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

by Agnes Canestri

  Chelsea pouts her lips. “I think Devon should have given you more heads up. If I’d known sooner that you were going, I’d have ordered you the same pumps I have from Taryn Rose. They’re lightweight with responsive cushioning. You could wear them for twelve hours and not notice.”

  “That’s okay,” I reassure my friend, “I’ll be fine in my own sandals.”

  The truth is, I’d have loved to know about Devon’s change of plan earlier, too. But, as it appears, he kept Katja in the dark about it as well.

  His secretary was just as surprised as I was when Devon broke the news to us this morning. Even more so, because Devon changed the reservation details himself instead of asking Katja to do it.

  Katja told me that, for the past four years, Devon has always shown up solo at the CCF. The suspicious glance with which she accompanied her revelation did nothing but increase my jitters about tagging along with Devon on a three-day-long journey.

  I don’t know why Devon wants me to accompany him, but I fear it might have to do with his crazy idea that I should coach him.

  I don’t know how to help him without accidentally revealing the way I feel for him…

  Chelsea brushes her finger on the tip of my nose. “You’re thinking about your feelings for Devon, aren’t you?”

  “Maybe,” I mumble.

  Ah, why did Howard need to visit his cousin on Saturday?

  With him gone, Chelsea stayed home and saw me return from the park all flustered. She didn’t buy my excuse that Sandy and Mila got me this worked-up. Ultimately, she coaxed me into letting the cat out of the bag about my crush.

  “Well, I was thinking of Devon too, when I chose this dress.” Chelsea wiggles her brows. “I wanted either a bodycon or a bandage-style dress with a stylish belt to draw attention to your tiny waist and yummy hips. But since for now you only have an unofficial date with Devon, I went for a classic look with this fifties-style outfit.”

  I cringe as she labels the gala a date—even if an unofficial one.

  Chelsea must think I’m unhappy that she picked a more sober look because she grabs the dress and presses it to me. “Don’t worry, though, this flared skirt and well-defined midsection will show off your succulent curves all the same.”

  I sigh. “As puzzling as it is that you call my hourglass-shape succulent, that’s not why I winced. I don’t want you to insinuate that tomorrow is something more than it is. I know very well it isn’t, and any hope in the opposite direction risks fueling my emotions for Devon. And that’s not the healthy mental state I need for surviving this impromptu business trip.”

  “Ah.” Chelsea waves with her hand. “When are you going to admit the big boss is courting you?”

  “He isn’t, unfortunately.”

  Chelsea gives me a you’re-selling-yourself-short look, which she’s perfected throughout our teenage years. She’s so good her glance is often enough to shake me out of my self-commiseration.

  As if Chelsea realizes her usual encouragement won’t cut it today, she drops my cocktail dress onto the carry-on and puts her hands on my shoulders.

  Her gesture makes me suspect I’m about to receive sassy preaching about why her take on the situation is the right one and why I’m entirely mistaken.

  This time, however, she’ll find me ready to counter all her points.

  Not because I don’t wish with all my soul that Chelsea is right. But because I fear if I buy into my friend’s idea, I risk a more significant heartache than the one I’m already destined to have.

  “Laia, Devon offered to help you with your cheesy romance book—”

  “It was nothing but creative interest in my project,” I chime in before Chelsea can twist this unrelated information into evidence to support her wacky theory.

  Chelsea furrows her brows. “Let me finish first, then you can tell me your verdict. Okay, let’s ignore his offer to support you with your book. We still have his invite for the motor show—”

  “You basically forced him to give me his VIP pass…” This turns into an inaudible mumble as Chelsea presses her palm to my lips.

  “I said listen, Laia. Besides the car show, there’s the fact that he took you to his house to get some reports he could’ve given you at work. Next up is the jazz club. And”—she holds up her hand as she sees me opening my mouth—“I know it was Ellie who proposed it. But Devon said his sister is a matchmaker. Maybe he recruited her to drop the invite?”

  “Unlikely,” I murmur, but a weak flicker of doubt awakens in my chest.

