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) 📗

Her words, despite preserving their jingling quality, roll heavier than they did inside the club. The cocktails must be fully spread throughout her bloodstream by now.

“No, no, Laia. I’m driving.”

She reaches for my hand and tries to snatch the keys. Her fingers miss and land on my chest, triggering thrills in my entire torso.

To hide the manly warmth I feel from her innocent touch, I fall back on a tone that I practiced with Ellie when she went through her unreasonable adolescent years, and our parents were at their wit’s end with her. “It’s not safe for you to drive, so let’s not start a discussion about it. It’s getting late anyway.”

“How late is it then?” Her eyes flick to her watch, and as she stares at her arm, her eyes glaze over.

I’m pretty sure she isn’t able to read the numbers. Judging by the giant yawn she covers up with a hand, the only thing she should be doing is hopping into her bed to sleep.

I take her wrist and point at the hour hand. “It’s almost nine. Not too late, but for you and your pink bubblies, late enough.”

I add a smile to show I’m not chiding her. I noticed that she didn’t like it when I commented on her tipsiness.

She watches my fingers on her arm, then slowly raises her chin. “Did you realize you can wrap your hand around my wrist, and there’s still some space between your fingers?”

She’s right. Her wrist is so delicate my hand closes easily around it.

“That’s because you have the bone structure of a bird.” I chuckle, ignoring how the spot where we touch sends licks of sizzles up to my shoulders.

She narrows her eyes. “Take that back. I’m no bird. I’m…I am…”

Her eyes drift toward the sky, and for a second I think she’s lost in the sight of the stars. Then as if she’s just remembered her thread, her glance flicks back to me, and a triumphant smile stretches on her lips.

“I’m a woman. A mujer, Devon. MU-JE-EER. You get it?”

Something in the way she says this makes me pause and release her hand.

It’s not just the alcohol speaking.

No, there’s a certain edge in her voice that suggests she actually believes I’ve never noticed she’s a woman.

Where has Laia been the past half-hour? Or the last two weeks, really? How can she think I’m unaffected by her confusingly innocent and entirely disarming charm?

Laia takes my silence as confirmation of who-knows-what insane theory she’s formed about me, and she taps my chest with her palm.

“Your problem, Devon, is that you waste your time with Tuesday Coras, Thursday Jessicas, and Sunday what’s-her-names, while—”

“Laia, Cora is Ellie’s friend. Not my date,” I insert.

Laia stares at me wide-eyed then waves. “One swallow does not make a summer.”

A suspicion forms in me, and its bare possibility makes my chest buzz. “Were you bothered by the thought that I would have a date on Tuesday? That’s why you’re upset?”

Her mouth opens and closes. “No. Of course not. And I’m not upset.”

Oh, yes, she is.

My lips curve into a smile, because her frustration confirms the magnetic pull between us is a mutual sensation.

Laia’s nostrils flare, and she pulls her hands to her hips. “Stop grinning at me with your player smile. I am not the problem here. That one is you and your obsession with the past. That Morogan cheating on you? It’s her loss, don’t you see it?”

My jaw goes slack. “How do you even know of—?”

Laia presses her finger on my mouth. “Ssshh, the how isn’t important. I’m teaching you something here. Something you can’t seem to grasp, Devon.”

Our gazes lock, and I’m lost in her irises, twinkling in the streetlamp’s light.

“You’re stupid to let one delusion dictate your actions. I believe you can’t…you shouldn’t…you…” She stops, and then as if she hadn’t been addressing one of my most private topics, another giant yawn escapes from her mouth.

I want to be mad at Laia. I really do. What right does she have to judge me based on the information Ellie gossiped about?

I’ll need to kill my sister for sharing my story. Laia even said Morgan’s name wrong.

But this detail doesn’t bother me in the slightest.

What does is that Laia believes I don’t know she’s a woman, when each fiber in my body is all too aware that she is. That she thinks I’m still hooked on the playboy life when, in reality, since she walked into my office, I haven’t been on a single date.

As I stare at her, the desire to show to her what I think swamps my chest. I want to grab her, pin her against the car, and silence that mouth of hers with a desperate kiss.

It’s an action I’ll probably regret later, but the urge is too strong.

Just as I’m about to haul her to me, Laia closes her eyes and shrugs.

“Ugh, I’m tired,” she mumbles.

She actually looks exhausted as she stands there, rubbing at her eyes with her fists like a cartoon character.

The weird carnal desire that took possession of me dissipates, leaving space for another sensation that’s equally, or perhaps even more, puzzling.

A sense of intense protectiveness.

I want to get Laia in bed.

But not the way I fantasized about a second ago. I want her tucked in, relaxed, and able to recover. Her safety and well-being are all that count.

When did I start to care for her this much?

I proceed with my planned gesture, but instead of grabbing Laia’s waist and pulling her to me, I simply put my arm around her shoulders and gently guide her to my car. I open the door and settle her into the passenger seat.

Laia moans softly and closes her eyes.

I bend over her to close the safety belt.

Her eyelids quiver, and her breathing slows, signaling that she isn’t far from a deep REM. I take a deep, conscious breath and move back from her.

Since the first time we met, her perfume has been my Achille’s heel. The enticing scent does things to my insides