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) 📗

Unfortunately, it wasn’t just my sense of smell basking in the glory of homemade lunches, dinners, and snacks. In the past six years, I’ve been abandoned to my own cooking—or my severe lack thereof—but even my lack of talent didn’t erase the disastrous consequences of spending my childhood with a mother who cooked like a real chef.

I pull the long T-shirt down over my trousers with a hasty gesture.

Today of all days, I’m not going to obsess about my body. I don’t need another concern to add to my list of worries.

The performance anxiety that plagues me whenever I think of tomorrow—my first official workday—coupled with the apprehension that Chelsea still doesn’t know what I’ve done is more than enough to fret about.

The clock in our living room chirps like a sparrow. Even without glancing up, I know it’s four pm.

The clock was a gift from my mother and each hour it imitates the voice of a different bird. Thankfully not at night, though, because it has a light sensor. My roomie loves to take advantage of this built-in trick and often covers the clock with a rag when she plans to sleep in.

The thought about Chelsea makes me wonder where she could be. By the time I finished in the IT department, Chelsea was gone. She’d left me a note at the reception saying that she went to buy new outfits—an activity she’d initially proposed for us to do together after our interviews.

I’m not sorry she didn’t force me to join her—I hate trying on clothes in tiny dressing rooms where every extra-pound or wrinkle becomes more evident—but I’m concerned she might have dashed off because she was upset that I agreed to interview for the assistant position. If this is the case, she might be furious when she learns I got the job.

The microwave beeps loudly, pulling me out of my guilt trip.

I dash into our open kitchen.

I haven’t eaten lunch, and as the spicy fragrance wafts around me, my stomach protests loudly. The sudden cramps make me forget to use oven mitts when I grab the plate.

Ouch! The ceramic burns my skin like glowing embers.

I drop the dish on the counter and race over to the sink. While I let the cold rinse soothe my fingertips, I curse under my breath.

The last thing I need is to lose my ability to type. I have a job now, one that comes with a salary and a possible future. I can’t screw it up because I skipped the basic safety rules that even a six-year-old should be aware of.

Despite the pain that throbs on my fingertips, excitement buzzes through my belly.

A little voice in my head suggests that my excitement is partly due to the anticipation that I’ll be working with Devon, but I immediately discard the deranged argument. I didn’t accept the position to be in daily contact with him. I don’t even know why I’m still going back and forth about this. My decision was entirely logic-driven and not related to Devon’s undeniable charisma.

First, there is the likely promise of a permanent contract. I mean, who can ignore that in today’s uncertain economy?

Then that excellent salary. I couldn’t refuse that since money is a thing I obviously need.

Finally, and most importantly, I’ll soon contribute to TV commercials, write press communications for famous newspapers, and—

The entry door lock clicks, stopping my thoughts in their tracks.

I switch off the sink and turn in time to see Chelsea strut in with a bunch of shopping bags in her hands.

“Hey, Laia,” she greets me, kicking off her heels and plopping down on our sofa.

There’s no trace of frustration or hidden annoyance in her voice. My shoulders relax.

She settles herself on a large pillow with a sigh, dropping her purchases to the floor. “Ah, this feels good. My whole body is sore.”

“Have you been shopping the whole afternoon?” I ask.

“Indeed. And I bought a lot of great things.”

I fetch my plate, now cool enough to hold, and amble to our living room table.

“I heard you were offered the accounting internship. What’s up with that? Did you accept?”

I half-expect Chelsea to either say no or give me a grimace to indicate that, yes, she agreed to work in accounting, but only to satisfy her father’s condition. To my surprise, however, she gives me a bright grin.

“Yes, I did. When I came out of my chat with Devon, I was somewhat demotivated. But in the elevator, I bumped into a blond demi-god. He chatted me up, and guess what? He turned out to be a senior accounting manager. He’s called Howard, his suit bulges at all the right places, and his bangs are to die for.”

Chelsea waggles her brows at me suggestively.

“So, after meeting him,” she continues, “I bumped into Sarah who asked if I was interested in interviewing for the accounting internship. I agreed, and our conversation went great. It seems that I retained more from Mr. Johnson’s boring lectures than I thought. Long story short, I landed the job.”

“You’re happy about it?” I ask.

Even if Chelsea always got good grades on her finance exams, she used to grumble that she preferred licking toilettes to crunching numbers.

“Claro, claro,” she says, imitating my brother’s deep baritone and favorite way to confirm something. “The best part of the whole thing is I’ll be sitting next to Howard, as he volunteered to be my mentor.”

A bemused snort escapes my throat.

It’s just so much like Chelsea to abandon something she seemed utterly determined to achieve and then set out to chase an entirely different objective on a whim, without feeling conflicted about her own behavior.

Some might label her go-with-the-wind attitude as inconsistent, but I’m convinced that her readiness to embrace whatever life brings and disregard the past is a quality.

I always worry and overthink my decisions.

This is probably why I still haven’t blurted out that I’ll be Devon’s assistant, a position I said I’d never want.

I shove some quesadilla into my mouth, hoping the creamy cheese will fill me with the