Page 4 of All Twerk, No Play

WhenForbescalled, we’d pitch a trip upstate to show off our humble roots. Flyover states eat up small-town origin stories.

“I have to make a phone call,” I said, breaking the silence.

Alexander’s eyes widened in disbelief, knowing the limited reasons I consulted outside advice.

“Give us a minute, Larry,” he said, gently taking my elbow to drag me out of the realtor’s earshot into a tiny private office. “You can’t be serious.”

“We’ll need to hire junior attorneys and paralegals soon, we should prepare for expansion.” Although we’ll have moved before that point.

“But what if we don’t expand?” Alexander asked.

Seriously? What was his problem?

I crossed my arms. “Why wouldn’t we?”

“I didn’t ask you to move here so we could recreate what we hated about Hamilton & Houghton or—” When I tensed, he shifted his weight. “We can do this our way. Make our own rules.”

“Where do you propose we work?”

“My dad said we—”

“No,” I snapped. Alexander had told me we’d be Blackstone & Clarke, but the Clarke & Associates sign outside that awful bungalow mocked me.

“So we find somewhere else. And we definitely don’t need to hire that creep,” he said, clearing his throat to get Lawrence to avert his eyes from my ass.

“I’ve dealt with worse,” I shrugged.

“That’s my point,” he said, running a hand through his dark hair. “You shouldn’t have to.”

I understood his argument, but no way could I let him win this one. If I was going to live inhishometown, surrounded byhisfamily, I wanted our office to bemine—not some random place I hated.

‘Do it right the first time and you won’t waste time fixing your mistakes,’ my father always said. Then my mom added, ‘That’s why we only had you, Vickie. We got it right the first time.’

My bottom lip tried to quiver before I tightened it. I lifted my chin to meet his eyes—ugh, he was so obnoxiously tall that even in 4-inch stilettos I still had to look up—and said crisply, “You chose the city. I choose the office.”

Tense silence passed between us as frustration simmered in his eyes.

Five years ago, he would have conceded defeat, but I’d taken the calculated risk of teaching him my father’s negotiation strategies.

Our standoff could last hours. But I had an ace up my sleeve—especially if I led him to believe it was his idea.

“Although I’d have to find a tenant for that ground floor unit,” I said, chewing my lip to appear contemplative. “I’m thinking a salon or spa, a business in the wellness space.”

He stared blankly, my obvious hint still dangling.

“How big is your sister’s studio, anyway?”

“About 900 square feet,” he answered, still not getting it.

“And her classes sell out, right?”

The recognition dawned. Finally. All his gruffness melted at the thought of his sister, the sentimental chump. “Maybe her studio would work there.”

“That's not a bad idea,” I said before going for the kill. “Doesn't Grace work there too? She could visit you up here.”

Although my gut soured, when his eyes softened, I knew I had him. My desire for this property outweighed the annoyance of his peppy not-yet-ex-girlfriend’s visits.

He looked around the open space and threw a curveball. “Mallory’s been bugging me about taking over her business incubator. Could we host the meetings here?”

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