Page 24 of All Twerk, No Play

She rolled her eyes at me.

No, worse: She rolled her eyes atTaylor Swift.

The heathen. My sister Luisa would die at the disrespect. Her breath would catch in her throat, she’d grab her chest as her heart stuttered, and she’d keel over right there.

“You need to know this song, Victoria. It’s a rite of passage,” I said, pulling it up on my phone. “Dance with me, please?”

“I won’t dance, but you’re welcome to,” she said, attention locked on her laptop.

Challenge accepted.

Knowing my phone was still connected to her speaker, I turned it on full volume, my hips swaying to the trombones as I lip-synced along with my girl Tay. I trailed my fingers along the top of Victoria’s computer, singing about how people think I’m brainless and hook up too much. She pulled the computer closer, her unimpressed gaze fixed on her screen.

Unfazed, I grabbed a wooden spoon as a lipsync microphone, shimmying off the haters, twerking against her countertop, and brushing off her shoulders. She leaned back from her keyboard with hard-fought annoyance.

As the song’s bridge approached, I leaned across the island, pressed her laptop lid down, and rested my chin on my palm. I gestured my eyebrows at her phone as I mentioned the liars and dirty cheats, and Victoria ran a hand over her puckered mouth. Then I released my hair from its bun as Taylor sang to the fella with the hella good hair. If the music hadn’t been pumping, I might have heard an involuntary chuckle. Extending my arm in invitation, she finally rose reluctantly.

Our dancing was silly and playful. I spun her wildly, her spaghetti arms flailing to keep up with my frantic pace. At last, a flicker of amusement broke through. Encouraged, I wrapped an arm around her waist for our frenzied twisting and spinning.

As the final notes faded, she met my gaze, chest panting, lips parted, breathless and exhilarated. A surge of desire coursed through me, tempting me to close the gap.

But she was my tenant. And even if she weren’t, she didn’t do casual hookups … or casual anything, by the look of her.

So I spun her back onto her stool, keeping the island between us as I unpacked another box.

"Monday Morning," Fleetwood Mac

Victoria

“Ournameslooksogood up there,” Alexander murmured as the sign maker cast a projection of our logo onto the wall behind the reception desk. "Why didn't we do this years ago?"

"Better than kissing the senior partners' asses,"I agreed, flush with satisfaction at my name on the wall of my own business, on the top floor of my own building. I hadn’t felt this much pride in my workplace since … well, since the last time my family name was on the building.

“Do you want vinyl mounted directly on the wall?” the sign maker asked. “Or acrylic that can be removed later?”

“Vinyl,” Alexander said as I answered, “Acrylic.”

I turned, keeping my facial expression neutral. His blue eyes darted between mine before lifting a brow. I pressed my lips together with a small head tilt. After years of negotiating across conference tables, we'd developed an entire language of minuscule eyebrow quirks and lip twitches.

Our silent battle was interrupted by our legal assistant, Connor. “You misspelled McNamara.”

We grinned, taking the coffees he carried before he moved behind the reception desk. “Let’s base the decision on the most important factor: how I look next to it. The acrylic would look best with my hair.”

I shot Connor an appreciative smile for taking my side.

Five years ago, when Alexander and I had been lowly second-year associates, Connor was a freshly hired legal assistant randomly assigned to cases. I’d worked my ass off on a real estate litigation case, only to have a partner usurp my presentation and mess up half the slides. It had still been good enough to settle out of court, and the partner invited Alexander to the celebration, leaving me behind.

After they left, Connor lingered in the conference room and said calmly, “Well that was a shitty way to treat you. Hamilton took credit for your ideas, then Alex left you behind instead of sticking up for you.”

So he’d seen Alexander’s apologetic look as Hamilton slung an arm around his shoulders like a proud father.

I shrugged, not sure if he’d run back to Hamilton to trade gossip for favors. “He’s a second year, he can’t push back against a partner.”

“Still shitty,” Connor muttered as he helped me pack up.

After that, I started requesting him as support staff on all my cases and helped him pass his paralegal certification. When Alexander and I got promoted to senior associates, Connor moved into the assistant suite between our offices, splitting his time between our cases. Other assistants pitied him—both of us had reputations for demanding excellence—but he’d figured out how to cool Alexander’s temper and melt my iciness.

Poaching Connor had been my first action after I agreed to start this firm with Alexander. When I returned to San Francisco, I’d taken him to a private lunch, carrying Alexander’s spiral-bound business plan, covered in my shorthand notes outlining how we’dreallydo things. Before I opened the cover, Connor practically jumped out of his chair. “I’m in, when do we leave?”

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