Law #2: Don't Play with a Player: A Sweet Office Romance Story (Laws of Love)

by Agnes Canestri

  Before I can make sense of why he added this weird ‘maybe’, he turns and walks toward the exit.

  Ellie leans close to me. “Laia, may I ask you a favor?”

  The wheels of my brain turn slower than usual. “How can I help with that?”

  Ellie smiles. “Simple. When Devon is done with his performance, keep him occupied so he doesn’t come looking for us. Got it?”

  I want to answer, “got-it-what-if,” but I manage to stop myself.

  She wouldn’t find it particularly funny. And it probably isn’t. Only the devilish pink liquid in my belly makes me think it is.

  So I just nod.

  Ellie flashes me a smile then hurries off after Pete.

  My eyes roam back to the stage, where Devon has started a soul-stirring jazz ballade. His eyes are lost on the horizon, and his jaw is set in a frown.

  I lift my glass and empty the last drops of my drink.

  I’ll need all the giddy I can get if I’m to keep Devon busy and away from his sister and his friend.

  Chapter 28

  (Laia)

  The song comes to an end, and Devon is greeted with a round of applause.

  I join in as well, utterly surprised that my palms make such vivid noise. I never noticed I have such a talent.

  Maybe if my job for Devon falls through, and I can’t publish my romance novel, I should try casting for some talk show. My particular skill might be appreciated in the audience of Oprah, for example.

  Yeah, I could even become the clapping champion of—

  “Laia?”

  Huh, Devon’s mic is truly terrific. It sounded almost as if he were standing next to me.

  “Laia?”

  This time Devon’s hand taps gently on my shoulder. Two of his fingers land on the bare skin of my neck, making me sizzle at his touch.

  My eyes dart to his, and a wide grin spreads on my face. “You were just…wow, Devon. Like wow, wow…”

  I sound like a total moron, and I see that my lack of proper vocabulary is as puzzling to him as it is to me.

  Or maybe more to him.

  I actually find it mildly funny. Why do I need to use sophisticated expressions and elaborate metaphors? A ‘wow, wow’ is just as good, right?

  One of his brows lifts as he eyes the cocktail glasses on the counter. “Have you been drinking? And where is my sister?”

  “Huhu!” I raise my hands in protest. “Is this a firing-squad or what? Too many questions at once.”

  Devon’s cherry-colored mouth twitches, hinting at a smile.

  Though perhaps raspberry would be a better fruit for his lips’ color. Cherries can be too dark, and Devon’s flesh is…

  I bend closer to him, letting my gaze linger on his mouth.

  Yes, definitely raspberry.

  The sweet and ripe kind, not the ones my mother used to buy from Señor Gonzales—

  “Are you drunk?”

  Devon’s lips move, and I realize how close I am as his breath tickles my nose.

  “Of course not,” I jerk back and straighten my spine to prove my point. I even jump up from my seat for emphasis.

  Despite a slight sway, I manage to stand straight in front of him.

  Like I wanted to demonstrate, I’m perfectly sober.

  Devon sighs, but the corners of his mouth curve up. “You’re not used to alcohol or going out. It shows. You should have stuck with the sparkling water I ordered.”

  Isn’t he a reputed party king? Why is he so shocked that I had one or two little bubblies?

  I pick up a glass from the counter. “It’s just some yumminess your sister picked out for us. It’s so delicious that even Pete wanted to taste it. Want me to order you one?”

  His face becomes serious, and he shakes his head. “No, I’m fine. Thanks. Where is Pete?”

  He puts a weird emphasis on his buddy’s name, but I ignore it, together with his question.

  I’m busy thinking about how I could cheer Devon up.

  We need to bide our time before his sister and friend return, and that won’t happen for a while, judging by Ellie’s secretive behavior. I can’t spend the whole evening walking on eggshells around Devon.

  I blink at my drink as if it can give me an answer and notice there’s still a strawberry sitting on a bit of pinkish delight in the bottom of my glass.

  This might just be enough.

  I press closer to Devon.

  He doesn’t retreat, but his eyes widen. “What are you doing?” he asks, somewhat alarmed.

