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) 📗

Pete’s comment is so relevant to my line of thoughts that I give out a nervous cough. “Pete, you old fox. Your wheels always turn in one direction. I told you, Laia is purely a professional help in my life.” I’m glad my buddy can’t see my chin harden.

“Sure, Dev, I get it. But old habits die hard. You might have dialed back on clubbing with me, which I don’t particularly like, but the instincts I’ve helped you groom still brew the same way, don’t they? When you see a woman you like, you can’t help but tempt her?”

Shame curls through my chest.

I’d like to contradict Pete, but he’s right. I’d almost claimed Laia’s mouth only minutes ago. If she’d taken only a second longer, I might have actually made my move.

“Maybe,” I murmur, “but not when it comes to my employees. Anyway, why did you call? Is it about Friday?”

Before Pete can answer, I hear a faint bang, a noise similar to slamming of a door. I hark to see whether Laia needs help with something, but since I don’t hear her call, I redirect my attention to Pete.

“Yep. I ran into Jimmy, and he asked me to check with you whether you’d help him out. Harry, one of the pianists, has the flu. Jimmy couldn’t find anyone to replace his slot on such short notice. I told him you’d be fine with a few rounds on stage.”

I shrug. “No problem. It’s not the first time.”

“Perfect. I’m looking forward to it. And you know what? I have an idea. Why don’t you invite your assistant? I’m not her boss, and I could use some sweet Latina company while you play us cool songs.”

My stomach twitches despite knowing Pete is messing with me. Jimmy’z is just as much a sanctuary as my apartment. Neither Pete nor I have ever invited a girl to our favorite jazz club. It’s a venue reserved for our male bonding and letting off steam.

“Ha ha, you’re so funny. I’m hanging up now. See you on Friday.”

“Fine. Don’t you dare ditch me this time, ‘kay? Bye.”

The line goes dead, and I put the phone down.

Pete’s comment about Laia sets an odd tension in my stomach.

How absurd is that? How can I be troubled about losing a woman I didn’t even kiss to my buddy, who has never even met her? I can’t be jealous.

I’m just protective of Laia. Now that I know that she’s looking for a white knight and saving herself for him, I can’t even envision her being courted by someone like my buddy.

Or me.

This afterthought sneaks up on me without warning and leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.

Indeed, by no definition am I a white knight. More like a dark warrior who doesn’t need a woman to feel whole.

Even if the girl happens to have the most incredible eyes and kindest smile in the whole world.

This is just who I am.

If I know this, then why am I still hung up on a yearning to kiss Laia?

Chapter 23

(Devon)

As I head back to the living room with the reports under my arm, Laia’s sweet giggle reaches my ears.

Huh, she must be having fun with Ca—

Cat’s head appears from her fancy black cat toilet that I transferred this morning from the balcony to the corridor.

I freeze mid-thought. If my kitten isn’t in the kitchen, who is Laia laughing with?

A second sound echoes through the walls, but this time in a chirpier soprano. The memory of the slamming door comes back to me, and I suddenly remember that my sister still has my spare keys.

If she came to bring me back those, her timing couldn’t be more convenient…for her.

A soft murmur tells me my sister must be chatting with Laia, but from where I stand, I can’t catch a word of what they’re saying.

“Psst, Cat,” I whisper, trying to lure her over to me. “What is my crazy sis up to, huh? Do you know?”

Cat, as always, lacks any sign of cooperation.

She even seems to take offense that I dared to call out to her while she’s doing something as crucial as licking her paws clean. In answer, she huffs, then dashes back to the kitchen.

I drop the documents on the beige sofa and tiptoe behind her as quietly as I can, hoping to catch a bit of the conversation without the girls realizing my presence. I suspect it can’t be a coincidence that Ellie turned up in my apartment at the exact same time that I brought Laia here.

I flatten my back against the wall beside the kitchen’s door and peek inside.

“He’s pretty fine now, but boy, was it bad when we were younger,” my sister says, leaning against the black granite counter. Her coral-colored blouse blends in nicely with the tile backsplash.

There’s no doubt whom or what she’s speaking about.

As if to confirm my hunch, Laia answers, “I didn’t know Devon’s health problems were so severe. He mentioned he’d been hospitalized a few times, but I didn’t want to pry.”

She faces away from me so I can’t see her expression, but I get to admire how her hair sways as she shakes her head.

Ellie’s eyes widen. “No way, Dev told you that he was sick? It’s not a thing he tells anyone.”

“Really?” Laia’s voice is higher than usual and has a startled timbre.

I’m tempted to slam my forehead on the jamb. It’s not true that I keep my childhood condition a secret. I might not go around flashing a T-shirt that says, “I used to suffer from severely recurring bronchospasm,” but Wyatt knows about it. And Pete, too.

So there you go…I didn’t give Laia the kind of special treatment that Ellie implies.

My sister pulls her dainty nose into a pensive grimace, while she vigorously scratches her left earlobe. It’s her trademark expression for I’m about to mount a new rescue mission and usually means trouble.

Ellie just can’t help her inner drive to fix