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

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