Chelsea winks. “Sure thing. One of the internships is for the creative department as a copywriting assistant. You could totally nail that.”
“Copywriting?” I taste the name on my tongue. Though I’m not sure how an ad is created, words are surely involved. And that, at least, is a universe I’m familiar with. “Was I called in for that position?”
“Nope. They had a generalized application for the overall internship program. I imagine they’ll sort out who gets which position during the selection process. You’ll become their copywriter intern, and I”—she caresses Devon Griffin once more—“I’ll take the PA position for this cute boss.”
“What?” I gape at my friend in confusion. “Don’t tell me you’re only doing this to spend time with Devon Griffin?”
Chelsea giggles. “I hope I’ll score a date with him after taking notes for him for a few weeks. It’d be cool to narrate my adventure to my fans.” She slides her fingers through the air designating a stripe. “The FabGal reveals a notorious player’s secrets.”
“Ah, Chels, you can’t be serious. You want to work for this man so you can air his dirty laundry for your viewers?”
“Maybe. Or maybe I also need some of his exquisite muscles in my life.” She indicates the large poster of The Notebook hanging above my bed. “Tell me Devon Griffin doesn’t look like a guy from one of your romance binges.”
“Well…” I start to protest but break off.
I can’t negate that the man, at least according to this one picture, is pretty much how I would flesh out the physical attributes of any desirable male lead.
Athletic, toned, wide-shouldered.
But so much more goes into being a true, swoon-worthy hero than just a sculpted exterior.
And, based on this tabloid article, Devon Griffin lacks most of those qualities.
“The man seems like a womanizer to me.” I distill my thoughts into one short phrase.
Chelsea nods. “Exactly. It means that he has loads of experience and probably utterly smooth seduction skills. Just what will make him fun.”
I roll my eyes.
A notorious gigolo isn’t my type of man. At all.
Chelsea pokes my arm. “Stop being judgmental, Laia. Maybe less chastity would do you some good. Who knows, perhaps it’d help with your romance novel.”
I stick out my tongue, but she only laughs.
Though I feign annoyance, I don’t mind her teasing. Chelsea and I are friends, but we sit on the opposite ends of the spectrum when it comes to how we choose to—or, in my case, choose not to—live out our sexuality.
I redirect the conversation to a topic that interests me more. “So, your choice of applying to Hudson Communications has nothing to do with doing right by your dad?”
Chelsea shrugs. “Let’s just say I can kill two birds with one stone. Dad only said I needed a job at a reputable company. He didn’t say what my role should be, nor how long I have to hold on to it. So…”
“Right,” I murmur.
It’s pointless to dig deeper into Chelsea’s reasons. Whatever motivated her to send out our resumes, it has landed me an incredible opportunity, and I’m thankful for that.
“Since it’s Friday, we have two days to prepare and ensure that we both get picked,” I add.
Chelsea claps her hands a few times, like it’s a fun game we’re about to play and not a nerve-racking process, for which we’ll need to absorb as much information as possible about Hudson Communications.
“Where do we start?” she chirps.
“Let’s begin by checking the company’s homepage. We should study their client portfolio, history, last PR gigs—”
“And choose our outfits.” Chelsea flashes me a grin.
“That won’t be hard for me.” I wave my hand in dismissal. “I only have the one professional outfit that I used for my graduation.”
Chelsea sniffs. “I’ll lend you something else.”
“Thanks for the offer, Chels, but I’m not size-two like you.”
“But that pantsuit looks hideous on you.” She masks her horrified expression behind a smile. “Why don’t we go and buy you a new one?”
My roomie would never be caught wearing anything less than a meticulously composed ensemble. Even at home, she wears skinny jeans and tight tops, while I hang out in sweatpants and oversized T-shirts that may or may not have holes.
This time she has a point, though.
The pantsuit isn’t the most flattering piece I own. It’s a hand-me-down gift from my mother’s second cousin’s daughter, Juanita, so it doesn’t fit me perfectly and it’s a tick old-fashioned.
But if we go out shopping now, I’ll lose precious time.
I can’t have that. I absolutely need this job. There’s just too much I must learn about this ad agency before I’ll feel confident to show up for the interview.
Being well-prepared trumps looking pretty.
Besides, no dress I could buy would make me look as gorgeous as my roomie. For that, I’d need to lose at least another ten pounds (not impossible but tough with my sweet tooth) and grow a foot (which is unachievable anyway).
I give Chelsea a reassuring look. “I’m not aiming to become Devon Griffin’s personal assistant. To get that position”—I tap his photo—“you’ll need to look fabulous, but Juanita’s suit should be enough to land me the copywriting internship…if I come across as knowledgeable about their business.”
“Fine, but once we’re hired, we’re going on a shopping spree, okay?” Chelsea asks.
“Okay, I give in.”
