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) 📗

“Stop,” I bark before Pete’s words can instill any inappropriate image about Laia in my head. “Laia, because that’s her name, isn’t hot. She’s pretty, but in a chaste kind of way. Her face looks a lot like Salma Hayek’s, only younger.”

“Not bad.” Pete wiggles his brows. “By chaste, you mean…?”

“No! Ah, buddy, what’s wrong with you?” I bump a fist into Pete’s shoulder. “She is my employee. I wasn’t insinuating anything about her sexual experiences. I just meant that she appears innocent and genuine.”

“In an enticingly curvy, Salma Hayek-y way, huh?”

“That’s your dirty mind talking. Anyway, we’re dropping the subject of my new assistant now.” I reach for the ignition and turn it. “Just drive, Pete. If we sit around talking, we’ll miss happy hour.”

My last argument motivates Pete enough to stop bugging me about Laia. He steps on the gas and steers the car to the road.

I glare out of the window and watch the quiet residential area turn into the busy streets of Downtown Phoenix, while a sullen mood brews in my stomach.

Pete’s remark is still bothering me.

Why?

I’ve a soft spot for tall, blonde women. Laia wouldn’t be the type of girl I’d hit on, even if we met outside of work. I can dismiss Pete’s innuendo with a clear conscience. I don’t harbor any attraction toward my new assistant.

“Devon, you coming? The pretty ladies are waiting for us,” Pete says. “Look, your welcome party’s outside.”

We’ve arrived? Did I spend the entire car idling about Laia?

My eyes flick to the window, and I spot the two reporters Pete mentioned, lingering outside Red Heaven’s entrance with their cameras, eager to get a shot at some minor celebrity—which, unfortunately, is what they consider me to be.

Lucky that I don’t plan on socializing tonight, otherwise the juicy tabloid article Ellie feared might just turn into reality.

Pete’s enthusiastic grin shows how ready he is to jump into action, but I’m wondering whether Ellie is right.

Maybe I am indeed getting too old to be a playboy.

Chapter 8

(Devon)

The next morning, as I enter my company’s lobby, Chuck salutes me by knocking his heels and pulling his back into a straight line.

“Good morning, Mr. Devon,” he calls out in the same disciplined tone he must have used with his captain back in his army days.

I pat Chuck on his back. “Thank you, and good morning to you too. I hope good old Steve isn’t giving you a hard time.”

Chuck shakes his head, then gives a slanted glance at the elderly man beside him. “Steve and I are getting along superbly, Mr. Devon.”

Steve twists his mustache between his index and thumb and nods. “Indeed. Chuck is learning quickly.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” I smile and continue on my way.

I wave to Michael at the reception desk, then stop to caress Hudson’s head. It’s like summoning my mojo for the day. Hudson has been my partner in crime since I was still working out of my bedroom, chasing down my first paying clients. Without his constant presence, I might have given up before I made a breakthrough.

As I amble to the elevator, Chuck’s jovial face dances in front of my eyes, and my lips curl up.

I’m happy that he’s doing well. I hired the young security officer a couple of months ago, straight from a soldier reintegration program. Chuck was struggling with severe PTSD and couldn’t continue his previous career. His new work in my company seems to be doing him tremendous good. He doesn’t have the haunted frown and empty glare that he used to wear. If he’d only quit addressing me with that formal Mr., he’d blend in perfectly with the rest of my staff.

Katja called me an altruist for taking Chuck on board, but hiring a young veteran was a no-brainer to me.

When I dropped out of college after Morgan’s betrayal, I went through my own private hell. But I came out of it stronger, thanks to my family and friends who stood by me when I launched into my grandiose plan of building Hudson Communications. I’d like to give others the same chance of rebuilding their life.

I press the call button on the elevator and let my eyes flutter shut.

Though I’d respected my own rule and left the club early, I still didn’t get enough rest last night.

My sleep was plagued by the weirdest nightmare. I dreamed I was closed in a room filled with cigar smoke and heavy female perfume. The air was so saturated with the nauseatingly artificial fragrances that I began to choke. In the end, I woke up sweaty and gasping for air.

The elevator bell chimes, and I quickly open my eyes.

As my vision refocuses, I blink at a curious pair of eyes observing me.

At first, I don’t recognize to whom they belong. They remind me of Laia with their peculiar pattern and color, but the woman in front of me, in her well-fitted black pants and a light-pink silk blouse, can’t be her.

No, the girl I’d hired had a questionable—not to say awful—taste in clothes.

Plus, with how she stumbled in her flats, there’s no way she’d suddenly start using pumps, even low heels.

Just as I assemble these rational arguments in my head, the familiar sweet soprano that had me questioning whether Laia sang in a choir as a kid, greets me. “Good morning Mr.…uhm…Devon. Are you going up too?”

My facial muscles give up, and my jaw slides an inch.

Oh, goodness. This is indeed my assistant.

Was she snatched by a fashion makeover team as she headed for work?

The doors of the elevator begin to close, and Laia holds out her arm to stop them. “Do you prefer to come in or stay and wait for an empty ride?” A hint of teasing tugs her lower lip into a smirk, as if she’s amused by my bafflement.

I haven’t seen Laia acting coy yet, and I must admit her breezy playfulness moves something in me.

Or maybe it’s the realization that