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) 📗

and ransacks it, before pulling out a black cotton sack. She dangles it triumphantly in front of my eyes.

“If you let me, I can drive.”

“What is that?” I ask, a confused frown settling on my face.

She opens it and pulls out a pair of folded flats. “I put these in, just in case. My sandals are so new, I feared—” She claps her hand to her mouth. “Oh, sorry. I’m sure you don’t care about my blister-prevention plan.”

“No, no. Please go ahead.” I chuckle. “It’s fascinating to know that my assistant has a tactical vision. If you always treat your work with as much care as your feet, I’m sure you’ll never have any problems.”

She gives me a lopsided grin, then takes her flats into one hand. With her other hand, she reaches down and slips out of a sandal. She wobbles on one foot, while her glance bounces between the shoe she has just taken off and her flats.

I snort.

She looks like a stork trying to take a one-legged nap. Or rather like a cute, confused flamingo in her salmon-colored top.

Her eyes move to mine, and her lips curl up. “I look ridiculous, don’t I? I’m afraid if I move, I’ll skid.”

Her smile has the same intense quality that a streak of morning light carries when it shines on someone’s closed eyelids. Suddenly, from darkness, there is day.

And what a day.

“Maybe you should have done this in the car,” I say, still focused on channeling my thoughts away from her mouth.

“Sure, that would have been better. Could you maybe…?” She throws me a pleading glance.

I drop my bag, tuck the car key away, and step over to her.

I snake an arm around her waist so she can lean on me and finish changing her shoe.

The moment I embrace her, her scent envelops me. Though I’ve sensed the delicately sweet notes a few times before, I can only now decipher what they resemble.

Honeysuckles…

As I inhale, I’m grateful for the breathing reeducation I endured as a child, because without it I wouldn’t be able to enjoy Laia’s enticing bouquet.

Before I can stop myself, the words tumble from my mouth. “What perfume are you using?”

Her back muscles tense. “None, actually. I get prickles from any type, so I stopped using them a while ago.” Her glance moves to my hand on her side. “You know, I actually meant whether you could open the car for me so I can…”

Why didn’t I think of that? It would have been easier than embracing her. And more appropriate, given that I’m her boss.

I grab my car key, and when my Audi beeps, I say, “I’ll help you hop over without stumbling, okay?”

Luckily, we only have a few feet to cover. After that, I can release her and reinstall the due distance between us.

As Laia lowers herself to the driver’s seat, I force my eyes away from her legs and stare at my hands.

Laia changes into her flats, stashes her sandals in her bag, and gets up. “I’ll just put this in the trunk with my laptop bag. Are you keeping yours with you?” she asks.

With her heels gone, I remember how short she is.

Being petite suits her. She doesn’t need the heels to make her figure leaner. She’s fine just the way she is.

“Yes,” I answer.

My mind is occupied by the realization that I’ve never dated anyone as small as Laia. This might explain why I feel so protective of my assistant.

Laia slams the trunk and comes back to me. “All done. Do you want to sit in the back? Shall I hold the door open for you?”

I roll my eyes. “I prefer to sit in the front, and I can get the car door for myself. You don’t have to behave like a professional chauffeur.”

“Did you let your previous assistant drive your car?”

I narrow my eyes at her. Why is she interested in what Hayley did or didn’t do?

Katja reported that she saw Laia talking to Fanta in the kitchen that first day. That woman not only has the oddest name of all my employees, but she’s also the gossipiest one. I’ve wondered whether Fanta could be feeding information to the tabloids about my company. Some magazines have started to include precise details about my work when they babble about my private life.

The “Just for You” article Laia showed me this morning mentioned that I would be participating in the CCF gala. The reporter couldn’t have learned about that from an official source, because the list of attendees hasn’t been published yet.

But when I shared my suspicion with Sarah, my head of HR said I was paranoid. For some reason, Sarah likes Fanta despite her big mouth. Perhaps because the woman is a wizard of PowerPoint and not just a chatterbox.

I give Laia a warm smile, which I hope shows I’m not the jerk she might have heard I am.

“No. Hayley didn’t know as much about cars as you do. I’d only let another fellow aficionado behind the wheel of my Audi.”

Laia grins. “Then, I’m honored.”

“We should get going,” I say, grabbing my bag from the floor.

When we’re both inside and buckled up, I ask, “So, how does it feel? Like Le Mans?”

Laia caresses the leather beside her legs and runs a finger over the fancy dashboard. She reaches for the levers on the side with an experienced hand. She adjusts the inclination of the backrest and raises her seat. She takes her time to find the perfect angling for the mirrors, too. Once she’s done turning the driver seat into her own little universe, she blinks at me.

“Well, I’ve never driven a race car, but this R8 rolls around you, not under you. It’s fabulous.”

The dreaminess in Laia’s voice is baffling. I certainly never heard it from any women while discussing cars. Morgan only got excited like this when she raved about Tiffany’s new collection.

The absurdity of comparing my assistant with my ex-fiancée dawns on me. To avoid wondering how my mind could go