  “You really have to taste this. It’s sooo good. Come on, just a teenie-tiny sip.” I hold up my glass to him and lick my lips as if to demonstrate how amazing the flavor is.

  Devon’s gaze travels to my mouth, and his pupils dilate. His blue irises become two thin circles around the giant black holes as they expand.

  “Fine. Give me the strawberry.” His voice is challenging with a smooth, almost seductive edge.

  Like in the elevator, only this time I’m not intimidated or flustered by it. I suspect it’s probably the courage of the two Bellinis that makes me act so cocky, but I reach for the fruit and lift it from the glass.

  “You wanted this?” I wiggle my brows.

  Devon stares at me and slowly, oh-so-very-slowly, nods.

  My last grain of rationality desperately shouts that I’m playing with fire. Still, its warning is inaudible due to the loud, unruly voice urging me to reach out and caress Devon’s cheeks to see whether the stubble sprouting on his jawline is soft or tickly.

  “All you need to say is please, and it’s all yours,” I tease.

  Devon’s gaze holds mine. “Please.”

  This single word triggers a cascade of warmth in my belly. To distract myself from the sensation, I try to recall which bucket list items I’m currently conquering.

  But his eyes are blazing enough to fry my brain, and my neurons can’t ponder anything other than the depth of his blue irises.

  Laia, you said A, now comes B…

  I guide the strawberry to him, and when his mouth opens to take hold of it, my thumb brushes against his lower lip.

  I think I hear his breath hitch, but I could be mistaking my own ragged inhale for his.

  The brief contact makes a flicker of reason return in my deserted mind. I take a step back and place my glass on the counter.

  “So, your verdict?” I ask, trying for a voice that’s calm but comes out husky.

  Devon chews on the strawberry and after swallowing gives me an enigmatic smile. “You were right. It would have been a pity not to try this.”

  Devon’s cell chimes. He takes it from his pocket and peeks at it.

  And so do I.

  A calendar reminder flashes on his screen. “Cora Tuesday night!!!”

  I’m surprised I can read the upside down script through my slightly blurred vision.

  Devon swipes the note to silence the alarm and blinks up at me. “I’m sorry for this interruption. What were we saying?”

  All the coy wooziness dissipates from my chest. ‘Cora Tuesday’ canceled out whatever special moment we might have had.

  Correction, I’ve had—in the singular.

  A high-strung snicker bubbles up from my throat at the realization that I almost made a fool of myself.

  It was silly to assume that a man who has female names in his calendar for every weekday could be enticed with me.

  “What’s funny?” Devon asks.

  “Nothing. Everything. This.” I point at him then at me.

  “I’m not sure I understand.” His brows round.

  “It’s funny that I felt there was something sizzling between us when there wasn’t, right?” I ask.

  Devon inhales then exhales loudly. “Laia, the truth is—”

  “No problem. I know I’m not Laia Friday.” I force out a giddy chuckle.

  Best to pretend my reason escaped to the safe harbor of tipsiness, then maybe Devon won’t question why I tried to act like a femme fatale.


  Devon’s gaze darkens. “That’s not what I wanted to say. But it might be better if we pick up this conversation another time when you’re not…” He scratches his chin, and the five-o’clock-shadow I admired makes a rustling sound. “Where are Ellie and Pete anyway?”

  “Outside.” I point toward the stairs. “Ellie asked me to keep you occupied while she speaks with Pete. Privately. I think your sister may be in love with your friend. Isn’t that romantic? Maybe she can teach Pete that one woman is enough…”

  My own words stir up an unsettling image.

  I see Devon planting a feathery kiss on my mouth while whispering, “You are my media naranja, Laia.”

  I don’t even bother to decipher why my illusory Devon uses the Spanish equivalent to declare that I’m his soulmate. I’m just shocked such a vision could bypass my control in the first place, even with the alcohol.

  Devon’s chin hardens. “I’ll text Ellie to check what’s going on.”

  He pulls out his phone and types quickly.

  After only a minute, during which I rub my mind clean of my derailed fantasy, his phone chimes.

