Now my skin literally burns.
I gawk at my interlaced fingers. “I’m not the most self-assured person when it comes to my achievements, that much is true. Though I’m working on becoming more confident. It’s just difficult because”—I raise my head to meet Devon’s gaze—“there aren’t that many things I can boast about.”
His eyes widen. “What are you saying? You have a great degree. You have an excellent work attitude. Superb instincts with creative stuff. Besides, you’re a total catch.” He pauses and clears his throat. “I mean professionally, of course.”
“Of course. How else?”
I press my lips together, angry at myself that this bitter tidbit could escape. And for the ridiculous frustration that brews in my stomach after Devon’s well-meaning words.
Did I wish he’d say I was a catch as a woman?
I can’t be that stupid, can I?
Devon stares at me. “Laia, I…”
“Devon Griffin! Oh. My. Golly. If this isn’t a coincidence.”
The soprano belongs to an all-legged blonde wearing a scarlet top, knee-length boots, and shiny black pants. Her thighs are so perfectly sculpted I wonder whether she’s a model for ThighMaster.
Devon pales.
He jumps up, and his hasty movement shakes our table—lukewarm droplets of tea land on my hand.
The blonde is already in front of our booth, bouncing on her offbeat heels, her zebra-striped coat casually thrown across her forearm.
Why she needs a coat, I can’t imagine. The outside temperature surely doesn’t call for it. It must be part of that statement-making fashion strategy Chelsea always chews my ear about.
“Aren’t you even going to greet me, Dev?” The blonde peers at Devon from under her lashes, her mouth pulled into a feigned pouting, which evidences the Marilyn Monroe mole above her upper lip.
“Hello, Morgan,” Devon says.
The blonde smiles. “That’s better. It’s been a long time since we ran into each other, huh? A couple of years, I think.”
“Four,” Devon answers. “How is Theo?”
“Good. Always on some business trip.” Morgan rolls her eyes and makes a dramatic wave. “So work, work, work. Pretty boring.”
“Oh, I see,” Devon murmurs.
Morgan brushes her waves behind her ears. “I’m meeting a friend here, but she’s late. Do you mind if I sit with you while I wait?”
Devon’s face tenses. “Actually, we were just about to go.”
Were we? I thought I was supposed to drink my tea. Though there’s probably not much left in my cup anyway after Devon spilled half of it.
My eyes bounce between their faces.
Who is this woman? One of Devon’s flings?
If so, then why does she seem happy about seeing him, while Devon looks as if he swallowed a fishbone and it stuck in his throat?
Morgan exchanges his words with a smirk, but she doesn’t move. “Why are you in such a hurry? I’d love to catch up. We could do that at the upcoming CCF gala, but—”
“CCF? How do you know I’m attending it?” Devon’s eyes widen.
Morgan bats her lashes. “I heard it from Theo. He’s invited, too.”
“The attendees’ list wasn’t released yet,” Devon says.
Morgan’s lips open and close. “Theo read in a newspaper that you’ll be there.”
The small, local tabloid story is the only one to run this story so far, so unless her husband is a fan of female gossip magazines, this is a lousy lie.
On my first day, I set up a permanent search option for Devon’s name and Hudson Communications on my laptop. It trawls all relevant newspapers, industry journals, and even those publications that I usually consider bush telegraphs—a necessary addition, due to Devon’s lifestyle. I think Morgan spotted this information about Devon herself, but for some reason, she doesn’t want to admit it.
Devon either doesn’t remember me showing him the article this morning or he doesn’t want to call Morgan on her fib. In any case, he simply replies, “I see. So, Theo is going?”
Something in Devon’s voice tells me he isn’t thrilled about the prospect of bumping into the guy. Could it be that Devon had an affair with this woman behind her husband’s back?
Morgan rolls her eyes. “Unfortunately not. Why should my workaholic hubby participate in a luxurious event that might finally be fun for his plus one? No, Theo chose to travel to Alaska that week to represent some boring food company.”
