I don’t want Devon to interpret my accent as an out-of-place, provocative remark, so I hurriedly add, “Sorry, I didn’t mean please like, please…I meant… “
My eyes meet Devon’s.
From the way his jaw goes slack, I deduce he wasn’t thinking of any potential double-meaning before I so ineptly put my foot into my mouth.
Devon struggles to keep a straight face. “That’s….uhm, that’s good to know.”
Wanting to end our meeting with a positive and professional note, I stick out my hand to him to try again. “Thank you, Devon. I’m looking forward to working with you.”
He takes my hand and shakes it again. “Me, too. You can come in around nine tomorrow. That’s when I usually arrive. Katja, my secretary, will sort out your contract and arrange everything else.”
I ignore how the way his palm closed around my fingers felt right. Not too strong, but not too soft. Confident, but not pushy.
But of course, he is a CEO, so he should be an expert in shaking hands.
“Sounds good. See you tomorrow,” I reply, then turn to the door and shuffle out.
I keep my head high but peer down at my shoes so I don’t trip again. I’ve had enough clumsiness for one day.
Outside his office, I bump into Katja.
She’s close to the door, as if she retreated from it the minute she heard me coming.
“How did it go?” she asks eagerly, her intimidatingly square jaw widening.
With her Russian braids, she looks like the main female lead in one of my favorite plays from Chekhov. A hint of accent in her raspy voice strengthens the similarity.
“I’m hired,” I mumble, still dumbfounded from the events of the past half an hour.
One of Katja’s thin eyebrows lifts, and from the asymmetrical line it makes, I realize she must have drawn it with a pencil. “Interesting. You’re not his typical choice. It’s for the better, though. Your predecessor—” She stops and shakes her head. “You know what? It doesn’t matter.”
Before I can inquire what she meant by her enigmatic words, Katja taps on a desk that stands across from her own.
It’s empty except for a white notepad, a pen, and a pencil holder bearing the company logo. The objects shimmy from the weight of her palm.
“This here,” she tips her head downward, “will be your territory. You can decorate it with your own objects, but please avoid any plants that have flowers, for Devon’s sake.”
Why should Devon be contrary to flowers?
Before I can voice my question, Katja turns and walks back to her table.
“I need to send out a couple of urgent emails,” she says while lowering to her chair. “You’ll wait for me, and then we’ll sort out your contract and the rest.” With that, she ducks her head and begins to type frenetically.
I’d love some sugary treat to boost my brain, because it’s swimming in a foggy state ever since I left Devon’s office, but Katja’s voice is so categorical that I don’t dare ask whether I can go get a snack.
I take a seat at the desk, which is now officially mine and rest my chin on my palms.
As I stare into nothing and listen to the rhythmic clicks of Katja’s keyboard, my mind wanders off.
An electrifying plot idea pops into my head for the romance novel I was trying to outline on Friday. A smile spreads on my lips.
Wouldn’t it be the perfect makeover for my life if I managed to be employed and write my romance at the same time?
I tear off a piece of paper from the notepad Katja left me, and checking that she’s still engrossed in her work, I pick up the pen and scribble down a few lines.
After two dense paragraphs are done, I read what I’ve produced. The storyline is still a bit vague, like a dream after waking, but it thrills me all the same. I can see how the conflict could be fleshed out, and the protagonists I envisioned are characters I feel ready to spend considerable time with together.
There is only one aspect that startles me.
I’ve never swooned over actors with penetrating blue gazes. Bobby, my biggest crush ever, had brown irises.
So why did I suddenly describe my hero’s eyes as the shade of freshly picked cornflowers?
“I’m ready. Shall we go to the IT department and get your laptop?” Katja’s voice jars me out of my musing. I jump up and quickly fold the paper, hiding it in my blazer pocket. “Yes, let’s go.”
Chapter 6
(Laia)
Our living room fills with the enticing aroma of chicken quesadilla.