  Though I could force myself to find a plausible explanation to almost all the details Chelsea’s recited so far, I must admit that stringing them all together makes it sound like Devon is going out of his way to spend time with me.

  Chelsea, who knows me enough to recognize my shifting mood, continues with increased enthusiasm. He brought you to his house. He made you breakfast and stayed hungry so you could eat. And last”—Chelsea makes a dramatic circular wave, then points her index to the ceiling—“he shows up in the park where he knew you would spend the afternoon and volunteers to babysit your annoying nieces.”

  “Sandy and Mila are adorable,” I retort.

  “Ah, I know that, of course.” Chelsea sighs. “I was just putting myself into the shoes of a rich, single playboy. Isn’t it weird that a man like Devon does all this for his assistant? To me, it’s like a giant, blinking sign that he is very interested in you, Laia. And not as an employee, but as a woman.”

  Without wanting, my lips curl up and my chest begins to buzz with a sense of lightness. “So you think he might be falling for me?”

  Chelsea shrugs. “Well, I’m not sure if we should frame his feelings like that. Let’s call it a bodily crush, or a flirtmance. Like what Howard feels for me.”

  “Do you mean Devon wants me for a fling? Like his ex-assistant?”

  The idea that this is what Devon could desire from me is even worse than the thought that he doesn’t care for me at all.

  I sink to my bed and bury my face into my palms.

  Chelsea sits down beside me and rubs her temples. “That Hayley chick?”

  “Yes. I’ve never really found out what happened to her, but there had to be something.” I raise my head as a suspicion wiggles itself into my mind. “What if Devon really had a fling with her, which ended badly—aka the girl fell in love with him—and he fired her?”

  Chelsea examines her nails as if those could provide an answer to my question. After a second, she peers up at me. “I’m not sure what that was about. But I think you shouldn’t even care. The past is the past. That’s what I always tell the guys I date. You only need to focus on what’s happening between you and Devon and what might happen on this trip. Is your room going to be close to his?”

  “Jeez, Chels.” I roll my eyes. “I have no idea. I didn’t speak to him about that. I only know we’re leaving tomorrow from the office and we’re supposed to be back Friday evening.”

  I’m lying. Devon told me he booked two adjacent rooms for us.

  But I don’t want to encourage my roomie’s fantasy about what I should do while in Tucson. She doesn’t seem bothered by the idea that Devon’s interest in me is only physical.

  I place my hand on top of Chelsea’s head. “Anyway, I might be smitten with Devon, but I don’t want to get involved with him unless he feels the same way about me.”

  Chelsea smacks her lips. “Laia, what you aspire to only happens in the movies. In real life, people meet, get together, hit it off—or don’t—and then they maybe develop profound feelings for each other.” She pokes me in the ribs. “Wouldn’t it be worth loosening up on your rules a little, given that you’re smitten with him?”

  “No,” I murmur, but my tone is only half-convinced.

  I would never want to sacrifice my values for a guy.

  But if there is a man for whom I may risk doing precisely that, it’s Devon Griffin.

  Chapter 37

  (Devon)

  “Oh, m
y!” A quiet gasp escapes from Laia’s throat as we enter the Paradise Point Four Seasons, Tucson’s best five-star plus resort.

  I glance at Laia’s face and my chest warms.

  She clenches her carry-on’s handle and scans the lobby with large eyes. The coffered ceiling has knife-edged planes fitted with LED strips. The yellow blouse she wears enhances the specks in her irises as the lighting reflects her gaze.

  It’s an interesting sight, but not nearly as gripping as Laia’s enthusiastic face.

  “It’s not too shabby, right?” I smile at her.

  Tucked away amid the Sonoran Desert, this hotel was picked as the location for the CCF gala twice in the past five years. This isn’t surprising considering the beauty of the Tortolita Mountains that the resort’s outdoor venues overlook, and the luxurious yet modern feel its indoor spaces offer.