Devon’s tight jaw relaxes somewhat. “CCF isn’t a big deal for lawyers anyway. Theo isn’t missing out on much.”
“The same can’t be said for me.”
The bitterness in Morgan’s voice is palpable, and for a brief second, I feel sorry for her.
A sensation that dissipates immediately when she peers down at me with a challenging look on her face.
The daring glint in her eyes forces me to stand up.
A smirk appears on her lower lip as if she’s satisfied she made me do something without having to utter a word.
Suddenly, I get the distinct feeling this woman has been the queen bee for a good chunk of her life. Which is probably the reason she’s upset about not getting her way with her husband.
Girls like Morgan made my school years miserable.
Keeping her green eyes locked with mine, Morgan asks Devon, “Don’t you want to introduce me to your girlfriend?”
My scalp prickles.
First, because I’m super irritated that she doesn’t even address me.
And, second, her insinuation that Devon and I could have something other than a business relationship doesn’t unleash the inner protest I believe it should.
I’m about to correct her about her false assumption when Devon says, “I’d rather not. You’ll have to excuse us, Morgan, but Laia and I need to go.”
When I don’t react, Devon puts his hand between my shoulder blades and gives me a gentle nudge. Then he withdraws his hand, picks up his bag, and steps out from our booth.
Without his touch, my mental fog clears, and I gather my own things. I throw a quick glance at Morgan and mutter an, “It was nice to see you, bye,” before hurrying out behind Devon.
Morgan calls out, “Nice running into you both.”
Devon doesn’t turn, but I make a quick swirl and catch Morgan squinting at my computer bag. Then her eyes wander to Devon’s back, and a longing glint fills her eyes.
Why didn’t Devon tell Morgan I’m his assistant?
Devon doesn’t let me ponder this mystery. After swiping his credit card at the counter, he goes straight to the door and holds it open for me. I’m not sure why, but I scurry outside like a mouse being chased by a cat.
As I pass Devon, my shoulder brushes his chest. It’s lucky I switched my heels to flats because I get wobbly knees from the brief contact with him.
We walk to Devon’s Audi in silence.
Should I ask him what his behavior was all about? Would it be unfitting for me to inquire about who the woman was or why he didn’t tell her the truth about me?
My curiosity wins the battle.
As soon as we settle in his car, with me in the passenger seat this time, my question is out.
“Who is Morgan?”
Devon clicks his safety belt shut, but he doesn’t say a word. Just when I think he won’t answer at all, he says, “She’s an old acquaintance. No one important.”
“An old acquaintance who needs to think I’m your girlfriend?” My tone comes out throatier than I’d prefer.
Devon’s eyes dart to mine. “I didn’t say you were my girlfriend.”
Oh, fudge. It’s true, he did not.
“But you didn’t deny Morgan’s assumption either. Were you trying to make her jealous?”
Devon’s jaw steels. “No. I just didn’t want to waste time with useless chitchat. I’d rather get back to the company and finish up.”
“Of course,” I mumble.
As if he considers our discussio
n closed, he adjusts his seat and mirrors to their original position and switches on the engine.
I’m so ashamed of my last question I can’t even enjoy the smooth style with which Devon steers us toward Hudson Communications.
It was silly to assume Devon might have been trying to make a stunning woman like Morgan green-eyed with my company.
This idea shouldn’t bother me, but it does.
While we move through the traffic, I dare a quick, slanted glance at Devon. He looks sunk in his thoughts which, based on his brooding expression, must not be cheerful. Why is he so grumpy?
Is it because of Morgan? Who can she be?
I should ask Chelsea if she knows her. My friend has read every available tabloid article on Devon. Maybe she came across the woman’s name somewhere.
The thought of Chelsea reminds me what my roomie told me about my good judgment toward men. She was confident that I’d remain unaffected by Devon.
I had been so convinced Chelsea was right.
But what about now? What is this mushiness in my belly?
Chapter 15
(Devon)
“Why can’t I just focus on these wretched numbers?”