The plate I’m heating up in the microwave is only a frozen dish I bought in a supermarket on my way home from the interview. However, it still triggers countless memories about our house in San Sebastian where my nose regularly feasted on the most mouthwatering fragrances, thanks to my mother’s culinary skills.
As I change into my comfy leggings, my eyes wander to my hips, and I wince.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t just my sense of smell basking in the glory of homemade lunches, dinners, and snacks. In the past six years, I’ve been abandoned to my own cooking—or my severe lack thereof—but even my lack of talent didn’t erase the disastrous consequences of spending my childhood with a mother who cooked like a real chef.
I pull the long T-shirt down over my trousers with a hasty gesture.
Today of all days, I’m not going to obsess about my body. I don’t need another concern to add to my list of worries.
The performance anxiety that plagues me whenever I think of tomorrow—my first official workday—coupled with the apprehension that Chelsea still doesn’t know what I’ve done is more than enough to fret about.
The clock in our living room chirps like a sparrow. Even without glancing up, I know it’s four pm.
The clock was a gift from my mother and each hour it imitates the voice of a different bird. Thankfully not at night, though, because it has a light sensor. My roomie loves to take advantage of this built-in trick and often covers the clock with a rag when she plans to sleep in.
The thought about Chelsea makes me wonder where she could be. By the time I finished in the IT department, Chelsea was gone. She’d left me a note at the reception saying that she went to buy new outfits—an activity she’d initially proposed for us to do together after our interviews.
I’m not sorry she didn’t force me to join her—I hate trying on clothes in tiny dressing rooms where every extra-pound or wrinkle becomes more evident—but I’m concerned she might have dashed off because she was upset that I agreed to interview for the assistant position. If this is the case, she might be furious when she learns I got the job.
The microwave beeps loudly, pulling me out of my guilt trip.
I dash into our open kitchen.
I haven’t eaten lunch, and as the spicy fragrance wafts around me, my stomach protests loudly. The sudden cramps make me forget to use oven mitts when I grab the plate.
Ouch! The ceramic burns my skin like glowing embers.
I drop the dish on the counter and race over to the sink. While I let the cold rinse soothe my fingertips, I curse under my breath.
The last thing I need is to lose my ability to type. I have a job now, one that comes with a salary and a possible future. I can’t screw it up because I skipped the basic safety rules that even a six-year-old should be aware of.
Despite the pain that throbs on my fingertips, excitement buzzes through my belly.
A little voice in my head suggests that my excitement is partly due to the anticipation that I’ll be working with Devon, but I immediately discard the deranged argument. I didn’t accept the position to be in daily contact with him. I don’t even know why I’m still going back and forth about this. My decision was entirely logic-driven and not related to Devon’s undeniable charisma.
First, there is the likely promise of a permanent contract. I mean, who can ignore that in today’s uncertain economy?
Then that excellent salary. I couldn’t refuse that since money is a thing I obvi
ously need.
Finally, and most importantly, I’ll soon contribute to TV commercials, write press communications for famous newspapers, and—
The entry door lock clicks, stopping my thoughts in their tracks.
I switch off the sink and turn in time to see Chelsea strut in with a bunch of shopping bags in her hands.
“Hey, Laia,” she greets me, kicking off her heels and plopping down on our sofa.
There’s no trace of frustration or hidden annoyance in her voice. My shoulders relax.
She settles herself on a large pillow with a sigh, dropping her purchases to the floor. “Ah, this feels good. My whole body is sore.”
“Have you been shopping the whole afternoon?” I ask.
“Indeed. And I bought a lot of great things.”
I fetch my plate, now cool enough to hold, and amble to our living room table.
“I heard you were offered the accounting internship. What’s up with that? Did you accept?”
I half-expect Chelsea to either say no or give me a grimace to indicate that, yes, she agreed to work in accounting, but only to satisfy her father’s condition. To my surprise, however, she gives me a bright grin.
