Ellie leans her freckled cheek toward Pete so they can exchange a kiss. “Thanks for taking me home,” she chirps. “I know it was a detour on the way to your club.”
“No problem. It was good to see you, kiddo,” Pete replies.
Pete is only two years my senior, but he insists on calling my sister “kiddo” for some weird reason. Ellie’s bet is that Pete does it as a way to deflect her criticism about our womanizing lifestyle. Some kind of mental protective barrier.
Since Ellie works for a behavioral clinic, I don’t feel like arguing with her hypothesis about this particular topic.
Ellie turns to me, but I shake my head. ”I’ll walk you,” I say instead.
“That’s not necessary, Dev, but if you insist…” Ellie feign-protests, but her relieved tone tells me she’s happy I offered.
Ever since my sister’s neighbor got mugged in a nearby alley, I’ve been worrying more about Ellie. I want to make sure I see her safely to the door first, even if Pete wants to get to Red Heaven before happy hour ends.
Ellie has been more wary too. She even picked up a new quirk, and she started carrying a lipstick knife in her purse.
It’s a ridiculous gadget that, quite frankly, is more likely to cause her an accidental mouth stabbing if she mixes it up with her lip balm rather than wound an even mildly skillful thief. But my sister insists it makes her feel more protected.
I hop out of the car and take a deep, conscious inhale. I hold it in for a few counts before releasing it. Though the times when I needed to practice breathing techniques to enhance my thoracic capacity are long gone, I still have the habit of doing this exercise each time I set foot outside.
The late-spring air is still too hot and dry for my taste, as the concrete walls continue to release the heat they’ve accumulated throughout the day.
My eyes fall on the thirsty shrub on the sidewalk, and I wish I had a bottle to water the poor fern.
I’m looking forward to July when finally the rainy season starts, which is much more to my liking.
Ellie jumps out too and slams the car door with a mighty bang that sends her light-brown locks dancing around her shoulders.
My buddy’s head pops out of the passenger window as his windscreens quiver. “Watch out, kiddo,” he complains. “My ride is my treasure. Don’t you break it.”
Ellie rolls her eyes, but before she can shoot back one of her fiery comments, I grab her arm and drag her toward her house.
“Don’t criticize Pete’s adoration of his toy, please,” I whisper as we walk away from the Toyota.
Ellie throws me an annoyed glance. “I wasn’t gonna. I can recognize a pathologically strong bond between a human and an object, and far be it from me to shatter it. Though I suspect that the only reason Pete likes his ride is because he thinks it’s a chick magnet. He isn’t obsessed with the nitty-gritty of cars like you are.”
I answer the remark with a short nod.
My friend would switch in a minute if he found another model of vehicle that would make his gigolo act more successful.
Ellie leans on me and suppresses a yawn. “Oh gosh, Dev, you can’t imagine how tired I am. I’m looking forward to a shower and then jumping into bed. I can’t fathom how you still have the energy for a club. It’s almost ten.”
I shrug. “I’ll just stay for a drink. Or maybe two.” Even if Pete definitely has other plans for us.
But tonight I can’t be his sidekick for too long. The interviews drained all my need for social interaction. I could easily call it a night right now. I’m going out because I promised Pete I’d keep him company, and I hate to back out on my word.
We arrive at the tall brick building with a rusty fire escape where Ellie and her two besties live.
My sister fetches her keys and hugs me. “Thanks for the delivery.” She winks and gives a peck on my cheek. “Have fun with Pete, but please behave. I don’t want to be pestered at work with gossip about my hunky brother’s newest conquest.”
“Ah, Ellie,” I smack my lips, “you exaggerate. It’s not like paparazzi lurk behind every corner, ready to write a juicy piece on me. I’m not that famous.”
“What about that double spread in Fancy & Stylish?”
I open my arms. “The reporter just happened to celebrate his birthday in the same bar Pete and I went to. I didn’t expect that he would trade his celebration to snap a few compromising pictures of me. In any case, I only accompanied that blonde to her car, much like I’m doing it with you now.”
“That’s not what the article said…” Ellie gives me an accusing glance.
“I never even drink Long Island Ice tea, so that should be an indication of how much the journalist made up. I was only being Pete’s wingman that night.”
“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 any
way.
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 love how the soft curls caress you in all the right places when—”
“Stop,” I bark before Pete’s words can instill any inappropriate image about Laia in my head. “Laia, because that’s her name, isn’t hot. She’s pretty, but in a chaste kind of way. Her face looks a lot like Salma Hayek’s, only younger.”
“Not bad.” Pete wiggles his brows. “By chaste, you mean…?”
“No! Ah, buddy, what’s wrong with you?” I bump a fist into Pete’s shoulder. “She is my employee. I wasn’t insinuating anything about her sexual experiences. I just meant that she appears innocent and genuine.”
“In an enticingly curvy, Salma Hayek-y way, huh?”
“That’s your dirty mind talking. Anyway, we’re dropping the subject of my new assistant now.” I reach for the ignition and turn it. “Just drive, Pete. If we sit around talking, we’ll miss happy hour.”
My last argument motivates Pete enough to stop bugging me about Laia. He steps on the gas and steers the car to the road.
I glare out of the window and watch the quiet residential area turn into the busy streets of Downtown Phoenix, while a sullen mood brews in my stomach.
Pete’s remark is still bothering me.
Why?
I’ve a soft spot for tall, blonde women. Laia wouldn’t be the type of girl I’d hit on, even if we met outside of work. I can dismiss Pete’s innuendo with a clear conscience. I don’t harbor any attraction toward my new assistant.
