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

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 discussion 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