“Yes, I did. When I came out of my chat with Devon, I was somewhat demotivated. But in the elevator, I bumped into a blond demi-god. He chatted me up, and guess what? He turned out to be a senior accounting manager. He’s called Howard, his suit bulges at all the right places, and his bangs are to die for.”
Chelsea waggles her brows at me suggestively.
“So, after meeting him,” she continues, “I bumped into Sarah who asked if I was interested in interviewing for the accounting internship. I agreed, and our conversation went great. It seems that I retained more from Mr. Johnson’s boring lectures than I thought. Long story short, I landed the job.”
“You’re happy about it?” I ask.
Even if Chelsea always got good grades on her finance exams, she used to grumble that she preferred licking toilettes to crunching numbers.
“Claro, claro,” she says, imitating my brother’s deep baritone and favorite way to confirm something. “The best part of the whole thing is I’ll be sitting next to Howard, as he volunteered to be my mentor.”
A bemused snort escapes my throat.
It’s just so much like Chelsea to abandon something she seemed utterly determined to achieve and then set out to chase an entirely different objective on a whim, without feeling conflicted about her own behavior.
Some might label her go-with-the-wind attitude as inconsistent, but I’m convinced that her readiness to embrace whatever life brings and disregard the past is a quality.
I always worry and overthink my decisions.
This is probably why I still haven’t blurted out that I’ll be Devon’s assistant, a position I said I’d never want.
I shove some quesadilla into my mouth, hoping the creamy cheese will fill me with the courage to come clean. “So,” I say after swallowing, “I also have some news.”
Chelsea gives me an exaggerated wink. “I know, sweetie. You got the PA job.”
My brows fly to my hairline. “How’d you know?”
“It was obvious he would choose you. You must have charmed him as soon as he laid eyes on you. I think Devon is kinkier than the tabloids suggest and has a strong fetish for shoulder pads.” She wiggles her brows at me then breaks into a giggle.
I make an air-circle beside my ear with a finger. “You’ve gone nuts. It must be the effect of too much shopping.”
But then I join in her laugh because my embarrassment over my odd blazer has already dissipated.
“Anyway,” Chelsea says after she catches her breath, “I’m just kidding. I knew he would pick you when he explained his PA’s daily tasks. I expected it to be a more straightforward assistant job, like filing papers and keeping his schedule. I probably should have read the job description with more care. I couldn’t pull off all the writing and out-of-the-box thinking the position requires, and I doubt any of those other girls could either. But for you, Laia, it will be smooth cruising.”
My cheeks flush. “I’m not sure.”
Chelsea gives me a don’t you dare go modest on me glance. “Sweetie, you’re an incredibly creative person. You’ll nail this. Also, let’s not forget that you have one ace up your sleeve that no other candidate, including me, had.”
“And what’s that?”
“Your good taste in men.” Chelsea leans forward and meets my gaze with a reassuring smile. “You’re waiting for your Prince Charming, and thus you won’t be fooled by Devon Griffin’s charm. You won’t become his lapdog when he smiles at you. And since his manly allure can’t affect you, you’ll focus solely on your job and do it well.”
“Thanks, Chels,” I mumble.
It’s not rare for Chelsea to compliment me, but she usually praises the way I look. And I know those kudos are strongly biased by her love for me, so I automatically deflect them.
Now, however, I let her kind words sink in and they warm my chest. Perhaps because deep inside I also believe I can do a good job as Devon’s assistant.
Moreover, Chelsea is right. I would never worship a playboy like Devon, and it will be indeed a strength when working with him.
His exceptional eyes flash in my mind, and for a second, my self-assurance wavers, then I shake my head and cast the silly doubt aside.
Chelsea bends to the floor and holds up two shopping bags. “Thank me once you’ve opened these.”
She pushes the bags toward me.
I inspect them with a raised brow. “What are these?”