  “Are you kidding?” Laia waves toward the custom-made reception desk that’s backed with a giant expressionist painting. “This place is fantastic. By far, the most gorgeous hotel I’ve ever been to. I love how it pairs glamour and contemporary implementation.”

  “I’m so glad you like it,” I say.

  And I am.

  After all, I’ve booked us a three-day-long stay, despite suspecting that most event attendees will leave the next day after the gala. If I’m entirely honest, I actually counted on the participants’ early departure.

  Small luxury establishments don’t accept overlapping events, so I expect the hotel to become quiet once the CCF’s crowd clears out. It’ll be an ideal location for some alone time with Laia.

  CCF isn’t a critical business event where I need to focus on acquiring clients or brainstorming with fellow creatives. Instead, it’s a laid-back celebration of our profession, topped with great food and decent live bands. So I’ll be able to dedicate all my attention to Laia and make her see that I can be the man for her.

  This trip is a chance to reveal my feelings to Laia. My only problem is she doesn’t know yet that there are no work activities planned for us, other than tonight’s gala. I haven’t found a way yet to tell her my plan, without the risk of sounding like I wanted to kidnap her and keep her in Tucson without a legitimate reason.

  But I’m hoping that, as the day progresses, I might see further proof that she’s attracted to me. That would give me the courage to spill the beans and propose a mini-vacation with me.

  “Devon, I forgot my laptop bag in the car.” Laia’s voice cuts through my contemplation.

  “Do you want me to get it for you?” I offer, but she shakes her head.

  “No, that’s okay. I’ll ask the valet boy to fetch it for me if you give me the car keys.”

  I dig out the keys from my pocket and hand them to her.

  As she takes them, our fingers brush. It’s a brief, involuntary gesture, but it makes my arm pause mid-air all the same.

  Laia’s eyes dart to mine, and I’m sure she must be feeling the same pangs of electricity as I do. Her flustered gaze and sharp inhale point to that.

  “Well, then I’ll go and…”

  “Sure. You go and…” Sticking to my pledge of courting her slowly is so hard. “I’ll check into our rooms in the meanwhile.” Yes, doing something useful will help me reactivate my brain.

  Laia blinks at her luggage. “Can I leave this with you?”

  “Of course, no problem.”

  She smiles, then walks away while I grab both of our bags.

  I stride over to the reception desk. After a closer look, I decide it must be a Rottet design. Not many designers could pair brass, myrtle burl, and marble in such an enticing combo. I make a mental note that if I ever decide to re-look my company I should contact the talented Texas architect firm.

  The young receptionist steps over to me. “Welcome to Paradise Point, Mr….?”

  “Mr. Griffin. Devon Griffin. I’m here for the CCF with my plus one, Laia Flores.”

  I ignore the giddy smile that wants to push its way to my cheeks as I call Laia my plus one. I’m really getting ahead of myself, but I can’t help it.

  That short connection a moment ago left my insides flaring with hope and joyful anticipation for the next days.

  The receptionist’s well-trimmed goatee shifts into a polite smirk. “Yes, of course. Give me just a second to check.” He peers down at his screen and types on his keyboard. “Ah, yes. I have you here. Mr. Griffin and Mrs. Flores. Perfect.” Then his bushy brows drift together. “Oh, wait, we have a tiny problem.”

  “What problem?” I ask, alarmed.

  The receptionist rubs his chin, and the squishy sound of his beard is unnerving.

  “One of your rooms was given away to another participant. The one you booked for Ms. Flores.”

  “What? How could this happen?” I bark and take absolute satisfaction in watching the guy pale.

  Nothing was supposed to go wrong. Nothing. And now this lad tells me Laia doesn’t have a room?

  “I’m not sure.” The receptionist hits a few keys, and his eyes speed back and forth as he reads his screen. “Ah, okay, I have it. We had a special request from a lady who has anxiety issues when placed on the top floor. A colleague of mine switched Ms. Flores’ room with hers. Thanks to this change, Ms. Flores can stay in a suite with a breathtaking view of Wild Burro Canyon.” He flashes me a relieved smile, apparently proud that he managed to clear up my problem.

