Law #2: Don't Play with a Player: A Sweet Office Romance Story (Laws of Love) by Agnes Canestri (web ebook reader .txt) 📕

“Maybe that night, yes. But you’re too frequently in the tabloid headlines.” Ellie scrunches her nose. “I don’t like to see people bet on how long your next fling will last. You’re not getting any younger. Being an irresponsible tomcat is okay in your twenties, but when you’re in your thirties, it becomes hideous. It’s time you tune your social life down a notch, don’t you think?”

My jaw tightens. I hate it when my sister lectures me. While I can brush off my secretary’s remarks with ease, Ellie’s disapproval bothers me far more.

Also, her comments don’t fall on entirely deaf ears.

Lately, I’ve noticed that my carefree lifestyle doesn’t provide much satisfaction anymore. The girls I meet seem somehow identical, as if made by a stamp.

It would be simpler to admit to Ellie that I can relate to her worries, but that would start a long chat. Pete must be impatient for me to return.

Ellie notices that she’s stepped on my toes, because she pats my arm. “Sorry, I don’t mean to be a nudnik. I’d just love to see you dial back on your after-work agenda. The steamy, airless clubs are not good for your lungs.”

That’s her ultimate weapon—my health.

She knows that I’d do almost anything to avoid the hospital. I spent too much time there as a child. Now, whenever I merely pass in front of one, my stomach roils.

“My lungs are perfectly okay now, and you know it.” I give her a don’t-even-try-with-this-angle glance. “And, for the record, you sound like Mom when you fuss like this.”

My sister doesn’t like to be compared to our mother. Mom is a lovely woman and we both love her to death, but she can be a real pain in the neck when she picks on you for something.

As expected, Ellie’s face contorts into a shocked grimace. “Take that back,” she squeaks, waving at me.

Her keyring flies out of her fingers and whacks me on the chest.

I catch it and I’m about to hand it back, when I realize she’s still holding onto it with the help of a pink keychain.

I lift the string with two fingers. It’s made out of rubber and feels oddly slimy. “What on earth is this thing?”

“It’s a self-defense swing keyring,” Ellie states in a matter-of-fact voice.

She snatches the keys from my hand by pulling on the thread. She dangles the device in front of me so I can see how the keyring is fastened on a long elastic cord that ties into a tiny elliptic-shaped handle of sorts.

I have a hard time keeping my face straight. “Sis, whipping a keyring at an attacker is the kind of weapon a seven-year-old might come up with after first learning about ninjas. You won’t scare anyone with this. It’s even worse than your lipstick dagger.”

Ellie’s lips curl down. “The guy in the shop told me the concept is based on an ancient jiu-jitsu technique and that it could take out a much larger man than you. You think he lied to me?”

Likely yes.

“Lucky you didn’t mean to hurt me just now. If you did, I’m sure I would have blacked out immediately.”

I withhold the fact that she would need muscles like Dwayne “the Rock” Johnson to accomplish what the vendor promised. And if she were that tough, she could probably incapacitate anyone without some special gadget anyway.

But I don’t want to burst Ellie’s bubble.

She must be genuinely scared if she decided to purchase such a thing. I’ll have to sit down with her sometime and brainstorm better options to increase her sense of safety.

Ellie smiles. “Indeed. I knew it was a useful purchase. So, see you, Dev. Be a good boy, like you promised. Goodnight!”

She opens the door and disappears inside her building.

As I saunter back to Pete’s car, my eyes travel to his large fender bulges. Were they part of the original design, or a special request of Pete’s? Just as I make a mental note to ask my buddy about it at some point, I notice from the corner of my eye the silhouette of a woman on the other side of the road.

There’s something familiar about her. She has long, sweeping dark hair and a petite build. What would Laia be doing in my sister’s neighborhood?

“Laia! Laia!” I yell without deciding consciously to shout.

The woman doesn’t stir.

She probably didn’t hear me. Should I go after her and say hi? It’d be a polite thing to do as her new boss.

My gaze flicks to Pete’s arm hanging out of the car window. He’s drumming his fingers on the door, anxious to get going. I take a quick peek at my watch.

We still have a little time before the two-for-one offer is over at the club.

I’ll be very quick. Before I can overthink it, I cross the road. Pete calls out, but I wave to him without turning to signal that I’ll be back shortly.

I jog leisurely behind the woman. In my head, I’m assessing what I’ll say to her. I don’t want to come across as some creeper who’s following her. I just want ask how she’s doing.

When I’m two feet away, I reach out to tap her shoulder.

“Hi, Laia—”

My voice breaks off as a throaty contralto squeaks at me. “What do you want?”

I know I’ve made a mistake even before my eyes reach the woman’s face. If the missing mellifluous timbre hadn’t been enough of confirmation that I acted like a fool, the woman’s narrowed blue eyes ram my error home.

“I’m sorry, I thought you were someone else,” I blather and then bolt back to Pete.

My buddy is laughing his head off as I hop into the passenger seat.

“Done with your chasing act, mate? Why did you even harass that girl? We’ll have enough nice company in Red Heaven.”

“I didn’t harass anyone.” I stick up my chin indignantly. “I thought she was someone I know. My new assistant, actually.”

“Is your new assistant hot? That chick looked quite cute from a distance. I find long hair so sensual. I