  His brows furrow as he reads his sister’s answer. “It seems Ellie decided to turn the tables on us for real. She and Pete won’t be coming back to the club.”

  I give him an I-told-you-so glance.

  He snorts, but his lips hint at a smile. “I’m confident it’s not what you think, Laia. There is no one Ellie is less likely to fall for than Pete. Well, maybe just one.”

  “I know, I know.” I give him a coy smirk. “Your friend, Wyatt. I heard how much she dislikes him. I can’t fathom why, though. He’s one hunky football player.”

  “I didn’t know you follow football,” Devon says in a perplexed tone.

  “Oh, I don’t. Chelsea made us google Wyatt last week after he called you in the office.”

  Devon’s eyes widen. “Did you just admit to me that you’ve spoken about my private call to Chelsea?

  “Oh, shoot, I guess I just did.” I tap on my forehead. “Which is utterly stupid, given that I’m your PA, right?” Maybe mentioning my job title jumpstarts my responsible self for a second because I add, “It was a slip, I’m sorry. I was too excited after my first day, so I overshared with my friend. I don’t usually talk to Chelsea about these details. I mean ever.”

  Devon’s face softens. “It’s not a state secret that Wyatt and I are friends, so no harm done. And since I believe this information isn’t something your sober self would have blurted out, I think it’s time for us to go. We don’t need to wait for Ellie and Pete, so I can take you home to rest.” He takes hold of my elbow.

  Despite the fantastic zing his fingers give me, I wiggle free from his grip. The fact that he spoke to me as if I’m a drunk fool makes me annoyed.

  “I’m not ready to go just yet. I think I’ll stay and get another drink. One that’s not sparkling water.”

  Devon sighs. “Laia, please, it’s better if we go. You’ll have a bad headache as it is tomorrow. Trust me.”

  I hold my temples with my palms on both sides and rock my head side to side. “All fine, see?” But just as I finish bragging, a spasm sizzles through my temples. My face contorts into a grimace.

  Devon steps to me and cradles my cheeks in his hands. A worried glance fills his eyes. “You’re starting to get a throbbing already, aren’t you?”

  His tone is filled with concern, and his sweet attention depletes my previous flare of rebellion. Or it maybe it’s the heat of his touch that seeps into my skin with light ripples.

  Whatever it is, I don’t feel like contradicting him anymore.

  I peek up at him and nod. “Fine. Let’s go home.”

  Chapter 29

  (Devon)

  I don’t like women who drink too much.

  I don’t even like myself when I drink too much. I hate when my judgment becomes clouded through alcohol. That’s why only a handful of people have ever witnessed me even inebriated.

  I should be put off by Laia’s confused state.

  But I can’t help it, I find even tipsiness darned sweet on her.

  And if it were only that…

  As I put my hand on Laia’s lower back to assure she won’t trip on the club’s stairs —even though she performs her slightly unstable ascent with her chin up, she can’t fool me. I know she must be feeling dizzy— that daring glint with which she gave me the strawberry flashes through me.

  And I’m once again robbed of breath.

  A muscle was bunched on her neckline when she retreated, almost as if it cost her to back off. It sure as heck cost me not to reach out and haul her to my chest.

  If that silly reminder Ellie programmed into my phone about her roomie’s gallery opening hadn’t come between us, I’m not sure I could’ve stopped myself from claiming Laia’s mouth this time.

  “¡Andale, Devon! Gimme your car keys. I can totally drive us.” Laia’s addled timbre snaps me out of my mindtrip.

  She holds out her hand to me as we reach my Audi. The menacing frown with which she tries to coax me into handing her my keys makes her look cute as a doll.

  Her words, despite preserving their jingling quality, roll heavier than they did inside the club. The cocktails must be fully spread throughout her bloodstream by now.

  “No, no, Laia. I’m driving.”

  She reaches for my hand and tries to snatch the keys. Her fingers miss and land on my chest, triggering thrills in my entire torso.