Chelsea picks at her nails, and when she notices that the polish on one is slightly chipped, she jumps up.
“Laia, do you mind starting with the background search alone? I have a nail emergency.”
Without waiting for my answer, she dashes out of my room.
I sigh and open my computer. I fire up a browser window and type “Hudson Communications”.
As the page loads, a hopeful voice hums in my chest. Maybe Chelsea didn’t exaggerate when she boasted that all our problems would be solved thanks to her idea.
Chapter 2
(Devon)
I shift the phone further from my ear before the high-pitched female voice I’ve been listening to for ten minutes risks bursting my eardrum and lean back on my executive chair.
“Are you ready to throw away all the magic we shared, Devon?”
The magic? What is this girl even talking about?
Before I can react to her question, my office door opens and my secretary Katja enters, carrying a dubious murky liquid in a tall glass.
“Not again,” I murmur under my breath as I observe the curious juice.
I hired Katja five years ago. In her mid-fifties, she’s practically old enough to be my mother, and this fact makes her disregard several rules that normally apply to a boss-employee relationship. I cut her some slack on that because her robust build, wide jaw, and always impeccably woven milkmaid braids discourage visitors from ignoring my closed-door policy. Also, if I’m honest, I quite like her bossy matron style.
But her new hobby of fixing up health concoctions instead of serving me my usual cup of joe—a double Arabica—is starting to get on my nerves.
There is a vexed sniff from the phone. “Devon, are you talking to me?”
“Ah, no, I wasn’t. Sorry, Clarissa, I—”
“My name is Claudia!”
“Right. Claudia,” I correct, shooting a nasty glance at Katja’s gloating face.
My secretary must’ve given me the wrong name on purpose when she announced the call. Her little retaliation for leaving her in charge of my personal cell phone, I suppose.
“That’s what I meant,” I hurry to cover up my slip. “Listen, Claudia, I’m sorry if you misunderstood how things stood between us. We had a fun weekend together. Three days, nothing more. I was quite clear that I’m not looking for anything else beyond that, so…”
“I thought you would realize what a sp
ecial connection we had. But you only used me!” Claudia exclaims.
“I didn’t use you. You said you wanted pleasure with no strings attached. You made me assume we were on the same page.”
Katja reaches my double pedestal desk and places the glass in front of me. She gives me a condemning look to show she isn’t buying my excuse to Claudia.
Well, too bad.
I’m not the bad person here.
My only fault is that I believed Claudia’s fib. She obviously assumed that I don’t know myself and my own wishes well enough. A conclusion at which too many women arrive, unfortunately, despite my best efforts at being transparent with them.
My buddy Pete is much better at sensing this kind of female neediness from the get-go. That’s why these calls rarely happen to him.
Katja’s chiding gaze is getting unnerving, and I shift my glance to the glass once more. With the table’s oak shade as a backdrop, the drink isn’t mud-grey as it looked from a distance, but plays in a green undertone.
This new color doesn’t make it more inviting.
“You know what, Devon? I think I’m done with you,” Claudia whimpers in my ear. “You don’t deserve me.”
I see a chance to close this utterly pointless discussion with a positive note, so I quickly agree. “No, I definitely don’t. I’m so sorry.”
My admission must puzzle Claudia, because her timbre becomes softer. “Oh, I thought you did. I wanted you to be the one.”
My eyes flick to the clock on my screen.
Jeez, I need to get back to this briefing report if I want the photographers to start with the shooting tomorrow.
I try for a voice that’s understanding but not too tender. “You deserve someone much better than me, Claudia. And don’t worry, you’ll find him.” Then, desperate to cut the call short, I add, “I think it’s best to leave it at this.”
Claudia gives out an indignant snort. “Fine, you’re a man with an empty heart, and I don’t have anything more to tell you. Live well, Devon. Or don’t!”
After her theatrical good-bye, Claudia hangs up, and I lower my phone.
Katja pushes the glass closer to me, risking the eerie content spilling onto a re-branding plan I’ve just approved.
“Drink up, please,” she barks in her familiarly harsh voice.
“What is this?”
“Sauerkraut juice with cucumber and ginger.” Katja’s mild Slavic accent gets accentuated as she rolls the ‘r’ in her words. “Don’t be a baby, drink it!”
“You shouldn’t have bothered,” I say, but she answers my words with a small shrug and points at the juice.
The ingredients in her creation don’t sound appetizing, but I did skip breakfast to get to my first conference call on time.
Maybe it tastes better than it looks… or smells?
I take a sip, and Katja nods encouragingly.
Ughh….no.
The drink burns sourly on my tongue and has a nasty tinge to it. I force myself to swallow, while my natural instinct is to spray the disgusting stuff on Katja’s cotton shirt. After ensuring that my stomach obeys and accepts the unwelcome treat, I shove the glass away. “Mhmm, interesting. Remind me again why I should be drinking it?”