“Your new work clothes. At least for the beginning. After your first paycheck, we’ll hit the road again and buy some more stuff. These, however, are my gift to you.”
My jaw drops as I peek into the first bag.
It’s full of blouses, at least five or six of them. I lift the first one. It’s light pink and has tiny pearl buttons. It’s very pretty—not too alluring but elegant and chic. The size should fit, also.
I press it to my chest just to try. “How does it look? I don’t usually wear fancy tops like this.”
Chelsea claps. “It looks perfect on your olive skin, sweetie.”
“It’s beautiful,” I say, lowering the blouse into my lap. I shove the quesadilla far away with a hand, afraid that even the greasy sauce’s vague closeness could stain the delicate fabric. “But I can’t accept it. Nor the others. You’ll need to take them back to the shop.”
Chelsea shakes her head. “No can do. After my interviews, I called Daddy to announce that I’m officially an employed citizen. He was so pleased with me that he offered to load serious money on my card so I could buy a whole new working wardrobe, which I graciously accepted.”
“But…you got clothes for me!”
Chelsea waves. “Oh, there’s plenty of stuff for me as well. Though they aren’t for work. I already have way too many pencil skirts, elegant tops, and smart pants. But you, sweetie, you don’t.”
“I have trousers…” I protest.
Chelsea snorts. “Right. I didn’t mean jeans, but sleek office pants. Don’t forget you’re the CEO’s assistant now. You’ll be going to all kinds of meetings. You can’t dress like a grad student or a character from some old Madonna song.” She tilts her head to my interview blazer resting on the back of a chair.
Okay, she has a point.
As if Chelsea realizes that I’m softening up to her overly generous gifts, she adds, “The other bag has a few high-waist pants. They’ll lengthen your legs if you wear them with the tops and blouses tucked in. You can even complete your new-sophisticated look with your beloved flats or…” She jumps up, hurries to my side, and holds out a box to me. “With these.”
I open it, and a pair of block-heeled pumps peek at me. They are cute and don’t look uncomfortable at all.
Chelsea taps my shoulder. “Want to play dress-up? I’m dying to see how the outfits look on you.”
Her
excited voice lures a smile from me.
I reach up and pull her into a hug. “You’re so awesome, Chels. Thank you. I’ll pay you back for all these clothes, I promise.”
Chelsea rolls her eyes. “I told you, I paid with Dad’s money. We both know he has plenty of cash to waste. Besides, it’s far better if you and I make good use of his generosity and not his teenage wife.”
Mr. Anderson’s fourth wife is indeed young, though definitely not an adolescent. Still, I stop myself from correcting Chelsea because I don’t want to spoil her mood by defending her father’s relationship choices.
Chelsea points at the pink blouse still on my lap. “Start with that and pair it with the black tweed pants, please. I bet they’ll look amazing on you. So good that Mr. CEO will need to keep his fantasy in check when he works with you.”
Though her last comment is an obvious joke, it still makes me wonder whether Devon will like my new, prettier wardrobe.
I know I shouldn’t even contemplate such absurdity.
No amount of gorgeous clothes can turn an average girl into a beauty like my roomie. And since Devon wasn’t impressed by Chelsea, he might not even notice my change of style at all.
Also, I’ve already established that Devon isn’t a man who should interest me on any level other than on a professional one.
But I can’t help it.
As I hurry into my room to change, an itsy-bitsy part of me hopes that when I walk into Hudson Communications tomorrow, Devon will be impressed by what he sees.
Chapter 7
(Devon)
After an excellent Chinese dinner, Pete and I drop Ellie off.
Since there’s no parking close to my sister’s apartment, my friend stops his Toyota Tacoma a block away from her entrance. He switches off the engine and turns to the backseat to say goodbye to Ellie.
His styled pompadour cut bounces gently with his movement. With his shiny black shirt, he reminds me of Elvis.
Law #2: Don't Play with a Player: A Sweet Office Romance Story (Laws of Love) Page 5
