A strange prickle invades my palm as if my skin is itching to determine whether her locks are as soft as they look. I stick my hands into my pockets.
Maybe this is a good time to send Laia out for something. I can very well read the report she prepared for me alone.
“Laia, would you mind getting me something?”
“Something?” She rounds her brows.
“Yes. A…uhm, coffee.”
Anything really—as long as she’s gone, and with her, this unusual flutter in my chest.
Laia’s dark brows pull even higher. “Another one?” She glances at the cup she brought earlier. Luckily it’s empty so she can’t see through my excuse.
“Yes, please.”
Laia nods. “Of course, I’ll be right back.” She dashes to the door, making delicious little beats with her shoes.
I call after her. “Take your time, please.”
Yes, please take your time.
When she’s gone, I slouch back on my chair and massage my temples.
I hired Laia because she looked like the type of woman who would be interested in her job and not in me.
So why do I have this sudden pique of interest in her?
Chapter 11
(Laia)
I had assumed Devon exaggerated slightly when he promised me that, as his assistant, I’d gain more insight into his company’s artistic processes than Fu would during his copywriting internship.
But it’s only my second day in the office, and we’re already on our way to participating in a preliminary concept evaluation meeting—whatever that means—with the head of the creative department himself.
Devon strides forward energetically, and I trot beside him, trying to keep up the pace.
It’s a challenge because my elegant new beige pants keep shifting below my hip bones, creating ruffles just above my shoes. It’s probably due to the flatter stomach I seem to have magically acquired.
Well, maybe not so magically.
I did skip lunch yesterday and today, because I’ve been running all over the building and assisting Devon. It’s unbelievable how much work the man is capable of handling without looking stressed or even tired.
No wonder his company is thriving.
“This is the area where the designers and writers usually hang out.” Devon waves his hand around the large room located right below the executive floor.
My eyes open up in awe as I scan my surroundings. This is the first time I’m seeing what happens behind-the-scenes in the agency’s creative headquarters. There are no traditional offices in this department, and no walls to cut up the space. The room looks like one giant lodging, flooded with natural light, and chock-full of quirky details, presumably intended to inspire the staff.
“We don’t have permanent desks. Instead, the team members are free to roam between the modular work areas, including noise-canceling booths,” Devon explains.
“Looks nice. This is where I would be spending my days if I hadn’t accepted your offer, right?”
Devon adjusts the collar of his black shirt that he’s wearing without a jacket and gives me a slanted glance. “Yes. Do you have regrets?”
“Nope.” Indeed, I don’t.
I might have thought copywriting would be the most suitable job for me in Devon’s company, but I was wrong. If I were an intern here, I could only practice writing ad copies which, though creative, could become repetitive.
As Devon’s assistant, however, I can try myself at various new things besides writing. Attending meetings with him is bound to help me with goal #6 from my bucket list: Be more extroverted.
Not to mention that, ever since I started my job, I’m more inspired than ever to write my romance novel. Snippets of dialogue pop into my mind during the oddest possible moments of the day. Before, I could sit for hours and nothing would come to me.
Like this morning when Devon briefed me about our day. I could clearly picture the best meet-cute for my story. It was almost as if Devon’s presence had something to do with my muse—when in reality, there wasn’t any connection.
There can’t be any.
I eye the hammocks and the womb chairs placed in the corners, then my gaze moves to the chalkboards suspended from the ceiling.
“These are daily inspirational mantras. We change the quotes on them every week,” Devon says.
I study a board that reads, “The world is like a doughnut. Don’t fuss about it. Just eat your part and enjoy it—Bill.”
“Who is Bill?” I ask curiously, speculating whether the name refers to Bill Gates or Bill Clinton. Or maybe Bill Murray?
“It’s the janitor who cleans the upper floors.”
When Devon sees my surprised frown, he chuckles.
“Why are you so baffled? Anyone can have motivational nuggets to share. I encourage all employees to submit whatever they would like to display, then Luca, the department head, and I pick the best ones.”
“That’s kind of a cool idea.” I smile at him. “It must give people a sense of pride to see their own words on these boards.”
Devon nods. “It’s a habit I introduced early on. I built this company to be innovative and fresh, and I’m conscious that to achieve that my employees must feel at ease here.”
“At ease or at home?” I tease, pointing at a pink hammock.
“Our offices are often our homes away from home, and a good office environment can help employees stay engaged, productive, and happy throughout the day.”
Devon’s words could go straight into a PR leaflet, but the conviction in his voice tells me he genuinely believes what he’s saying. It’s not lip service. His eyes light up with the specific fervor that only people who truly stand behind their ideas can have.
I suddenly feel proud that he chose me to work for him. He might be a tomcat outside work, but in the office he’s a man I can look up to.
A small group of men and women stand around one of the tables, and they wave at us cordially as we approach.
I spot Fu among them. He gives me a bright, ear-to-ear smile, which makes me wonder whether he knows he got his position because I withdrew from our competition. Why else should he be beaming at me like that?
From the corner of my eye, I catch Devon watching me.
“Do you want to go over and talk to Fu? It’s okay, I can wait,” he says.