  To hide the manly warmth I feel from her innocent touch, I fall back on a tone that I practiced with Ellie when she went through her unreasonable adolescent years, and our parents were at their wit’s end with her. “It’s not safe for you to drive, so let’s not start a discussion about it. It’s getting late anyway.”

  “How late is it then?” Her eyes flick to her watch, and as she stares at her arm, her eyes glaze over.

  I’m pretty sure she isn’t able to read the numbers. Judging by the giant yawn she covers up with a hand, the only thing she should be doing is hopping into her bed to sleep.

  I take her wrist and point at the hour hand. “It’s almost nine. Not too late, but for you and your pink bubblies, late enough.”

  I add a smile to show I’m not chiding her. I noticed that she didn’t like it when I commented on her tipsiness.

  She watches my fingers on her arm, then slowly raises her chin. “Did you realize you can wrap your hand around my wrist, and there’s still some space between your fingers?”

  She’s right. Her wrist is so delicate my hand closes easily around it.

  “That’s because you have the bone structure of a bird.” I chuckle, ignoring how the spot where we touch sends licks of sizzles up to my shoulders.

  She narrows her eyes. “Take that back. I’m no bird. I’m…I am…”

  Her eyes drift toward the sky, and for a second I think she’s lost in the sight of the stars. Then as if she’s just remembered her thread, her glance flicks back to me, and a triumphant smile stretches on her lips.

  “I’m a woman. A mujer, Devon. MU-JE-EER. You get it?”

  Something in the way she says this makes me pause and release her hand.

  It’s not just the alcohol speaking.

  No, there’s a certain edge in her voice that suggests she actually believes I’ve never noticed she’s a woman.

  Where has Laia been the past half-hour? Or the last two weeks, really? How can she think I’m unaffected by her confusingly innocent and entirely disarming charm?

  Laia takes my silence as confirmation of who-knows-what insane theory she’s formed about me, and she taps my chest with her palm.

  “Your problem, Devon, is that you waste your time with Tuesday Coras, Thursday Jessicas, and Sunday what’s-her-names, while—”

  “Laia, Cora is Ellie’s friend. Not my date,” I insert.

  Laia stares at me wide-eyed then waves. “One swallow does not make a summer.”

  A suspicion forms in me, and its bare possibi
lity makes my chest buzz. “Were you bothered by the thought that I would have a date on Tuesday? That’s why you’re upset?”

  Her mouth opens and closes. “No. Of course not. And I’m not upset.”

  Oh, yes, she is.

  My lips curve into a smile, because her frustration confirms the magnetic pull between us is a mutual sensation.

  Laia’s nostrils flare, and she pulls her hands to her hips. “Stop grinning at me with your player smile. I am not the problem here. That one is you and your obsession with the past. That Morogan cheating on you? It’s her loss, don’t you see it?”

  My jaw goes slack. “How do you even know of—?”

  Laia presses her finger on my mouth. “Ssshh, the how isn’t important. I’m teaching you something here. Something you can’t seem to grasp, Devon.”

  Our gazes lock, and I’m lost in her irises, twinkling in the streetlamp’s light.

  “You’re stupid to let one delusion dictate your actions. I believe you can’t…you shouldn’t…you…” She stops, and then as if she hadn’t been addressing one of my most private topics, another giant yawn escapes from her mouth.

  I want to be mad at Laia. I really do. What right does she have to judge me based on the information Ellie gossiped about?

  I’ll need to kill my sister for sharing my story. Laia even said Morgan’s name wrong.

  But this detail doesn’t bother me in the slightest.

  What does is that Laia believes I don’t know she’s a woman, when each fiber in my body is all too aware that she is. That she thinks I’m still hooked on the playboy life when, in reality, since she walked into my office, I haven’t been on a single date.

  As I stare at her, the desire to show to her what I think swamps my chest. I want to grab her, pin her against the car, and silence that mouth of hers with a desperate kiss.

  It’s an action I’ll probably regret later, but the urge is too strong.

  Just as I’m about to haul her to me, Laia closes her eyes and shrugs.

  “Ugh, I’m tired,” she mumbles.

  She actually looks exhausted as she stands there, rubbing at her eyes with her fists like a cartoon character.