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) 📗

My roomie would never be caught wearing anything less than a meticulously composed ensemble. Even at home, she wears skinny jeans and tight tops, while I hang out in sweatpants and oversized T-shirts that may or may not have holes.

This time she has a point, though.

The pantsuit isn’t the most flattering piece I own. It’s a hand-me-down gift from my mother’s second cousin’s daughter, Juanita, so it doesn’t fit me perfectly and it’s a tick old-fashioned.

But if we go out shopping now, I’ll lose precious time.

I can’t have that. I absolutely need this job. There’s just too much I must learn about this ad agency before I’ll feel confident to show up for the interview.

Being well-prepared trumps looking pretty.

Besides, no dress I could buy would make me look as gorgeous as my roomie. For that, I’d need to lose at least another ten pounds (not impossible but tough with my sweet tooth) and grow a foot (which is unachievable anyway).

I give Chelsea a reassuring look. “I’m not aiming to become Devon Griffin’s personal assistant. To get that position”—I tap his photo—“you’ll need to look fabulous, but Juanita’s suit should be enough to land me the copywriting internship…if I come across as knowledgeable about their business.”

“Fine, but once we’re hired, we’re going on a shopping spree, okay?” Chelsea asks.

“Okay, I give in.”

Chelsea picks at her nails, and when she notices that the polish on one is slightly chipped, she jumps up.

“Laia, do you mind starting with the background search alone? I have a nail emergency.”

Without waiting for my answer, she dashes out of my room.

I sigh and open my computer. I fire up a browser window and type “Hudson Communications”.

As the page loads, a hopeful voice hums in my chest. Maybe Chelsea didn’t exaggerate when she boasted that all our problems would be solved thanks to her idea.

Chapter 2

(Devon)

I shift the phone further from my ear before the high-pitched female voice I’ve been listening to for ten minutes risks bursting my eardrum and lean back on my executive chair.

“Are you ready to throw away all the magic we shared, Devon?”

The magic? What is this girl even talking about?

Before I can react to her question, my office door opens and my secretary Katja enters, carrying a dubious murky liquid in a tall glass.

“Not again,” I murmur under my breath as I observe the curious juice.

I hired Katja five years ago. In her mid-fifties, she’s practically old enough to be my mother, and this fact makes her disregard several rules that normally apply to a boss-employee relationship. I cut her some slack on that because her robust build, wide jaw, and always impeccably woven milkmaid braids discourage visitors from ignoring my closed-door policy. Also, if I’m honest, I quite like her bossy matron style.

But her new hobby of fixing up health concoctions instead of serving me my usual cup of joe—a double Arabica—is starting to get on my nerves.

There is a vexed sniff from the phone. “Devon, are you talking to me?”

“Ah, no, I wasn’t. Sorry, Clarissa, I—”

“My name is Claudia!”

“Right. Claudia,” I correct, shooting a nasty glance at Katja’s gloating face.

My secretary must’ve given me the wrong name on purpose when she announced the call. Her little retaliation for leaving her in charge of my personal cell phone, I suppose.

“That’s what I meant,” I hurry to cover up my slip. “Listen, Claudia, I’m sorry if you misunderstood how things stood between us. We had a fun weekend together. Three days, nothing more. I was quite clear that I’m not looking for anything else beyond that, so…”

“I thought you would realize what a special connection we had. But you only used me!” Claudia exclaims.

“I didn’t use you. You said you wanted pleasure with no strings attached. You made me assume we were on the same page.”

Katja reaches my double pedestal desk and places the glass in front of me. She gives me a condemning look to show she isn’t buying my excuse to Claudia.

Well, too bad.

I’m not the bad person here.

My only fault is that I believed Claudia’s fib. She obviously assumed that I don’t know myself and my own wishes well enough. A conclusion at which too many women arrive, unfortunately, despite my best efforts at being transparent with them.

My buddy Pete is much better at sensing this kind of female neediness from the get-go. That’s why these calls rarely happen to him.

Katja’s chiding gaze is getting unnerving, and I shift my glance to the glass once more. With the table’s oak shade as a backdrop, the drink isn’t mud-grey as it looked from a distance, but plays in a green undertone.

This new color doesn’t make it more inviting.

“You know what, Devon? I think I’m done with you,” Claudia whimpers in my ear. “You don’t deserve me.”

I see a chance to close this utterly pointless discussion with a positive note, so I quickly agree. “No, I definitely don’t. I’m so sorry.”

My admission must puzzle Claudia, because her timbre becomes softer. “Oh, I thought you did. I wanted you to be the one.”

My eyes flick to the clock on my screen.

Jeez, I need to get back to this briefing report if I want the photographers to start with the shooting tomorrow.

I try for a voice that’s understanding but not too tender. “You deserve someone much better than me, Claudia. And don’t worry, you’ll find him.” Then, desperate to cut the call short, I add, “I think it’s best to leave it at this.”

Claudia gives out an indignant snort. “Fine, you’re a man with an empty heart, and I don’t have anything more to tell you. Live well, Devon. Or don’t!”

After her theatrical good-bye, Claudia hangs up, and I lower my phone.

Katja pushes the glass closer to me, risking the eerie content spilling onto a re-branding plan I’ve just approved.

“Drink up, please,” she barks in her familiarly harsh voice.

“What is this?”

“Sauerkraut juice with cucumber and ginger.” Katja’s mild Slavic accent gets accentuated as she rolls the ‘r’ in her words. “Don’t be a baby, drink it!”

“You shouldn’t have bothered,”