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

I’m really going nuts here.

First, I propose to my boss that we should be friends. Friends! As if I could ever be pals with a man whose values about love are in diagonal opposition to mine, but whose fleeting touch makes my bones all mushy.

And now I even feel disappointed that Devon is only inviting me into his apartment to give me back my reports, instead of… No. I need to not think about this any further. 

I step hard on the gas, forgetting I’m sitting in his Audi and not in Chelsea’s Pontiac. The engine howls, and we shoot out of the parking with the force of a jet.

“Huhu, slow down a bit, Laia! I’m glad you’re feeling more in your element. You looked a little tense a moment ago. But we shouldn’t get a ticket, if possible.” Devon chuckles.

“What makes you say I was tense?” What reason would I have not to feel at ease?

Just because I can sense his tantalizing cologne, a clean musky scent with a hint of green, without even trying to? Or because his body irradiates such a heat toward me that I feel like fanning myself?

No, all is good with me. Peachy even.

Devon clears his throat and points at my hands.

I follow his gaze. My skin plays in a bluish-white as my fingers clutch the wheel. I release the pressure and roll back my shoulders. “Okay, maybe I had a pang of jitters because…mhm…I’m nervous about the remarks you made on my briefing reports.”

My professional responsibilities couldn’t be further from my mind as we roll through the traffic, but it’s a plausible excuse.

“No need.” Devon reaches out and pats the hand I just moved to the gearstick. “You did a good job with them.”

His gesture is friendly but sends tingles up to my shoulder.

“Turn left here, please, then take the second to the right.” Devon points. His arm almost brushes my shoulder, but I press back to my seat to avoid the contact.

If I get any more thrills on my skin, I’ll feel like I’m sitting in the middle of a termite mound—a bizarre sensual kind.

We arrive at a high-rise, and Devon calls out, “Stop here. That’s where I live.”

I park the Audi near his building.

Devon lives very close to the Arts and Willo Historic District, my two favorite areas in this city. I would trade our flat in Laveen Village for this location in a heartbeat. And I’m sure Chelsea would too.

Devon can literally walk to theaters, museums, and art galleries, and he has countless fancy shops at his disposal, a fact that enthuses me less but would probably be the primary motivation for my roomie to move here.

An elderly doorman keeps watch in front of his place. He greets Devon with a wide smile. Devon exchanges his cordial salutation with a friendly wave.

Once we’re in the hall, Devon pauses. “Wait, Laia, let’s go back for a second.”

We trot to the door, where Devon puts his hand on the doorman’s shoulder. “Philip, this is Laia. Laia, this is Philip, my building’s guardian.”

Philip and I shake hands, both of us somewhat taken aback by this spontaneous introduction.

Why does Devon’s doorman need to know my name? I’m not planning on coming here frequently.

Philip has white, thick locks, cut short like a sheep’s fur. His face is covered in deep-creased wrinkles, but his eyes glimmer with the spirit of youth.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Flores,” he says, his full lower lip twisting upward. “It’s good to see that Mr. Griffin finally has some company. I’ve been wondering whether I should introduce him to one of my nieces so he won’t get lonely.”

Lonely? Doesn’t Devon’s doorman read the tabloids?

“Oh, no.” I shake my head. “I’m just his assistant. We’re here to pick up some documents.”

Philip blinks at Devon with disapproval, while he taps at his own cheeks with both hands. “Mr. Devon, only an assistant? What will Ms. Ellie say to this? She frequently inquires whether I see you with someone, and I always have to say no and no.”

Philip turns to me, a warmth overtaking his features. “And when I finally meet a pretty, young lady at your side, it turns out that it’s all work-related.” He rubs his neck. “Oh, my, oh, my…”

“No need to worry about me, Philip.” Devon touches the doorman’s hand but doesn’t comment any further on his complaints. “Have a great day.”

Devon guides me back to his building and toward the elevator.

As we wait and watch the bright red numbers decreasing on the monitor, I have a hard time wrapping my head around what’s just happened.

The doorman’s voice didn’t hint at a joke, and his face was more concerned than mocking when he scolded Devon.

Devon studies me with furrowed brows. “Everything okay with you, Laia?”

“Sure. I’m just wondering about something.”

“About what?”

I’m tempted to say that it doesn’t matter, but number eight on my bucket list, “Become as feisty and strong as Eva,” comes to mind. Biting back my questions is certainly not helping me with this goal.

“Why did Philip say he should find you a date? Aren’t you one of the city’s ultimate playboys?”

Devon’s expression steels, and a vexed glint seeps into his eyes. “Is this what you think of me?”

“I…I…” I play with my left earlobe, not knowing how to formulate my next phrase. I know it should be an apology, but I can’t seem to find the right words.

What has gotten into me? My label for Devon was too harsh.

There’s a difference between being courageous and spirited and blabbing out things without checking their level of hurtfulness first.

Could my blunder be the work of that Lilliputian fraction of my soul that still feels resentful about seeing Vanessa almost-kiss Devon?

Devon shrugs, withdrawing his glance from me. “You know, things are never as black-and-white as they seem.”

The elevator arrives, and Devon enters.

I march behind him, while my cheeks burn as if I just opened the oven on those delicious cinnamon rolls my mother used to prepare for us