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

by Agnes Canestri

  Partially because I feared that her claims could instill dangerous hopes in my heart.

  “Great. Going out will do you good. You can’t always be a homebody.” Chelsea pauses and makes a coughing noise, but it sounds like she’s trying to whitewash a sensual moan. A playful giggle bubbles up from her throat, and she adds, “Sorry, sweetie, I need to go now. Howard has special plans for us, and he’s ready to reveal them, I think.”

  “Sure, don’t keep him waiting. Bye, Chels.” I hang up before I need to witness anything from Howard’s surprise.

  I gather my printed documents and go to the kitchen to make myself a black tea.

  Ellie seems super enthusiastic about our evening. She texted me at least twice already to ensure that I wouldn’t cancel on her. I’m not a night owl, and without some boost, I risk yawning all night. I return to my desk, balancing my steaming beverage in one hand, while in the other, I squeeze the papers.

  I keep my eyes on my mug because I don’t want to get myself dirty. Before going to the printing room, I changed into my jazz-club attire—a purple top and a pair of thin, black jeans.

  As I amble forward, my thoughts return to the tabloid article.

  Since I know there’s no concealed business deal on Devon’s agenda, I wonder whether the reporter’s first claim could be correct.

  Could Devon be considering a lifestyle change?

  The talk we had about my romance book certainly didn’t suggest that.

  I know I shouldn’t be concerned with what Devon does or doesn’t do after leaving the office, as long as his private life doesn’t taint his business image.

  But I am.

  As much as I hate to admit it, I wish the gossip magazine’s author was right. No man has ever occupied my mind this intensely as Devon does.

  At least no real men.

  I’ve fantasized about movie heroes or my favorite book-boyfriends for entire nights, but my obsession with Devon is even wor—

  Ouch!

  My forehead bumps into something hard. A warm swish of air brushes my skin at the same time as a loud “Careful!” cuts through the air.

  The unexpected sound and proximity of Devon’s voice startles me, and I jerk my head up.

  The movement makes my mouth land only inches away from Devon’s lips and shakes my hand enough to spill most of the hot liquid from my cup.

  On to…

  I drop my glance and jump back as if hit by a current.

  The fudge berries, I’ve splashed tea on Devon.

  All. Over. Him.

  The large yellow spot on his chest grows bigger by the second as the liquid seeps into the white fabric of his shirt.

  Devon curses and drops the folder he’s been carrying to the floor. He begins unbuttoning his shirt.

  My jaw drops. “What are you doing?”

  His eyes meet mine, but his fingers don’t stop. “What does it look like, Laia? I’m taking off this darned, wet thing. Your tea burns like fire…”

  His voice isn’t as angry as it should be, considering I’ve probably ruined his Oxford shirt and risked giving him third-degree injuries.

  His tolerance of my clumsiness only enhances my embarrassment.

  I’d like to make myself useful somehow, so I quickly set my empty cup and printed papers on the floor and launch forward.

  “Here, let me help!” I exclaim.

  My hands land on his arm.

  I only realize how objectionable my action could look after I start pulling his shirt toward me.

  Devon’s fingers close around my wrist, and he gently peels off my fingers. “I appreciate your effort, but if you don’t move your hand, I won’t be able to take it off. I first need to loosen the cufflinks.” His voice has an amused undertone as if my zeal entertained him.

  “Oh, yes, of course. I just wanted to help…you know, to diminish the risk of injury,” I mutter, recoiling quickly. My sheepish tone may as well translate as I’m ready to die from mortification.

  He undoes the two silver knobs while his glance moves to my face, which must be the reddest it had ever been.

  Devon flashes me a crooked smirk, while he slips out of his shirt. “Don’t look so flustered, Laia. I didn’t assume that your fervor to undress me was triggered by anything other than your wish to save me from a burn.”

  Indeed, by nothing else.

  Definitely not by the sight of so much sheer muscle.

  I retreat two steps more, hoping the distance will help me direct my gaze away from Devon’s upper body.