  “Only not on the same floor as I am,” I murmur.

  “Well, no. I’m really sorry about that.”

  For his benefit, the receptionist does seem sorry, so I decide not to pester him any further. It’s not the end of the world if Laia and I need to sleep on a different floor. Maybe this distance will even add a touch of the romanticism Laia likes.

  After dinner together, I’ll accompany her to her level as if I’m giving her a lift home and then wander back to my own floor. I’d like her to have the best possible time in Tucson, and staying in a suite instead of a deluxe room might contribute to that.

  “Here are your keys, sir.” The receptionist hands me the cards. “Do you need someone to take up your luggage, or will you manage?”

  “It’s fine, I’ll take care of them. Thanks.”

  I slip the cards in my jacket pocket and pivot around to search for Laia. She should be back already.

  But instead of her dark hair, blond tresses teased into a high bun obscure my view.

  Morgan struts towards me, her boot heels clicking on the graphite tiles with each step. Her hands are in the pockets of her pink blazer, the same hue as her lipstick.

  “Hey there, Dev,” she purrs when she reaches me, pulling her shoulders back so her white top’s neckline becomes more plunging. “How great to see you again. How are you?”

  “All is good,” I answer, then decide to cut to the chase. “What are you doing here, Morgan? I thought Theo and you couldn’t make it because of his Alaska trip.”

  Morgan’s hooded eyelids, a trait she hates on herself but learned to mask with eyeshadow, flutter. “Well, yes. Theo is indeed there. But I asked him to confirm my presence for this gala before he left.”

  My eyes widen. “Theo agreed for you to come to his work event without him?”

  Morgan shrugs. “Like you said in the teahouse, the gala wouldn’t have been an important gig for him anyway. As for me, well, let’s just say I didn’t give him much choice. I really wanted to be here. And I can be very persuasive when I set on mind on something.”

  I shake my head. “I remember that. But as far as I know, you don’t have a job, other than being a socialite. Why would you want to participate in an ad industry event that’s of no concern to you?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t say it’s of no concern.” She gives me a coy smile. “You are here.”

  “Me?” My brows jump almost to my hairline.

  “Yes. I’ve been thinking about you since our meeting at the teahouse. About how things went down between us. I wanted a chance to catch you alone and chat about that. I have regrets,
you know.” She bends slightly closer, and her perfume’s potent cloud wafts over me. “Do you have them, too?”

  I take a step back because her fragrance tickles my throat. “Regrets? About us, you mean? No, as a matter of fact, I do not.”

  Morgan sniffs. “I get it. We have a lot of peculiar memories, right?”

  “Peculiar isn’t the most adequate word to describe them.”

  “Ah,” Morgan sighs, “don’t be so rigid, Dev. I know I’ve made a mistake. A big one. But in my defense, you weren’t particularly fun in college. Not like you used to be in high school. There, we had a blast together. But as soon as we moved to Phoenix, that changed. You changed.”

  I square my shoulders as she recites the same lame excuse she gave me for her betrayal years ago.

  “What you mean is I couldn’t be at your service non-stop anymore. I was preparing my business plan for Hudson Communications, tracking down potential clients, and studying full-time, Morgan.”

  She nods. “I understand now. I might have been short-sighted to think you were wasting your time with your company idea. I should have placed my bets on you and not on Theo.”

  “Well, it’s a unique type of apology. I’m not sure Theo would be happy to hear it.”

  Morgan rolls her eyes. “I’m not even sure he would care. I never thought becoming a wealthy lawyer would turn him into the boring guy he is now. All he cares about is his business. He doesn’t go out to clubs like you do. I feel like I’m married to an old man.”

  I’m amazed that talking with Morgan about our past doesn’t even trigger a mild annoyance. Much less the bitterness I used to feel.

  I’ve lived in the aftermath of my failed relationship with her for many years. I told myself it was better never to commit again because I’d been burned by love.

  But as I stare at Morgan, it dawns on me that I lied to myself.

  I’ve never really loved Morgan.

  At least not the way I love Laia.