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

Compared to them, Chelsea’s silk blouse is rather sober.

My friend must make the same realization because she fiddles at her collarbone and pops another button open.

“So,” Sarah says when we are all standing in a circle, “let’s start with breaking you up into three groups. How many of you would like to interview for the accounting intern position?”

No hands shoot in the air.

Sarah nods twice. “And who is interested in the job in our creative department?” I raise my arm, and so does the man, an Asian guy with slicked-back hair and a grey suit. His clothes are similar in shade to mine, only his outfit is well-tailored, shiny, and topped with a thin red tie.

We exchange a quick glance filled with a mixture of mutual respect, since we both chose the most interesting of the three internships, and the realization that we are each other’s only competition.

Sarah sighs. She eyes Chelsea and the other women with furrowed brows. “So, I guess that leaves you five for the PA position?”

“Indeed,” replies a redhead. “That’s the most interesting one. Right, gals?” She bends forward and ends with a giggle that couldn’t sound more obnoxious, even if she practiced it for weeks.

I turn my eyes away from her because I don’t want to peer at her belly button, a real possibility considering how plunging her dress is.

The other women nod, but they throw daggers at each other.

I’m tempted to interject that making coffee and answering phones can hardly qualify as exciting, but I swallow back my comment.

Sarah scratches her chin. “Well, that depends on your ambitions. Though I can’t deny that working for Devon Griffin isn’t like working for any other CEO.”

“Oh, I think we all know that,” a brunette agrees promptly. “Or, at least almost all of us.”

She runs a hand through her asymmetrical bob and gives me a belittling smirk as if to make it clear for those who didn’t get her subtle hint.

Chelsea shakes her head imperceptibly. But I don’t need my roomie to remind me that it’s better to let the snarky remark slide. After all, I’m not here to compete in a beauty pageant.

Sarah claps her hands. “Since most of you came for the PA position, we’ll start with that, okay?”

Her question is directed at the man and me, and we both nod.

“Excuse me, Sarah,” a melodious male baritone interrupts. “I’d like to propose a small change to the plans, if I may.”

Sarah’s eyes widen, and her shoulders pull back. “Oh, hello, Devon. I didn’t know you’d be joining us for the interviews. You’re most welcome to suggest anything you like. Everyone, this is Devon Griffin, our CEO. Devon, these are our candidates.”

I turn around, and all the others do the same.

“Good morning, Mr. Griffin,” the women call out in a seductive chorus.

“Good morning.” I sound like a middle school student, my voice trailing a half-second behind the others.

Sarah chuckles. “Just call him Devon. We all do.”

Devon saunters closer to us.

He’s wearing slim-cut navy chinos, a white button-down shirt, and a striped jacket. While his clothes are business smart, he could walk into a club and spend the evening there without anyone thinking that he doesn’t belong. Especially if he tousled up that French crop haircut the way it was done up in that tabloid picture.

Almost everyone adjusts their postures, and even I find myself standing a little straighter as Devon draws closer.

Why is he here? Does he want to inspect if we’re to his liking before we even get a chance to prove our worth?

“Hi, everyone,” Devon says. “As you know, I’m looking for a new assistant. This position is listed as an internship, but if the person who gets it performs well, the contract could transform into a permanent one. The right candidate will have a secure job at her,” he nods to the male candidate, “or his, hand.”

“Oh no, Devon.” Sarah points at the guy. “Fu is here for the copywriting position only.”

I raise my hand to signal that I’m also here for the same internship, but Sarah doesn’t notice me.

The old me would undoubtedly stay quiet and avoid drawing further attention to herself. But won’t it be better for my rebooted-heart-chakra self if I speak up? I open my mouth to intervene.

“So you don’t wish to become my PA. Why is that?” Devon asks Fu.

I close my mouth again.

It’s wiser to listen to my opponent’s answer. I might be confronted with a similar question.

Fu fingers his shirt collar as if it’s suddenly too tight. “Uhm, I’m not sure. I think I might be a better fit in your creative team,” he mutters.

Devon nods. “Very well, Fu. You don’t mind if I call you by your first name, do you? In this company, we like to keep things casual and friendly. If I’m honest, I’d also be happier with one of these ladies here. In my experience, male PAs make the worst coffee ever.”

He flashes a smile to show that his comment is a joke.

“I can make a wicked espresso,” the redhead moans.

“I learned how to stir up a good cuppa from my Italian grandmother,” the brunette purrs.

“Me, too,” Chelsea adds, not wanting to be outdone.

While I give an are-you-nuts glance to my bestie for her fib, the remaining two candidates also voice how interested they would be in preparing the perfect coffee for Devon.

Devon chuckles. “Wow, wow. I’m happy to see your professional enthusiasm.”

Professional enthusiasm? Ah, please. I roll my eyes at his comment.

Unexpectedly, his glance travels to me, and he gives me a once-over.

His brows round as he studies me. I can’t help but think that he’s wondering what I’m doing among these supermodels, dressed like an ABBA fan.

Devon steps over to me. He’s almost a head taller than I am, and he has to dip his chin to his chest to intercept my gaze.

He has a symmetrical bone structure, with sharp cheekbones and a stubborn cleft chin. This gives his face a bit of a voracious feel, as if he’s not only eager to take a