  But as I move back, I have an even better view of his bare chest and abs—that, if my fleeting glance doesn’t betray me, could very well be a solid eight-pack—so I really don’t know where to focus my eyes.

  His legs are still covered, but staring at his pants would be equally awkward.

  In the end, I settle my gaze on his face.

  Devon’s lips are still set in a curve. He holds his shirt in his arm—when did he have the time to fold it this neatly?—and he’s watching me.

  As our glances interlock, his irises darken.

  He shakes his head as if to clear it from a bothering thought and asks, “So…uhm…Laia, are those documents you printed for the casual footwear campaign?”

  His business phrase contrasts his shirtless posture so absurdly that a nervous giggle escapes from my throat. I cover it up with a nod, as assistant-like as I can. “Yes, they are.”

  While I speak, I realize that due to the distractive exposure of his manliness, I forgot to excuse myself for pouring hot tea over him.

  “Devon, I would like to say how sorry I am that”—I wave toward his shirt—“I risked scorching you. I was caught up in my thoughts about…a chapter of my novel.”

  Plotting my romance in my head is a far better excuse than admitting what occupied my mind.

  “That’s fine. I was distracted too. I’ll watch where I walk from now on,” he replies, smiling.

  Yeah, don’t walk around bare-chested unless you want your female employees to have a heart attack.

  I suppress this idiotic phrase just in time, but, unfortunately, a similarly crackbrained one slips out. “Luckily, there’s nobody else around. No danger of getting a mean vanilla doughnut smashed on you.”

  The image of whipped cream on his muscles is the last thing I should have brought up, dang it!

  Devon’s eyes widen at my goofy comment, and his lower lip twitches. “Shall I deduce from this that you don’t like doughnuts? Or just vanilla ones?”

  My cheeks boil. “No, I love doughnuts. Any kind, really. I have a sweet tooth. Though chocolate is probably my favorite of all…”

  My babbling stops as Devon’s hint at a smile grows into a full-blown grin.

  “Ah, that’s good to know,” he says in a serious tone, but his eyes keep laughing at me. “Once a month we have a treat-day in the office. You may bring any sweets you like.”

  He’s making fun of me.

  But I guess I deserve it. I’m behaving like a complete moron.

  Why did I have to tell him I like chocolate more than vanilla? Devon doesn’t care.

  I drop my gaze to the floor. “Okay, sure. I’ll bake something nice for that day then.”

  I need to say something to demonstrate that my brain didn’t get spilled with that cup of tea. Something that can re-establish a more office-type atmosphere between us.

  I clear my throat. “So, are you done with work for tonight?”

  Devon nods. “We can leave here in twenty minutes if that suits you. Ellie wanted to meet you at Jimmy’z around seven, right?”

  “Ah, so you didn’t forget,” I say.

  Devon furrows his brows. “Forget? Of course, not. Ellie checked in with me several times to ensure that I would take you.” There’s a trace of irritation in his tone, as if he isn’t happy that we need to drive together.

  I raise my glance to meet his blue irises. “I can take the tube, instead. It wasn’t my idea that we go to the club together. Your siste
r—”

  “Don’t worry, Laia,” he interrupts me by putting up a hand.

  I want to ignore how his pectorals flex, but against my best will, my glance dips to his chiseled chest.

  “I know my over-zealous sister. She…uhm…” Devon scratches his neck. “Ellie thinks I need help in the dating department.”

  “What? Why?”

  Devon certainly doesn’t need a hand with meeting women.

  “Ellie holds similar values to you, so she’s never satisfied with my choices.” His face moves into a boyishly flustered grimace, and that’s when I understand what he’s getting at.

  “Wait, Ellie wants you to find a real relationship? With me?”

  Why did my stupid voice waver at this last word?

  Devon shrugs as if his sister’s plan isn’t worth discussing. “Something like that. But don’t worry. I’ll tell Ellie to leave you out of her matchmaking attempts. My sister has a hard time accepting that I don’t need a woman to be happy.”

