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) 📗

protests, sending jolts all the way to my toes. A groan escapes, and I squeeze my eyes shut for a second.

If I listened to my body, I’d lie back until the pounding in my temples ceases, but I know I can’t do this.

I need to get up from this amazingly soft bed—probably the comfiest I’ve ever slept in—and start acting like a good employee should in her boss’s house.

I open my eyes, and my glance drifts to the blanket enfolding me neatly like a wrapped sausage. Though my mouth feels sticky and parched, the ultimate reminder that last night wasn’t my greatest moment, my stomach still growls at the idea of minced meat.

It figures. I didn’t have dinner before going to the club, which must be why those pink drinks hit me harder than they should have.

I lift the cover and peek beneath it.

I sigh in relief when I realize I’m still dressed, and only my shoes are missing.

My bag is on the night table beside the bed, its long handle folded into an immaculate little bundle.

Did Devon do that? Did he tuck me in this nicely, too?

But more importantly, how did I end up in his condo at all?

My memories of last night are hazy, to say the least. A big chunk is missing. As soon as I hit the seat of Devon’s Audi, heavy tiredness had descended, and I couldn’t fight it back.

Well, frankly, I might not have tried. It was far easier to suffocate my fuzzy feelings for Devon in the silence of sleep than face them.

And, since I’m still not ready to analyze my own stupidity—because what else could I call my forlorn crush on Devon—I decide to size up my current situation based on the facts I can be sure of.

1. I’m in Devon’s house.

2. Devon, for some reason, decided to take me to his place instead of my house.

3. He tucked me in with a checkered blanket.

4. I’ve apparently slept here.

5. Devon is awake, because I can hear his footsteps.

6. He must be making breakfast, because the mouthwatering smell that reaches my nostrils can’t come from anything but bacon and eggs.

That’s about as far as I can get without summoning the humiliating image of my tipsiness.

I sit up, and Cat protests as I shift her from my lap to the bed. I press my feet to the floor to get some mental anchoring.

A soft music filters in from the living room. It’s a remake of a popular Aretha Franklin song, “Son of a Preacher Man.” The melody brings back memories without me consciously calling upon them.

Devon on stage, playing piano.

His voice filling my soul with an indescribable pleasure.

Him coming to me after his performance and me…

I freeze.

Blimey…did I do what I think I did?

Did I really study Devon’s lips close up, tempt him to eat my strawberry, and then called him stupid, screaming, “I’m a woman”? I might have even spelled it out in Spanish for him.

Panic locks up all my muscles. Why did I do that? Why?

He’ll surely fire me now. 

I bury my face in my palms as desperation spreads in my chest. Hudson Communications is my best (not to say only) shot at getting some much-needed business experience, and it could land me with a permanent contract.

And let’s not forget that the new situations I face at my job are like a gold mine for my creative muse. Ever since I started working in the company, my mind has been in full throttle, romance-writing mode. If I continue like this, before the official internship period is over, I could have a first draft nearly ready.

No, no, I can’t stop working for…Devon.

My breath catches as the final consequence of my termination comes to me.

If Devon decides to send me away, I’ll have no excuse to see him each day. The fear this last point unleashes hits me like a bucket of icy water.

I lower my hands to my side, pondering the puzzling realization.

I would miss him—more than the job itself.

The draw I felt last night wasn’t just the effect of the bubbly drinks and watching Devon sing like he was friggin’ Sinatra. It’s something more than that.

Cat sneezes, then blinks at me as if she’s surprised by what just happened. Her face is so comical I break out in a giggle.

There’s a knock on the door. “Laia? Are you awake?”

No, I’m not.

Devon’s baritone sends me into a frenzy, and I jump up. I’m not ready to face him. First, I need to make sure that the looney voice that suggested I’m falling for my boss won’t be back again.

I run to the closet and open it. It’s full of cartoon boxes and men’s suits. No, I can’t squeeze myself in here.

I scurry back to the bed and kneel. Perhaps I could fit underneath? Not likely. I might’ve lost a few pounds since I started the job, but I’m still not that skinny.

I straighten and grab the checkered blanket. I’ll just pretend I’m still sleeping until Devon leaves for the office.

Cat sniffs as if to remind me it’s Saturday.

“Laia! I’m coming in.” The door opens before I can find a suitable escape. I’m frozen in front of the bed, my hands gripping his blanket.

His face moves into a smile—a rather friendly one considering the misery I put him through last night.

“How are you feeling?” he asks.

I drop the blanket and comb through my hair with my fingers. Jeez, I must look a mess with all the knots.

“Good. Just a bit of…” I start, but when his brows furrow, I decide to go with the truth. “Fine, I feel like a tomahawk just landed in the middle of my skull.”

“That kind of throbbing is gruesome,” he chuckles.

Isn’t he upset with me for getting tipsy in his favorite jazz club and ruining the night for him?

“Come,” he waves to me, “I’ve made some breakfast. Food will help with the pain.” Without waiting for me to react, he turns and walks out.

I throw a side-glance at Cat, half-expecting the animal to advise me on what to do. Cat