My annoyance is so intense I speak loudly despite being alone in my office.
It’s Friday, and I want to start my weekend. But for that, I need to finish this darned report. A task that seems impossible due to my lack of focus.
I lower my pen and rub my eyes.
When I reopen them, a line on a graph, which should simply state the forecasted sales our campaign predicts, reminds me of a black tendril.
A growl leaves my throat.
Great, now I’m not only speaking to myself, but I’m also unable to get through this budget estimate without envisioning Laia’s dark curls as patterns on my graphs.
What’s going on with me?
My cell phone vibrates.
I flip it open, and my sister’s frustrated voice thunders at me. “Did you speak to Wyatt? When can I finalize our vacation plan?”
Ellie’s question manages to push Laia’s face aside in my mind. I shift back on the chair and put my elbow on my desk for support.
“No, I didn’t have a chance to talk to him yet. But I will, I promise.”
“You better,” Ellie growls. I hear a few loud knocks and clinking sound on her end.
“What are you doing, sis?”
“Me? Nothing. Just dusting a shelf in one of the therapy rooms.” Her voice sounds distracted, as if part of her brain is absorbed by her cleaning task.
I stifle a laugh and suppress the question of whether she lost a bet with the janitor.
My sister is a neat freak who keeps her kitchen appliances in perfect order—we’re talking containers stacked by shape and color, and then arranged concentrically. The idea of a book out of place or a dusty shelf might not be a tragedy to me, but to my sweet unconventional sis, it certainly is.
“I’ll try to reach Wyatt this weekend,” I say soothingly. “I just had a strange day yesterday so—”
“Wait, what happened?” Ellie’s responsible therapist hat is back on. “I should’ve picked up on the weird tone of your voice straight away.”
“There’s nothing weird about my tone,” I snap, proving her point.
There’s silence on the line, then Ellie asks, “Did something happen with your assistant?”
“My assistant? For heaven’s sake, Ellie, why would you arrive at this conclusion?”
“Well, when Hayley tried to seduce you, you also sounded this troubled. Not that I blame you. I’d have been the same if a co-worker came at me with the monthly finance report, while dressed like a sex-bunny.” Ellie giggles.
Why did I ever confide in my sister about what Hayley did?
“It’s nothing to do with Laia,” I sigh. “Laia is great. More than great. Hayley’s bravado is the last thing I’d expect from her.”
Even if, Laia would probably look incredibly hot in a costume like—
I kick myself inwardly before my pathetic brain can continue with this idea.
“Ah, I’m glad to hear this,” Ellie says. “Your new assistant seemed very nice. I’d be disappointed to hear if she turned out to be dopey.”
“So what, liking me would make Laia a moron? That’s what you’re implying?”
I don’t know why my question has a sharp edge.
Ellie chuckles. “Look who got all touchy-feely. Don’t worry, that’s not what I meant. I think you’re a good guy, brother. It’s a pity you don’t let anyone see it. At least not since that witch, Morgan, broke your heart.”
Mentioning my ex makes me recall yesterday’s meeting.
“I bumped into Morgan yesterday. We spoke.”
“Don’t tell me you’re rekindling with her?” Ellie’s voice is alarmed.
“No, of course not. She just happened to be in the same teahouse where Laia and I had a client meeting. She’s still married to Theo.”
“That dullard, ah yeah.”
Her comment lures a smile to my lips.
Ellie is incredibly loyal, as a friend and as a sister. Even if she used to like Theo, as soon as she learned that Morgan cheated on me with him, my sister totally wrote the dude off.
“So how was it seeing Morgan?” Ellie’s chirpy tone is tuned down to a softer timbre that somehow reminds me of Laia’s way of speaking.
“Nothing special,” I say automatically, because my thoughts are revisiting the first time I heard my assistant’s voice.
“Really?” Ellie gasps. “You sound like you mean it.”
“I do,” I answer, and while I utter the words, I realize they’re correct.
