing and listen to the rhythmic clicks of Katja’s keyboard, my mind wanders off.

An electrifying plot idea pops into my head for the romance novel I was trying to outline on Friday. A smile spreads on my lips.

Wouldn’t it be the perfect makeover for my life if I managed to be employed and write my romance at the same time?

I tear off a piece of paper from the notepad Katja left me, and checking that she’s still engrossed in her work, I pick up the pen and scribble down a few lines.

After two dense paragraphs are done, I read what I’ve produced. The storyline is still a bit vague, like a dream after waking, but it thrills me all the same. I can see how the conflict could be fleshed out, and the protagonists I envisioned are characters I feel ready to spend considerable time with together.

There is only one aspect that startles me.

I’ve never swooned over actors with penetrating blue gazes. Bobby, my biggest crush ever, had brown irises.

So why did I suddenly describe my hero’s eyes as the shade of freshly picked cornflowers?

“I’m ready. Shall we go to the IT department and get your laptop?” Katja’s voice jars me out of my musing. I jump up and quickly fold the paper, hiding it in my blazer pocket. “Yes, let’s go.”

Chapter 6

(Laia)

Our living room fills with the enticing aroma of chicken quesadilla.

The plate I’m heating up in the microwave is only a frozen dish I bought in a supermarket on my way home from the interview. However, it still triggers countless memories about our house in San Sebastian where my nose regularly feasted on the most mouthwatering fragrances, thanks to my mother’s culinary skills.

As I change into my comfy leggings, my eyes wander to