But the mild frown and a hint of coldness in his tone suggests impatience.
I quickly shake my head. “I don’t want us to be late.”
Devon’s face smooths. “Good. There’s still one place I want to show you before we join Luca and the others. I think you’ll like this a lot.”
I follow him with a curious anticipation.
“This is our ‘Think’ space.” Devon points at a raised area with a few armchairs and a massive bookshelf, the kind I’d gladly accept for my bedroom. “I’ve established this as a sort of inspirational garden where ideas can be invented and sketched out.”
My eyes widen as I take in the exquisite collection of books.
They are not only industry-relevant manuals but all sorts of novels. I even spot one of my favorite historical romances by Philippa Gregory.
“You mean these books are for us to read? While we are at work?” I mumble.
I’ve always thought that reading helps set the mind free and nourishes creative thinking. I just never met a CEO who shares this vision of mine.
Devon’s lips move into a crooked smile. “Okay, the voice you just used would tell me that you’re a bookworm even if I hadn’t seen your resume.”
“Why? What voice did I use?” I ask self-consciously.
“Like an addict searching for her next fix.”
The familiar sensation of blushing flushes through me. “I do like reading,” I mutter.
“Me too.” He winks at me. “I was just kidding. You’re welcome to come down here and grab anything you want. You can schedule reading breaks throughout the day to refresh your mind. I know my busy schedule can
be overwhelming.”
He finishes his phrase with a grin that lures out his dimples.
I’m glad I’m looking at him from a side angle and not standing in front of him. Earlier today, when he flashed the same movie-poster-worthy smirk at me while striding past my desk, my diaphragm flinched so hard I had hiccups for almost twenty minutes.
Devon and I stroll further and enter a corridor that hosts a few glass-walled meeting rooms.
In one of them, five men, all dressed in black pants and crispy white Oxford shirts, are having a heated discussion.
“These guys belong to the accounting team,” Devon says. “Though they have their own conference rooms on their floor, they often come up here for their meetings.”
Accounting?
I study the blond guy in the group with increased interest. He might be Howard, Chelsea’s new flame. She told me Howard is too hot for his own good. Truth be told, the man with long bangs and fleshy lips is pretty good-looking.
Obviously not as hot as Devon, though.
No, wait…where did this thought come from? Devon’s dimples must be messing with my brain.
Devon ushers me to a square-shaped room which, except for an oblong table and a few backless, glossy electric-blue stools, has no other furniture.
An enormous cloud sculpture hangs above the door. Devon bows deeply as he passes beneath it.
There aren’t many times when I’m glad to be petite, but this is one of them. I’d hate to bump my head on the white plastic fluff or duck down in these shoes.
Four people are sitting inside, three men and a woman.
The woman, a brunette with a short pixie cut and green geometric-print dress, explains something to the others with ample gestures.
As I cross over the doorstep, the cloud above me illuminates and beeps like a metal detector.
I jerk up, my eyes darting to the unexpected noise. However, my legs keep moving, and as a result, I crash into Devon’s back.
Great heavens, what kind of workout schedule is this guy on?
It must be similar to the one my brother in the military is subjected to. Otherwise, his muscles wouldn’t feel like steel.
I’m rubbing the painful spot on my nose when Devon turns around.
“Are you okay, Laia?”
When I don’t answer, he takes hold of my wrist and pulls it gently away from my face. He leans closer, and his breath tickles my cheeks as he bends from left to right, examining me.
“No serious damage, just a tiny red mark. Does it hurt?”
“No, I’m fine.” I lie as convincingly as I can. “Though your back is rather hard.”
I really just want him to move back to an acceptable social distance. With his face so close, it’s hard to ignore tiny details about him I’d rather not contemplate. Like how his stubble accentuates the cleft on his chin, or how he has extremely long eyelashes which, for some reason, instead of curling up bend straight, creating a curtain over his blue irises.
Devon arches his brows. “Well, I was on my high school football team, and our strength coach was big on pull-ups and push-ups.”
Football? Of course. I should have known.
Guys as good-looking and self-assured as Devon must have been the stars all their lives.
“I’m not normally this clumsy.” I want to assure Devon that, despite the bad track record I’ve set so far, I’m not accident-prone. “The beeping startled me. What’s that cloud anyway?”
“That’s our kudos cloud,” a voice from the room intervenes.
I turn to find a gangly man with a pair of round glasses and thick auburn hair grinning at me.
“The cloud lights up when one of our clients praises us on social media. It keeps our morale high when we’re breaking our brains about a new campaign,” the man adds.
“Ah, wow. Clever little thing. A bit noisy, though.” I return the man’s smile.
He stands up and walks to me, extending his hand. “My name is Rick Anderson. I’m one of the photographers.”
His palm is slightly moist as I squeeze it.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Laia Flores. Devon’s new PA.”
“Pretty name you’ve got,” Rick compliments me.
Devon puts a hand on my shoulder. “Laia, you should meet the rest of the team, too. With Rick, you’re familiar enough. We aren’t here to share our private lives with each other.”