“Devon, you coming? The pretty ladies are waiting for us,” Pete says. “Look, your welcome party’s outside.”
We’ve arrived? Did I spend the entire car idling about Laia?
My eyes flick to the window, and I spot the two reporters Pete mentioned, lingering outside Red Heaven’s entrance with their cameras, eager to get a shot at some minor celebrity—which, unfortunately, is what they consider me to be.
Lucky that I don’t plan on socializing tonight, otherwise the juicy tabloid article Ellie feared might just turn into reality.
Pete’s enthusiastic grin shows how ready he is to jump into action, but I’m wondering whether Ellie is right.
Maybe I am indeed getting too old to be a playboy.
Chapter 8
(Devon)
The next morning, as I enter my company’s lobby, Chuck salutes me by knocking his heels and pulling his back into a straight line.
“Good morning, Mr. Devon,” he calls out in the same disciplined tone he must have used with his captain back in his army days.
I pat Chuck on his back. “Thank you, and good morning to you too. I hope good old Steve isn’t giving you a hard time.”
Chuck shakes his head, then gives a slanted glance at the elderly man beside him. “Steve and I are getting along superbly, Mr. Devon.”
Steve twists his mustache between his index and thumb and nods. “Indeed. Chuck is learning quickly.”
“I’m glad to hear that.” I smile and continue on my way.
I wave to Michael at the reception desk, then stop to caress Hudson’s head. It’s like summoning my mojo for the day. Hudson has been my partner in crime since I was still working out of my bedroom, chasing down my first paying clients. Without his constant presence, I might have given up before I made a breakthrough.
As I amble to the elevator, Chuck’s jovial face dances in front of my eyes, and my lips curl up.
I’m happy that he’s doing well. I hired the young security officer a couple of months ago, straight from a soldier reintegration program. Chuck was struggling with severe PTSD and couldn’t continue his previous career. His new work in my company seems to be doing him tremendous good. He doesn’t have the haunted frown and empty glare that he used to wear. If he’d only quit addressing me with that formal Mr., he’d blend in perfectly with the rest of my staff.
Katja called me an altruist for taking Chuck on board, but hiring a young veteran was a no-brainer to me.
When I dropped out of college after Morgan’s betrayal, I went through my own private hell. But I came out of it stronger, thanks to my family and friends who stood by me when I launched into my grandiose plan of building Hudson Communications. I’d like to give others the same chance of rebuilding their life.
I press the call button on the elevator and let my eyes flutter shut.
Though I’d respected my own rule and left the club early, I still didn’t get enough rest last night.
My sleep was plagued by the weirdest nightmare. I dreamed I was closed in a room filled with cigar smoke and heavy female perfume. The air was so saturated with the nauseatingly artificial fragrances that I began to choke. In the end, I woke up sweaty and gasping for air.
The elevator bell chimes, and I quickly open my eyes.
As my vision refocuses, I blink at a curious pair of eyes observing me.
At first, I don’t recognize to whom they belong. They remind me of Laia with their peculiar pattern and color, but the woman in front of me, in her well-fitted black pants and a light-pink silk blouse, can’t be her.
No, the girl I’d hired had a questionable—not to say awful—taste in clothes.
Plus, with how she stumbled in her flats, there’s no way she’d suddenly start using pumps, even low heels.
Just as I assemble these rational arguments in my head, the familiar sweet soprano that had me questioning whether Laia sang in a choi
r as a kid, greets me. “Good morning Mr.…uhm…Devon. Are you going up too?”
My facial muscles give up, and my jaw slides an inch.
Oh, goodness. This is indeed my assistant.
Was she snatched by a fashion makeover team as she headed for work?
The doors of the elevator begin to close, and Laia holds out her arm to stop them. “Do you prefer to come in or stay and wait for an empty ride?” A hint of teasing tugs her lower lip into a smirk, as if she’s amused by my bafflement.
I haven’t seen Laia acting coy yet, and I must admit her breezy playfulness moves something in me.
Or maybe it’s the realization that the shiny pearls on her blouse resemble her teeth.
“No, I’ll come,” I reply.
She steps backward, leaving me space to enter.
The floor we’re traveling to is already selected, but I push the button again to cancel out my previously indecisive behavior.
The doors shut, and I turn around to face Laia.
I give her a once-over, a slower and more deliberate one than I’d typically allow myself at work. On some unconscious level, I want her to feel as fazed as I was by her unexpected transformation. A slight suspicion forms, and I’d like to see if I’m right or not.
My plan seems to work because Laia shifts uncomfortably and brushes her palms against her pants. Her cheeks deepen into a darker hue.
I allow myself to enjoy her embarrassment until she starts to chew on her lower lip, then I redirect my glance to her face.
“So, I guess you were playing me yesterday, right?” I ask.
Her eyes, hovering over her shoes, dart to my face. They’re so wide her irises seem to overtake the entire space. Having them reflected at me by the mirrors of the elevator from every angles magnifies the effect.
“What do you mean ‘playing you’? I wasn’t…I didn’t…”
I meant my comment as a provocation and hoped I could make her confess her trick, but Laia’s genuinely flustered expression tells me my hunch might have been off.
“So, you didn’t dress differently for the interview because you wanted to ensure that I’d focus on your resume and not be blinded by your….you know…”
Law #2: Don't Play with a Player: A Sweet Office Romance Story (Laws of Love) Page 6