Law #2: Don't Play with a Player: A Sweet Office Romance Story (Laws of Love) Agnes Canestri (reading eggs books txt) 📖

to Spanish. It’s an expression my brother uses. It means the last Coke in the desert…as in…”

“An arrogant dunce?”

She blinks twice. “More or less. Sorry. I took the journalist’s words for facts and didn’t look deeper.”

There’s a respect in her eyes that I hadn’t seen before now.

Her shy glint reminds me of when Cat realized I wasn’t one to mess with and finally stopped peeing in my shoes.

Maybe comparing Laia to my furry companion again makes me feel an unexplainable sense of connection with her, because my chest warms.

I square my shoulders. “It’s much easier for people to focus on my social life than on my work ethic.”

She nods. “Yes, our faults are always more gossip worthy than our values.”

I give an imperceptible shrug to ease the tension that settles into my neck.

I don’t need to be ashamed about the choices I make in my private life because Laia clearly labeled them as faults.

My eyes flick to Laia’s black hair. It accentuates her neckline like a blank canvas that enhances the first stroke of a paintbrush.

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,