Then why did I feel so sullen after the teahouse? If it wasn’t Morgan’s presence, then what?
“I’m happy for you,” Ellie says. “That girl was the worst thing that ever happened to you. She turned you into a commitment-phobic. But you’re not like Pete. You’re—”
A loud alarm resounds on the phone.
“Ah, dang it, I need to go,” Ellie grumbles. “We’re having a general fire training in the health center, and apparently, I’m supposed to be heading to the nearest exit.”
“Go, go. Hone your rescue skills. I’ll wrap up here and then head out.”
“Okay, have a good weekend, Dev. Speak to you later.”
“Later, sis.”
I switch off my phone, thanking my lucky stars that Ellie’s establishment made the entirely unreasonable decision to organize a fire drill on a Friday evening. It saved me from listening to a lecture.
Whatever my sister thinks about Pete and the kind of life he introduced me to, it sure helped me get over Morgan.
For good it seems.
I was bewildered to see my ex, but I didn’t feel enraged, hurt, or even mildly attracted.
I did think her hairdresser went too crazy with her highlights. Was it because Morgan stood close to Laia?
A flashing symbol on my screen draws my eyes. I have a new email from Laia. I click it open, and my jaw drops.
She’s already finished the briefing documents I assigned this morning. This girl is truly a treasure. I should go congratulate her on her quick work.
Just as I stand up, I hear chatter in the corridor. Katja must still be in the office.
I lower myself back into my chair. I’d prefer to give my kudos to Laia when my secretary is gone. Probably because Katja pointed out that I seem to check on her and Laia way more often than I used to with the others.
Which is not even true.
Or perhaps it is.
But I have more things to discuss with Laia than with my previous assistants. In a week, she has made herself a valuable resource I can lean on and whose opinion is worth listening to.
I’ll check a few spreadsheets and wait till Katja leaves.
Then I can go out and compliment Laia.
Chapter 16
(Laia)
Katja zips her large brown handbag and shoulders it, while her free fingers st
rike a few keys to shut down her computer.
I take this as my cue that the day’s about to end and let out a relieved sigh.
It’s going to be my first, well-deserved weekend as an employed woman.
I stretch my arms above my head and roll my head in small, circular motions. I’ve been sitting at my desk almost the entire day, and my body craves some movement.
Though the task I’ve been assigned to was enjoyable, I don’t mind calling it a night.
Just as I push back my chair, Katja stands up and looks at me.
“What are you doing, Laia?”
“Getting ready to go home?” I reply, phrasing my words more as a question than a statement, because something in Katja’s startled tone makes me suspect I might’ve misinterpreted the situation.
“Laia, I’m going home, but as his assistant, you must wait till Devon is done. He might have sent you home earlier on Wednesday, but you won’t have that privilege all the time.”
She gives me an earnest you’re-not-to-leave nod that makes her trademark braids drift forward.
Once again, I’m surprised just how similar she looks to how I pictured Ranyevskaya’s character in The Cherry Orchard. One day, when we’re on friendlier terms, I’ll ask her where her family is originally from.
“No problem.” I smile as if her request didn’t weigh on me, then trying to hit a casual tone, I add, “Just out of curiosity, how long does Devon usually stay? I hope not too late, right?”
Almost an hour ago, Chelsea messaged me that she’d already finished her day and asked me to go out for a cocktail and dinner with her colleagues from accounting.
From the winking smiley she added to her text, I deduced that the famous bulging-suit Howard will be with her.
Since she’ll probably stay out until late, I can use our comfy sofa to curl up, set the living room stereo to a jazz station—which Chelsea hates, but I love—and get on with writing my romance novel.
Katja opens her arms. “It depends. Hayley used to stay till very late with Devon…” A frown appears on her forehead, then, as if something just occurred to her, she strolls over to my desk and leans toward me. “Laia, let me give you a piece of advice. Watch out with Devon, okay?”
Law #2: Don't Play with a Player: A Sweet Office Romance Story (Laws of Love) Page 12
