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

“No, I am.” In truth, my throat is parched. “I just thought that if I couldn’t contribute in any meaningful way to your presentation, at least I should avoid bothering you with my loud gulping.”

He eyes me with his brows arched. “You can’t be serious, Laia. Didn’t you hear how much I borrowed from the background research you did on the dating company? I even quoted one of your comments: ‘Finding love can’t be a burden, it must be viewed as an adventure.’”

My cheeks warm as Devon repeats the words I scribbled on his report. “The idea of rebranding the dating company unleashed my romantic side. I clearly let myself get carried away. I’m sure those words weren’t the decisive factor for Mr. Leonic.”

Devon lowers himself back to his seat, and I follow his example.

He pushes my cup to me but keeps studying me with a perplexed grimace. “I think your phrase, though sappy, resolves the entire problem Mr. Leonic had with his firm’s image. Why dismiss what you wrote? You don’t like to give yourself credit, Laia. You aren’t proud enough of what you do. Of how great you are.”

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.