Page 21 of All Twerk, No Play

I threw another angry look at the team lead, who had the good sense to say, “We can refund the assembly fee.” I lifted an unimpressed brow. “And the delivery fee, since it was a week late.”

Eric pulled a drill from his tool belt with an eager expression, pressing the trigger like revving an engine. Resigned, I gestured him in.

By the time I saw out the movers, Eric had his box cutter in hand, slicing through cardboard. I checked on Jurisprudence, back in her bathroom safe space, then started unpacking.

Relief flooded me to have my Stellas and Veras hanging where they belong, organized by length and color. I moved onto my shoe closet, greeting my old friends: Welcome Jimmy,ciaoGianvito,bonjourChristian. All the men I would step on in my rise to victory.

From the bedroom,Eric’s quiet baritone crooned about birds flying high. His voice was low and rich, but not ostentatious … more like the drill set a rhythm and he couldn’t stop himself from joining in over the hum of his power tools. Peaking into the bedroom, desire flushed through me at the sight of Eric, headphones in, bent over the wooden beams of my somehow-already-assembled bed frame, tight jeans around that muscular butt.

I collected my Bluetooth speaker from the hallway bathroom. “I prefer it with the horns.”

“You like Nina Simone?” he asked, his boyish grin wide with pride. “You didn’t know Taylor or Ariana but recognized Fleetwood Mac and The Beatles, so I figured your preferences skew—”

“Older,” I said, hands on my hips.

“Classic. My mom raised me on soul. Their influence is all over the modern divas. Ariana wishes she could be Nina.” He lifted his eyes. “This playlist is a personal favorite. Most people don’t appreciate it … but I thought you might.”

I turned away from the compliment and retreated to my office before I did something stupid like singing along, swaying my hips, and dancing closer. If I let the sultry bass consume me, I’d wrap my arms around his neck and will his big hands to find my ass. His tongue would lick my bottom lip, I’d part my lips and pull him closer … and my unchristened bed would be right there.

But that wouldn’t happen.

Last night had been a display to make Alexander jealous. That was all.

And Eric had a No Tenant policy, which was a smart rule.

Not that he needed it, because I would never sleep with him.

I wasn’t avoiding him. These textbooks couldn’t alphabetize themselves.

“It’s your house, you know. You’re welcome to sing and not just hum,” Eric said, leaning in the doorway of my office.

I hadn’t noticed my soft humming. “I don’t sing.”

“Not even in the shower?”

“Nope,” I lied, tapping my throat. “My voice teacher tried and failed to turn this Janis Joplin into Joni Mitchell.”

“Fuck that,” he said. “Joni is sweet but I’d take Joplin any day, she can belt with raw power. You know Nina Simone never took a voice lesson? They criticized her smoky low register and that jagged high end, said she couldn’t sing like Billie Holiday. But Nina could wring a soul out of a melody that left Billie in the dust.”

I knelt back on my heels, lips pursed. “Your point is?”

“Raspy voices are pure sex,” he said. “Perfect for songs that tear your heart out. Take ‘Nothing Compares 2 U.’ Who brought that song home?”

“Sinead O’Connor.”

“Exactly. Prince wrote it with that heavy bassline, you know?” He replicated the moody tone, slapping an air bass guitar. “Everyone recognizes Sinead. Why? Raw vulnerability. The way she sings about her loneliness,” he thumped his hand over his heart as his voice dropped a register to sing about a bird without a song. “Gets me every time. Have you heard Chris Cornell’s cover?”

I shook my head, entranced that he brought such life to the song’s evolution. His brown eyes shone with excitement, his normal movement more frantic as he reached for his phone. The slow acoustic guitar strummed through my speaker as Eric explained over it: “You know Chris Cornell, from Soundgarden? The guy has a four-octave range, you’d recognize his falsetto,” and he sang a line from ‘Black Hole Sun.’ “Anyway, the way he sings this song is just … desperate.”

As the singer’s voice cracked about nothing taking away his blues, Eric’s eyes grew melancholy. I didn’t know how to react to his wistfulness, the song’s emotion reflecting in his hung shoulders and restless shifting. Men in my life prided themselves on being stoic and strong.

Yet Eric’s immersion in the music showed vulnerability I’d never seen.

My heart raced with a memory of my mom beside me on the piano bench, explaining that I was talented enough to make music my career, but it would require hours of daily practice. She said when I was a teenager, I would have to decide between music or business. By then I’d stopped performing, so business felt inevitable.

For a moment, a long-dead kernel of joy resonated deep within—memories of my emotional reactions to playing the piano.

I cleared my throat, chasing safe ground. “Did you study music?”

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