Page 45 of All Twerk, No Play

I tilted my head, deciding how to explain why I let him get away with it. Alexander wouldn’t understand that Eric sang Taylor Swift while I wrote a contract, and built furniture without asking for a return favor, and kissed like I was the antidote instead of the poison. But he might understand … “The night we met, he offered to let me punch him in the face.”

My heel sank into the grass as I shifted my weight to my back foot and lifted my fists, tapping my thumb against my nose.

Alexander raised his palms in surrender. “I rescind my request. Grace likes my face just like this.”

The boot camp quieted. Eric beamed with amused pride, his foot tapping an impatient beat. “He may have sixty pounds on her, but my money’s on the scrappy redhead.”

“She seems like an eye scratcher,” Kate grinned.

“Oh hell yeah, I bet she fights dirty. Do you two want to step into the ring, or can I continue class?” When I gestured to continue, he shook his head in mock scorn. “Always interrupting my classes.”

As the music started, Eric pulled out his bun, his dark hair rippling midway down his back as he strutted like the world’s best drag queen. The students squatted on the downbeats and snapped on the upbeats with varying degrees of rhythm. He flipped his hair and checked his nails, pointing at a student with the prompt, “Baby, how you feeling?”

Barry yelled, “Good as hell!”

Eric flipped his hair again, sauntering around the circle and pointing again.

Nancy’s squat rhythm didn’t falter. “Good as hell!”

Bec raised their hand and he seductively beckoned them into the center, sliding into the vacant space as they shimmied. They swapped with Barry, his teenage daughter laughing in embarrassment at his running man. Kate finished the verse, and Eric joined her, dropping into an impossibly low squat, and … I couldn’t describe it, quickly contracting his butt in perfect sync.

My eyes didn’t stray from his butt as Alexander covered his mouth and muttered, “Oh my god, he's twerking.”

We bit back our laughter as the students sweat, squatted, swore, and most of all, smiled. Even as a neutral observer, my spirits rose at his effortless charm.

During the bridge, Eric caught my eye while he sang about having it all, no sacrifice. His fingers flicked dismissively at Alexander for lyrics about a man who did me wrong. I bit my cheek to not burst out laughing at my business partner’s embarrassed flush. Eric tilted his head, raising a water bottle overhead like Tina Turner to belt advice to walk my fine ass out the door.

“It’s down to one non-negotiable,” I told Alexander, trying not to sound breathless with lust.

As the song wrapped up, Eric pointed two fingers at us for the final, “Baby, how you feeling?”

All the students’ heads turned. We could ignore the playful prompt and act like straight-laced lawyers. Alexander’s shoulder lifted half an inch and my lip quirked slightly. Then we snapped on the final downbeat—well, he missed by half a second—as I said in my most professional voice, “Good as hell, Cruz.”

All the students cheered. Eric gave a final pep talk as the group handed in their resistance bands, then jogged over. “So what do you think, Alex,Cobrita?”

Alexander closed his notebook. “We don’t have time for a full recap, because Vic’s got a hot date—”

“Don’t call me Vic,” I leveled a finger, intentionally avoiding Eric’s reaction to my second date with Lawrence.

“—so we’ll review our recommendations during your meeting tomorrow, but we’ve got one word to tide you over. You wanna tell him, Victoria?”

Eric’s face lit up when I shared our top strategy: “YouTube.”

"Let it Go," Idina Menzel

Victoria

Mymomalwaystoldme it was rude to arrive at somebody’s home empty-handed. Her secretary Margot assembled housewarming baskets for all her clients’ closings, filled with cashmere blankets, engraved cutting boards, and address stamps.

For weeks, Alexander had been inviting me over for dinner at their new house. Every time I made an excuse, I ordered another gift: a high-end coffeemaker, a succulent box, an etched champagne bottle … yet none felt right.

After all, what housewarming present do you buy a couple when you’re counting down the minutes until he gets bored with suburbia? Certainly not monogrammed towels.

I hated not having a rule book. Etiquette rules exist to prevent embarrassing mistakes, but nobody sold a premade basket for a former-lover-turned-business-partner’s housewarming gift with his new girlfriend and child.

But time had run out. Turns out when your primary excuse is ‘I have to work,’ your business partner can call your bullshit.

So I balanced a loaded basket on the sidewalk in front of the giant Victorian house. Six bedrooms, he told me when he bought it. I’d grown up in a six-bedroom, but our Chelsea townhouse was compact and urban. Nothing like this.

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