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

Maybe he is compensating for some past deprivation with his libertine lifestyle. That would explain how a man so witty, generous, and kind could behave like such a dullard in his private life.

I tap on my forehead to stop the spiraling of my senseless conjectures. I’m only looking for excuses to justify my crush on Devon.

And it’s pathetic.

I switch on the lights in the printing room and walk to a printer. I enable the proper settings and hit Enter. As I wait for the papers, I decide to call Chelsea to kill time.

“Hi, Chels. It’s me, Laia.”

A male voice replies, “Hi, Laia. It’s Howard.”

Shoot, why did I forget that my roomie would be out with him?

Before I can apologize for disturbing them, Howard holds the phone away from his mouth, which makes his baritone muffled. “Chelsea, sugar, it’s your friend.”

In a second, my friend’s familiar voice echoes in my ear. “Laia? Did you see it too? It’s weird, isn’t it?”

She doesn’t sound troubled that I interrupted her romantic date. Her eager tone, which she usually reserves for significant gossip, surprises me so much I forget my original intention of hanging up as fast as I can.

“Saw what, Chels? I’ve no clue what you’re talking about.”

“Aren’t you calling about True Facts?” she asks.

My jaw drops.

“Why would I call you about a tabloid? Especially one that releases articles that contradict its name more often than not?”

Chelsea gives out a bemused snort. “Because it published a piece about our boss whose public image you’re supposed to be curating?”

“That’s not possible.” I shake my head. “I did my regular news search this morning, and the list was empty.”

“Weird, the article appeared online yesterday. I discovered it this afternoon, browsing on my phone.”

Fiddlesticks, how could I miss this?

The article must contain something incredibly juicy if my roomie assumed I was calling about it.

I tap the printer’s dashboard, and the shuffling of papers pauses. I quickly restart its flow, then ask, “How bad is it?”

While waiting for Chelsea’s answer, I squeeze the phone between my shoulder and chin and race over to the computer in the corner of the room where employees can change their printing requests without having to walk back to their desks. I can use its browser.

My pulse drums in my ears as I type in my password and unlock the screen.

I type “True Facts Devon Griffin,” and the first result that comes up reads, “Did the Hudson Communications’ CEO have a change of heart?”

Chelsea’s right. The timestamp is yesterday. I click on it and hold my breath.

“It’s not bad at all. That’s what makes it so odd,” Chelsea says.

“What do you mean? What does it say about Devon and the company? Be specific, Chels. Do they mention any of our recent campaigns?” I snap at my friend because the tabloid’s page is loading slowly, and I’m getting more nervous with the minute.

When I created my search settings, I thought I included all local gossip magazines, but it seems I must have missed True Facts.

Chelsea chuckles. “About the company? Nothing. It’s all about Devon and what’s happening to him.”

Just as she says this, the website decides to cooperate, and the article appears on the screen.

After the bold headline, there are two photos of Devon laid side by side.

In one, he’s in a press conference and looks absolutely ravishing as he speaks to the journalists. The other picture shows him in a fancy restaurant having dinner with a gorgeous blonde.

My heart squeezes as I look at how flirtily the girl smiles at him.

Then I read the caption. “Now and then. What’s happening with one of our town’s best tomcats? Did he give up on the chase for good?”

“Exactly,” Chelsea exclaims, and I realize I must’ve spoken the words out loud instead.

“Are you looking at the article right now?” she asks.

“Yes, I am.” My eyes fly through the lines.

It’s a short text written in a sassy, almost obnoxious tone. The reporter speculates about why Devon hasn’t been spotted clubbing in the past two weeks and presents two hypotheses.

Number one suggests that Devon is having a change of heart and wants to settle. While number two explains Devon’s untypical behavior with a secret business deal that Hudson Communications will be announcing soon.

“So, what do you think? Interesting stuff, huh?” Chelsea says. “Pretty much in line with what I—”

“Certainly not,” I hurry to cut her off. “Please don’t speak about your whacky gut feeling. Especially not when you’re with Howard.”

Chelsea told me that she perceived Devon’s interest in me when we met at the car show. She went so far as to say our boss might be more indulgent about office affairs because he’s got his eyes on me.

I refuted her insane idea, but without confessing what happened in Devon’s elevator, I couldn’t entirely dissipate her crazy theory.

“Of course not. I’m always very discreet. You should know this.” Chelsea sniffs.

Chelsea being very discreet is as much of an overstatement as saying the Sahara supplies the entire world’s population with fruits and veggies. But since I know my bestie never intends to harm with her chattiness, I don’t contradict her.

“Anyway, you’re right. There’s no information about our company in the article besides a vague conjecture. Thanks for telling me about this, though. It completely slipped my attention.”

“I’m glad I could help.” Chelsea’s voice clears from resentment. A wonderful quality of my roomie is that she isn’t able to hold a grudge with me. “When are you meeting Devon’s sister?” she asks.

“As soon as my documents print.”

And Devon decides to leave.

I bite back this last part just in time.

It was a conscious decision to hide from my friend that Devon is driving me to the jazz club, or that he will even be there at all. I didn’t want to ignite Chelsea’s misconception about our boss and me any further.

Partially because I feared that her claims could instill dangerous hopes in my heart.

“Great. Going out will do you good. You can’t always be a homebody.” Chelsea pauses