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

I might be viewed as a womanizer outside work, but in my company, I never mix business with pleasure.

Chapter 3

(Laia)

Chelsea maneuvers her Pontiac into the last remaining parking spot in front of Hudson Communications, and we both jump out.

A hot and exceptionally dry waft of air slams me in the face, making me adjust my thick blazer. A long-forgotten quote from J.R. Lowell surfaces in my mind.

“May is a pious fraud of the almanac.”

Though the poet probably didn’t have Phoenix in mind when writing these words, they are only too right for our weather here. While in some areas of our country, May brings balmy spring, here it only leads into the start of an arid and torrid summer. At least until the monsoons come, but I’ll have to wait for another two months before they hit.

Unlike Chelsea, who always tries to escape to her father’s estate in San Diego when July starts, I love to stay in the Valley of the Sun when monsoon season arrives. Not only because the tempests bring life-sustaining water to the desert, but also because of the distinctive smell of the creosote bush that lingers everywhere after the rain. Its musky and earthy scent makes me want to drench small towels in the rain and soak up the fragrance to carry it with me anywhere.

Chelsea pulls on my elbow. “Come now and stop daydreaming, or we’ll be late.”

We hurry to the entrance. Hudson Communications is housed in a former department store building in Phoenix’s trendiest neighborhoods and extends over multiple floors.

Saluting the two security officers, we step into the spacious entry hall. I can’t suppress a bewildered gasp. Chelsea googled pictures of the office this morning and raved about its gizmos, but I didn’t have time to look at the photos. I was too busy memorizing the company’s mission statement.

Every inch of the space is covered in bright, inviting colors, from the boldly patterned floors to the vibrant hanging light fixtures. It might even appear gaudy, if it weren’t for plenty of neutral elements artfully added into the mix, like polished wooden panels and walls covered with plants.

One thing is sure—whoever envisioned this interior design was aiming to avoiding boredom and monotony.

“I guess we should register at the reception,” I tell Chelsea in a low voice as we approach a large desk that stands in the middle of the hall.

“But there is nobody,” Chelsea protests.

The yellow-painted counter is indeed empty. So is the rest of the reception area. Where are all the other candidates?

“Maybe the receptionist is having a coffee break.” I shrug.

“Or maybe we’re late, and the other applicants were taken to the designated interview location. All because you couldn’t stop yourself from taking a peek at my engine. I told you the noise was fine.”

A slight annoyance curls through me. “That pinging could have been something terrible, like your EGR valve malfunctioning. Anyway, we’re still ten minutes early.”

Instead of thanking me for keeping close tabs on her car, Chelsea is trying to lecture me on being punctual. I was ready and dressed when she was still applying her second coat of mascara.

My friend must sense my irritation, because she gives me a soothing nudge between my ribs. “Sorry, Laia. I know you spare me loads of trips to the mechanic. Come, let’s walk closer and wait over there.”

We sidle to the reception.

To the left of the desk, there’s an enormous sculpture of a bulldog. Its shiny, white surface reflects natural light flowing in from the large windows.

Chelsea pats the statue’s head, giggling. “This is the only kind of pet I could keep at home. It doesn’t need much and always looks clean.”

“Chels, I’m not sure we’re allowed to touch it,” I whisper.

“No, no, that’s quite okay.”

We whip around and find ourselves face to face with a smiling black woman. Her curly hair is pulled back in a low chignon, which accentuates her dimples.

I didn’t hear her approach, and as my eyes wander to her shoes, the reason she managed to sneak up on us becomes clear.

She’s wearing flats just like I do.

Of course, her tall figure doesn’t need any heels, while my short frame could use the advantageous lengthening of a pair of stilettos. But I can’t walk straight in pumps, and I didn’t have time to practice during the weekend.

“I’m Sarah, the HR manager. I’ll be doing your interviews today. You’re here for the intern positions, am I right?” she asks.

“Yes, exactly.” Chelsea gathers her wits first.

After we introduce ourselves, Sarah waves to us to follow. “Let’s join the other five candidates.”

I ignore Chelsea’s didn’t-I-tell-you-the-others-were-here smirk and strut behind Sarah.

She leads us to a corridor with black and white tiles that remind me of the chessboard my father brought home from an overseas deployment.

Chelsea shows me a seven, then a three, and finally gives me a thumbs up. She obviously thinks that both of us have a great chance to snatch our desired spots.

I wish I shared her self-assurance, but I don’t. Despite thorough studying, I still feel unprepared. Looking at Sarah’s fitted dress and Chelsea’s elegant pencil skirt, I’m suddenly feeling bad about my own clothes. I didn’t remember my blazer being so askew. True, the last time I wore it, I had my graduation regalia covering it, but still.

I’d tried to pull out the shoulder pads at home—without those, I’d look slightly less like a lost soul from the eighties—but those danged things were sewn on so tightly that if I’d kept tearing at them, I would have made a hole in the fabric.

We arrive at the casual sitting area where the other candidates are gathered, and my embarrassment grows.

Four women and a man rise as they see us approach. All the females are impeccably dressed, as if they’ve stepped out of a magazine. Not from the working gals’ section, but rather from the dress-to-impress-your-date one. Their stilettos are so high I’d break an ankle if I tried to stand on them, and their necklines are generously