His tone is the coldest I’ve heard from him since we met.
Not that I want to keep chitchatting with the photographer, but Devon’s sudden mood perplexes me.
Many people ask me about my name. Devon questioned me about it the first time we met. So what’s his problem? A look at Devon’s stubbornly set jaw tells me it’s better if I keep quiet about my disdain.
I nod and murmur, “Of course, Devon,” and let him introduce me to the rest of the participants.
I learn that the brunette is called Anna, and she’s a placement strategist. Anna has large amber eyes and her smile is so vast that it takes up two-thirds of her face. Hugh, a man with a hawk-like nose and frizzy bangs, is the copywriter. Luca, the creative department’s head, is a bearded guy who wears red suspenders paired with a yellow shirt. All of them look like they’re in their late twenties or early thirties, except for Luca, who must be roughly fifty.
After the introductory round, everybody takes a seat while Devon positions himself at the head of the table, standing.
“Show me what you’ve got for us, Rick,” he asks, and the photographer spreads a few posters on the table.
“These are just the first ideas we’re brainstorming about.” Luca adjusts his suspenders with his thumbs.
“Yeah, all scripts are dummy copies,” Hugh chimes in. “Once we sign off the visuals and the placements, I’ll get to work on those sweet words.”
I open my laptop and fire up Word, ready to take notes.
Katja warned me that in these meetings, many abbreviations are used. She instructed me to just type ‘xxx’ each time I miss one, and then ask Devon later what it meant.
I’m not sure if I’m supposed to jot down everything they say or just make a summary of the most important topics discussed. Based on my personal impressions about Devon, though, he’ll be more interested in the conversation’s essence instead of a word-to-word transcript.
Before I start to type, I take a peek at the posters myself.
My blood chills.
What are these atrocious images for? Do they have a contract to promote a horror movie? Why else would they use pictures of zombies carving their way through heaps of dirt?
I move my glance to Devon.
He frowns at the photos, rubbing the cleft on his chin.
“You don’t like them?” Anna asks.
Her voice is as chirpy as a bird’s morning song, but there’s an anxious undertone in her words, as if she, too, is unsure about the visuals but afraid to speak up.
“I think they’re great,” Rick intervenes before Devon can utter a word. “The national committee wanted something strong. A bold, new way of reaching subgroups of smokers. These images will surely do that.”
The sly smirk spreading on his lips, paired with the sinister images that must be his creation, makes me think Rick could be a perfect inspiration for a villain. A guy who looks normal but has a twisted, darker self.
“Oh, they will give them nightmares for sure,” I mutter inaudibly.
Devon must have been looking at me, because while nobody else notices my comment, he does.
He walks over to me and bends down. “Laia, do you have something to say?”
“Nothing.”
Warmth rushes to my head in a nanosecond, as all the faces turn toward me.
Shoot, why couldn’t I just blabber to myself without moving my lips?
“No, no,” Devon protests. “You have an opinion. Please share it with us.”
Devon hops down on the empty stool beside me so his elbows rest on the table, and his chest turns toward me.
/> “Come on, Laia,” Anna encourages me. “The Make Room is an honest space. You can say whatever you want here. Right, Devon?”
If that’s so, why isn’t she expressing her own concerns? I’m pretty sure she has them.
“That’s right.” Devon nods, his eyes not leaving my face. “I think you have something interesting to say.”
I don’t. Or maybe just the fact that I believe their photographer needs to see a therapist. The pictures Rick took are sick, abhorrent, and people won’t be motivated to stop smoking by looking at them.
Of course, as honest as this meeting room might be, I can’t give them my thoughts straight. I kick myself inwardly for starting this discussion.
“Okay, well…I’m not entirely convinced that this direct…uhm, slightly dark visual would appeal to me.”
Rick’s nostrils flare, and he pushes his glasses higher on his curved nose. “Are you a smoker?”
“No,” I admit.
“Then how would you know what a smoker thinks?”
Ouch. Definitely a villain.
“Easy, Rick.” Devon’s tone is friendly yet categorical. “Let Laia explain.”
Rick closes his mouth.
“Laia?” Devon smiles. “Go on.”
“Rick is right, I’m not a smoker.” I nod at the photographer. “But my mother is, and she would hate these pictures. I get that you need a fresh angle, but there are better ways to give people unexpected wake-up calls than shoving brutal images into their faces.”
“Like what?”
It’s Devon who asks, and his voice is filled with curiosity. His eyes are sparkling as if what I’ve said so far is to his liking.
“Like…” Think, Laia, think. Suddenly a YouTube video my younger cousin, Juan, showed me once jumps into my mind. “Like the ‘Dumb Ways to Die’ song.”
“Which one?” Hugh brushes his bangs to the side to see me better.
“You know, Du-uu-mb Ways to Dii-eee…” I sing the catchy little rhyme to him.
As my jingle fills the room, all jaws drop around me.
Probably none of them expected me to actually chant the song to them, and while I’m doing it I realize it might’ve been a pretty stupid decision, after all.
Law #2: Don't Play with a Player: A Sweet Office Romance Story (Laws of Love) Page 9