  “Everyone needs somebody to love.” The words rush out of my mouth like air leaving a holey balloon, instinctively and unstoppably, probably fueled by the disappointment Devon’s statement awakens.

  Devon rolls his eyes. “Are you going Solomon Burke on me?” He folds his arms across his chest, which makes his shoulders as broad as an athlete’s. “And where do you get this wisdom? From your countless past experiences?”

  I gasp, and his face softens immediately.

  He steps closer and reaches for my arm. “I’m so sorry, Laia. I shouldn’t have said that last part. It was wrong of me on so many levels.”

  “Don’t worry.” I keep my voice as stable as I can. “I’m used to people belittling my take on love because I have no experience. But you, Devon”—I square my shoulders—“you have plenty. And, still, you’re just as clueless as I am. Despite your countless flings, you’ve never truly loved, right?”

  Devon looks as if I slapped him.

  “As a matter of fact, I have. Once. But it turned ugly. It’s not something I’d ever want to repeat.”

  His short but bitter declaration is honest. There is no shadow of doubt about it. Only a person who had his heart broken could pronounce these words with such fervor and iciness at the same time.

  He withdraws his gaze and bends to collect his folder from the floor.

  I stand paralyzed.

  I shouldn’t have assumed that Devon has never loved anyone. I’ve completely misinterpreted him. He doesn’t prefer short flings to meaningful relationships because he’s afraid to commit. He’s scared to be hurt again.

  “You have a spare shirt for me, right?”

  His question jars me out of my thoughts.

  “Yes, yes, of course. I got three of them from the dry cleaner on Tuesday. I’ll come and show—”

  “No, thanks. I know where we keep them. I’ll go and change. Meet you in the garage at quarter to seven?” he asks without looking at me.

  “Yes, that would be fine.”

  “Good.” Devon turns and saunters back to his office.

  As I stare at his absolutely perfect back, my throat closes up. I wonder whether he’s so upset about my comment that he can’t even stand to ride in the same elevator with me.

  I recall the night when he offered his help for my romance novel. His voice had a disillusioned undertone when he spoke about soulmates. Why didn’t I pick up on it?

  Instead I was judgmental and jumped to the conclusion that he’s a playboy with a cynical worldview and loose morals. Guilt floods my chest as Devon’s hurt glint dances in front of my eyes.

  My sense of culpability is coupled with another feeling, too.

  An entirely hopeless desire. A wish to teach Devon to believe in love again.

  Chapter 25

  (Laia)

  “My sister might be here already.” The hopeful edge in Devon’s voice is so palpable I cringe. Devon can’t wait to hand the baton to his sister and stop being in my company. During the drive, he didn’t utter more than three words to me despite my attempts to jumpstart a conversation.

  As we walk on the long and narrow underground corridor of Jimmy’z, I pray we find Ellie downstairs.

  As we descend a mysterious blue staircase with a curved ceiling that takes us thirty feet down from street level to the club area, I accelerate my pace to be at his side.

  I take a peek at his somber frown.

  There’s no question that Devon’s facial features were made for a brooding hero look. The way his lips harden in a line and his eyes glimmer is how I imagined the male lead in my romance during the scene where he realizes he’s lost his love forever.

  Ah, Laia, you need to stop this. Now.

  I already have too many moods that I find irresistible on him. Adding the vexed man to the collection wouldn’t be wise. Especially after his revelation about his broken heart.

  “So, what’s the deal with this place? Why is it so special?” I ask, hoping to clear my head by speaking.

  Devon gives me a slanted glance then shrugs. “Wait till we’re downstairs. The club might not look much when you enter, but the owner’s love for music really comes through in the main performance space.”

  Just as he finishes his phrase, we arrive in a room that has an impressive volume.

  It hosts a stage that’s larger in width than depth, eschewing the traditional shoe-box layout. Besides a giant Steinway piano, which seems to be a permanent piece, there’s enough empty space for an entire band to fit on the podium comfortably. The whole is framed by a 20-foot-long, velvet maroon curtain, a signature backdrop for any genuine jazz club. But it’s the tiny details of the room that make me understand what Devon meant.

