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 makes a coughing noise, but it sounds like she’s trying to whitewash a sensual moan. A playful giggle bubbles up from her throat, and she adds, “Sorry, sweetie, I need to go now. Howard has special plans for us, and he’s ready to reveal them, I think.”

“Sure, don’t keep him waiting. Bye, Chels.” I hang up before I need to witness anything from Howard’s surprise.

I gather my printed documents and go to the kitchen to make myself a black tea.

Ellie seems super enthusiastic about our evening. She texted me at least twice already to ensure that I wouldn’t cancel on her. I’m not a night owl, and without some boost, I risk yawning all night. I return to my desk, balancing my steaming beverage in one hand, while in the other, I squeeze the papers.

I keep my eyes on my mug because I don’t want to get myself dirty. Before going to the printing room, I changed into my jazz-club attire—a purple top and a pair of thin, black jeans.

As I amble forward, my thoughts return to the tabloid article.

Since I know there’s no concealed business deal on Devon’s agenda, I wonder whether the reporter’s first claim could be correct.

Could Devon be considering a lifestyle change?

The talk we had about my romance book certainly didn’t suggest that.

I know I shouldn’t be concerned with what Devon does or doesn’t do after leaving the office, as long as his private life doesn’t taint his business image.

But I am.

As much as I hate to admit it, I wish the gossip magazine’s author was right. No man has ever occupied my mind this intensely as Devon does.

At least no real men.

I’ve fantasized about movie heroes or my favorite book-boyfriends for entire nights, but my obsession with Devon is even wor—

Ouch! 

My forehead bumps into something hard. A warm swish of air brushes my skin at the same time as a loud “Careful!” cuts through the air.

The unexpected sound and proximity of Devon’s voice startles me, and I jerk my head up.

The movement makes my mouth land only inches away from Devon’s lips and shakes my hand enough to spill most of the hot liquid from my cup.

On to…

I drop my glance and jump back as if hit by a current.

The fudge berries, I’ve splashed tea on Devon.

All. Over. Him.

The large yellow spot on his chest grows bigger by the second as the liquid seeps into the white fabric of his shirt.

Devon curses and drops the folder he’s been carrying to the floor. He begins unbuttoning his shirt.

My jaw drops. “What are you doing?”

His eyes meet mine, but his fingers don’t stop. “What does it look like, Laia? I’m taking off this darned, wet thing. Your tea burns like fire…”

His voice isn’t as angry as it should be, considering I’ve probably ruined his Oxford shirt and risked giving him third-degree injuries.

His tolerance of my clumsiness only enhances my embarrassment.

I’d like to make myself useful somehow, so I quickly set my empty cup and printed papers on the floor and launch forward.

“Here, let me help!” I exclaim.

My hands land on his arm.

I only realize how objectionable my action could look after I start pulling his shirt toward me.

Devon’s fingers close around my wrist, and he gently peels off my fingers. “I appreciate your effort, but if you don’t move your hand, I won’t be able to take it off. I first need to loosen the cufflinks.” His voice has an amused undertone as if my zeal entertained him.

“Oh, yes, of course. I just wanted to help…you know, to diminish the risk of injury,” I mutter, recoiling quickly. My sheepish tone may as well translate as I’m ready to die from mortification.

He undoes the two silver knobs while his glance moves to my face, which must be the reddest it had ever been.

Devon flashes me a crooked smirk, while he slips out of his shirt. “Don’t look so flustered, Laia. I didn’t assume that your fervor to undress me was triggered by anything other than your wish to save me from a burn.”

Indeed, by nothing else. 

Definitely not by the sight of so much sheer muscle.

I retreat two steps more, hoping the distance will help me direct my gaze away from Devon’s upper body.

But as I move back, I have an even better view of his bare chest and abs—that, if my fleeting glance doesn’t betray me, could very well be a solid eight-pack—so I really don’t know where to focus my eyes.

His legs are still covered, but staring at his pants would be equally awkward.

In the end, I settle my gaze on his face.

Devon’s lips are still set in a curve. He holds his shirt in his arm—when did he have the time to fold it this neatly?—and he’s watching me.

As our glances interlock, his irises darken.

He shakes his head as if to clear it from a bothering thought and asks, “So…uhm…Laia, are those documents you printed for the casual footwear campaign?”

His business phrase contrasts his shirtless posture so absurdly that a nervous giggle escapes from my throat. I cover it up with a nod, as assistant-like as I can. “Yes, they are.”

While I speak, I realize that due to the distractive exposure of his manliness, I forgot to excuse myself for pouring hot tea over him.

“Devon, I would like to say how sorry I am that”—I wave toward his shirt—“I risked scorching you. I was caught up in my thoughts about…a chapter of my novel.”

Plotting my romance in my head is a far better excuse than admitting what occupied my mind.

“That’s fine. I was distracted too. I’ll watch where I walk from now on,” he replies, smiling.

Yeah, don’t walk around bare-chested unless you want your female employees to have a heart attack. 

I suppress this idiotic phrase just in time, but, unfortunately, a similarly crackbrained one slips out. “Luckily, there’s nobody else around. No danger of getting a mean vanilla doughnut smashed on you.”

The image of whipped cream on his muscles is the last thing I should have brought