Katja points at my face, and her lips purse into an isn’t-it-obvious frown. “It helps with hangovers. Lord knows you need it.”
Last night I attended a client’s corporate event instead of going out with Pete. But I only had tonic water, so Katja’s insinuations are entirely off.
I adjust my reclined posture into a straight-backed, I’m-still-the-boss-here pose. “I don’t have a hangover, Katja. I don’t spend every night clubbing and having fun, you know.”
Katja lifts a brow but doesn’t add a word.
It shouldn’t surprise me that she doubts my statement. I do have a bit of a reputation, after all. And the call from Claudia must have increased Katja’s assumption about my private life.
I decide to set the record straight. I need her to know that her joke wasn’t appreciated.
“Katja,” I pronounce her name with a hint of emphasis, “the next time you pass on a call to me, I’d like the name of the caller spelled out correctly. Agreed?”
“Agreed.” Katja brushes a speck of non-existent dust from her high-waist plaid pants. “Even better if you stop entrusting me with your shady affairs.”
“There’s nothing shady in what I ask of you. Any woman who calls me at that phone number, including Claudia, is phone stalking me. Your task is only to reiterate the message I’ve already personally given them, which is that I’m unavailable for their calls.”
Katja pulls her nose into a grimace of disgust. “Yes, but your flings don’t get that I’m only an innocent go-between. Last week, one of your women told me to go squat on a cactus.”
“That must have been Jennifer,” I chuckle.
Jennifer and I went on a few dates before I decided to call it off. She has a penchant for picturesque expressions to voice her discontent. I had my taste of it when I told her we should stop seeing each other.
“Jennifer, Claudia, Cynthia…whatever their names, the end result is the same. These poor, silly girls—”
I hold up my hand.
My secretary is approaching my level of tolerance for her well-meaning but gratuitous comments.
“The women I date know what they are getting into. I always tell them in crystal clear terms what they can expect from me, right out of the gates.”
I never lie—not at work and not in my private life.
Still, women always hope I’m joking when I say I’m not a relationship guy.
Katja shakes her head disapprovingly. “This attitude will make you lonely, Devon. It’s not worth it.”
Katja has no idea about the benefits of my lifestyle. Living as I do has way more advantages and definitely fewer disadvantages than being a boyfriend. Boyfriends can be betrayed. Casual companions cannot.
Besides, I’ve had my share of serious feelings for a woman already and that relationship almost ate me alive. As the memory of my ex threatens to reach the threshold of my consciousness, I shove it back where it belongs.
I don’t need to dwell on the past. I’m finally in a good place. One that’s filled with fun, pleasure, and lightness.
And the occasional phone call I have to dismiss.
“Katja, approving my choices doesn’t belong to your job description. What does, is answering my calls the way I ask you to.”
My secretary has the patience of an elephant and the verbal delicacy of a bulldozer. If she comes at me long enough with her arguments, she might succeed at making me feel guilty about how I live my life.
Instead of her usual narrowed glare, Katja wiggles her eyebrows at me. “Only for today. Soon your new PA can handle your personal calls.”
My eyes snap to the calendar that stands on my desk.
Crud! I forgot that the interns are being interviewed today.
“Are the candidates here already?”
Katja nods. “I believe they’re downstairs with Sarah as we speak. All seven of them.”
“Seven? That will take my whole morning,” I grumble.
“Aren’t you delegating to Sarah? She’s doing the selection for the other intern positions. She’s good at identifying suitable people and has more time to spare than you do.”
I need the extra-workload from these interviews like a deaf person needs a new stereo, but I don’t have a choice. “No, I can’t let anyone else pick my assistant this time. I don’t want another Hayley fiasco.”
Katja’s eyes widen. She clicks her tongue in two rapid shots that sound like a gun being cocked, then bobs her head. “Ah, of course.”
I lock my screen and stand. “I’ll go and greet the candidates.”
Katja points at my drink. “Won’t you finish that first?”
“No, I’ll save it for later. I might get thirsty after the interviews…” Or perhaps I’ll pour it on the giant rubber plant in front of m
y window. It seems to like my secretary’s culinary creations way more than I do. It’s been sprouting new leaves since I started to water it with my smoothies.
We walk out of my office, and I head straight for the elevator.
While I wait, I calculate how much time I’ll have left to do some actual work before Pete and I have to go and get my sister. Ellie wanted to join us for dinner, but we have to pick her up from her health center, adding an extra fifteen minutes to our drive downtown.
The elevator arrives, and I enter.
I lean back against one of the large mirrors and close my eyes. I massage the tender spot between my eyebrows.
I hope at least one of the seven applicants will fulfill my expectations and prove to be serious. I don’t want another embarrassing situation in the office.
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.”
Law #2: Don't Play with a Player: A Sweet Office Romance Story (Laws of Love) Page 2