  Musical elements are everywhere, like the handmade wooden piano key details in the bar or the chandelier above, featuring two hundred plus trumpets.

  My glance wanders to the carved Gothic pews that create a front row before the round, more conventional tables.

  “These facilitate better views of the live gigs,” Devon explains, pointing at the benches. “Jimmy didn’t just build a trendy club, he—”

  “He conjured a sanctuary for jazz lovers,” I murmur, because the pews remind me of the seats in the church my mother goes to.

  His eyes widen. “Yes, that’s correct.”

  There is a sort of astonishment in his voice, but I don’t pause to question what it might mean. I’m just happy that we’re on speaking terms again.

  “Come, let’s sit at the bar while we wait for my sister,” Devon says.

  He orders us two glasses of sparkling water, and we settle on the leather stools.

  Just as the barman places the drinks in front of us, Ellie’s chipper voice draws my attention.

  “Devon, Laia, here I am.” She hurries over with a bright smile on her face.

  Her curls are tamed with a thick, green hairband that plays up the emerald hue in her eyes. The corners of her mouth almost reach her ears as she greets me.

  “It’s going to be fun tonight. Right, brother?” Ellie pats Devon on his back.

  “Hi, sis. Good that you’re here.” Devon nods to his sister and stands up. “I need to go backstage to speak with Jimmy. He wants me to play at eight, and it’s almost time. If Pete comes, please keep him company.”

  Before he turns, he blinks at me. I detect a hint of concern in his eyes. “I hope you’ll enjoy the music, Laia.”

  Without waiting for my answer, he whips around and leaves.

  What was that? Was it his way of showing that we’re good?

  Ellie points at my glass. “Did you guys seriously order these? I go out so rarely I need something far tastier than just plain water when I finally do.”

  “I imagine Devon didn’t want anything that would make him sleepy before he plays.” I feel the need to protect her brother’s choice, though I’m not sure why. I’d had the same thought as Ellie when I heard Devon order the waters.

  Ellie rolls her eyes. “Let him be serious then, but you and
I, we’re here to have fun. What do you prefer in cocktails, sweet or fruity?”

  “Both, I guess. I’m not big on names, though. Pick something. I trust your taste.”

  Ellie grins as if my answer is just what she wanted to hear. She waves the bartender closer and hops up on the barstool beside me. “Can you fix us two Strawberry Bellinis, please?”

  She bats her lashes, and the guy immediately jumps to the mixer.

  “Coming right up,” he says.

  Ellie holds up her hand. “Wait, let me tell you how I want them first, okay? I know some use any type of sparkling wine, but I’d love real Prosecco in it. Also, if you use fresh strawberries, make sure to wash them thoroughly. If you only have frozen ones, then blend them a tad more than you usually would. I hate to have chunks of fruit in my drinks. “

  As I listen to Ellie, I can’t help but recall how she rearranged Devon’s desk in less than a minute. I admire that she seems to know exactly how she likes the things around herself to be and acts upon those preferences.

  I, too often, let others’ wishes come before my own because I’m afraid to be assertive. The reason why speaking up for myself landed so high on my bucket list.

  Though I thought I was making progress on this front since starting my new job, my gaff with Devon demonstrates I still have much to learn before I nail this giving-others-a-piece-of-my-mind thing.

  The barman’s mouth opens at Ellie’s explanation, but he nods. “Of course, I’ll make it just the way you want it.” He accompanies his phrase with a smile that betrays that he’d love to prepare something more than just a cocktail for Ellie.

  Ellie smiles at him, then turns back to me. “Sooo…how is everything in the office? Do you enjoy working for my brother?”

  I’d love to answer a simple yes, but something in Ellie’s friendly face and freckled nose makes it hard to lie. “Yes, though it’s a little confusing sometimes.”

  Ellie’s brows arch suspiciously. “Confusing, how?”

  Good job, Laia.

  Why couldn’t I choose a less questionable word? Who labels her interaction with her boss confusing?