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) 📗

I straighten and grab the tea mug I brought to the office. It shows my favorite scene from Disney’s Beauty and the Beast remake—the dance.

The cup was a gift from Eva. My cousin joked that if I drink from it every day, it will remind me that I shouldn’t settle for anything less than my own fairy tale.

I trot to the kitchen. Some warm liquid in my belly should curb my appetite. I choose the Winter Nights tea blend, because I’m attracted to its Christmas-y fragrance, and pour hot water on it.

Chelsea always scolds me that I use too much water for one teabag. She claims it dilutes the aroma. But I can’t help it. I have an esthetic need to see a cup full. Not filled to half or two-thirds, but brimming.

I inch toward my desk, wondering when Devon will decide to call it a night. My chest stutters as I imagine his tall figure stepping out of his office. I squeeze my mug tighter and blink at the cartoon characters.

Yes, I’ll settle for nothing less than my own fairy tale. Definitely not for a fleeting sensation of heat.

Chapter 17

(Laia)

“Careful or you’ll spill it.”

Devon’s voice spooks me, and it’s only by a miracle that I don’t slosh the hot liquid on myself. I lower the mug to my desk and glance up.

He’s sitting in my chair, legs crossed, back in a relaxed posture. And, horror of horrors, he has a piece of paper is in his hands.

My piece of paper. My outline.

I silently pray that he hasn’t had time to read anything yet.

But as my eyes move to his scrutinizing expression, I know my prayer is in vain.

Devon holds out the paper and his lips curl up. “I didn’t expect the briefing about the HGT Sportswear campaign to sound this…huh, what’s the word…romantic.”

Heat rushes to my head, and I launch forward, snatching my notes from him. I hide the paper behind my back, while I drop my gaze to my keyboard.

“The HGT briefing is done, and so are the other two files you requested. I uploaded them all to the server and sent an email to notify you.”

“I know. I read your message.”

“You did? Then why did you snoop around at my table?”

I didn’t intend for my voice to sound quite so accusing. Devon is the owner and, as such, has every right to check what I, or any other employee, is doing at their desk. I can only blame my harsh tone on my embarrassment.

Devon read through my romance notes. I could sink into the ground.

Devon jumps up from my chair. “I’m sorry, Laia. I didn’t mean to pry into your private business. I wanted to congratulate you on finishing your briefing documents so fast. But since you weren’t here, I decided to sit and wait for you. Then that interesting title drew my attention. Love’s True Power…”

He murmurs the provisional title of my book with such a throaty baritone that the little hairs on the back of my neck rise.

He tilts his head, his eyes searching mine. “Are you writing a novel?”

There is no point in negating the evidence. He’s already read my whole plot outline.

At least I’ve switched the hero’s eye color into a trustworthy brown, instead of the cornflower shade I initially envisioned.

I slide my mug toward my screen, so I can lean my hip on the desk without the risk of capsizing my tea. When I feel the support of the massive wooden table, I peek up at Devon.

“Yes, I’m trying to put together the first draft. Writing a book has always been on my bucket list. It’s a romance, but you must’ve figured that out from the title.”

Devon nods. “I have. Interesting…so you want to become a romance writer?”

His tone is full of curiosity, and there’s no hint of reprimand in it, even if it could be understandable. He caught me working on a private project during my working hours.

I decide to answer honestly. “I’d love to write the stories that are in my head, yes. Do I want to become a full-time author? Maybe. For now, I’m just treating my novel as an occasion to turn a dream into reality. Once it’s ready…or rather, if it ever gets ready, I’ll think about what to do with it.”

Devon furrows his brows. “Why the ‘if’? Your outline seems pretty detailed already. Having a strong story grid is a substantial step for a great novel. A bit like a briefing document for an ad campaign.”

“Yeah, well, it isn’t so much the plot, but the characters that will give me pain.” I lower the paper to my desk.

“Why is that?”

I shrug. “I’ll only be able to draw upon my fantasy when I can describe—”

I stop just in time, realizing my lack of experience with men isn’t a topic I should be discussing with Devon.

First, because I’m his assistant, so my extra-curricular activities (or the entire lack thereof) don’t concern him.

Second, Katja warned me to stick to professional topics with Devon.

And, third, that unsettling warmth in my belly I thought I’d banned for good is back now, stronger than ever.

“Describe what?” Devon’s smile grows bigger.

He obviously isn’t out of his element in this discussion.

“Describe how…” It feels losing oneself in the kiss of a man. “…how a man, uhm thinks.”

Devon lifts a brow. “How a man thinks?”

“Yes.” I hurry to consolidate my excuse. “I’m planning on using dual points of view, so I’ll do chapters from the heroine’s and from the hero’s angle. But I fear that depicting how a man reasons could become a challenge.”

Phew, I think I managed to correct my slip.

And what I said is even real. I do fret how I’ll be able to identify with a male protagonist.

Devon pulls my notes closer to him and scans my writing. “Why don’t I help you with that?”

“With what?”

His eyes leave my outline, and his gaze locks with mine. “Teaching you how a man thinks.”

“That’s not possible,” I