Work For It (Naiad Novels Book 1)

If there’s one thing Naiad does well—other than romance serials—it’s a holiday party.

The last one we had, before the whole world shut down for a while, was spectacular. I’m expecting nothing less this year, and from the looks of things, I won’t be disappointed.

The only not-so-great aspect is that it’s being held on a Thursday night. I don’t know what management was thinking when they chose the date, but I doubt many people will show up at work in the morning. If they thought scheduling it for a weeknight would keep their employees from getting too drunk, they don’t know us well at all. And if I was a betting woman, I’d say the crowd will be sloshed by ten. Myself included.

“Okay, game plan,” Zoe says as she clings to my arm, teetering on her too-high heels as we step into the luxury hotel Naiad rented the rooftop of for the party. “We’ll do a few shots and hit the photo booth while our makeup still looks good. Then we eat as much as we possibly can because I’ve heard this caterer’s food is amazing.”

“I’m down.” I wore a wrap dress tonight for a reason—so I can eat as much as I damn well please and not be restricted by a tight waistline. Also, it makes my curves look dangerously good, and I don’t even have to wear an underwire bra with it. I have on one of my favorite bralette and thong sets tonight, not because I expect anyone will see it, but because it makes me feel great. “I hope they hired a better DJ this year, though.”

Behind us, Ella laughs. “Remember when Marsha threw a dinner roll at him when he played ‘Last Christmas’ for the fifth time?”

“God, I miss her!” Nikki cries. “I still can’t believe that bitch left us to take a job in traditional publishing. What do they have that we don’t?”

“Prestige and a 401(k),” I shoot back, to which everyone else groans in reply.

“Fuck working for a start-up,” Zoe grumbles, dragging a hand through her fiery red hair before thinking better of it and patting it back into place. “Speaking of. This DJ takes requests via some new app. Maybe we should go work for that start-up.”

I hit the button for the elevator and turn back to the group. “They’re probably worse. I know we talk shit about Naiad, but—”

Despite the inquisitive looks my friends give me, I don’t finish the sentence. No, I’m too distracted by the man who just walked through the door.

He’s a few yards away and headed toward us, but even from here, it’s clear that Daniel Santiago cleans up extremely well. For once, his hair is combed neatly, though I’m sure in about a half hour, he’ll have run his fingers through it so much that it’ll fall over his forehead again. His classic gray wool coat isn’t buttoned, despite the below-freezing temperature outside, giving me a view of his crisp white shirt and perfectly tailored navy slacks. The ensemble is understated, but it fits him like a dream.

And speaking of dreams, I’m suddenly struck with flashes of the one I’ve been trying like hell to put out of my mind for the last several weeks. But every time I see his face on Zoom, it comes rushing back in technicolor. The only bright spot is that I haven’t had any individual meetings with him since then. There’s no way I could have looked him straight in the (digital) eye and had a professional conversation when I can’t stop thinking about his hands all over me. Unfortunately, I’m thinking about it right now, all too vividly.

My heart races as he spots me. His eyes drift down my body, then flick back up, almost sharper now. Just like the night at the bar, I’m reading into it before I can stop, wondering if a look like that means—

Get it the fuck together, girl. It doesn’t mean jack shit, because you hate him.

I swallow past the lump in my throat and open my mouth to warn my friends of his impending arrival, but I can’t get the words out, leaving them to stare at me like they’re afraid I’m having a medical emergency.

“Good evening, ladies,” Daniel greets from behind the girls, causing them all to startle. In Zoe’s case, she lets out a small shriek of surprise before scowling.

“Don’t sneak up on us like that!” she scolds, slapping his bicep with the back of her hand.

“Selene saw me coming.” He shrugs and turns his attention to me. And there it is. That same sharpness. But when he scans the others, it disappears.

Ella practically has hearts in her big brown eyes as she gives him a once-over. “Wow, you look great.” She suddenly freezes. “Oh shit, am I allowed to say that? That sexual harassment training has me scared now.”

Daniel laughs and slips his hands into his pockets, the expensive watch on his wrist flashing. He makes a hell of a lot more money than the rest of us do, which is just one of a laundry list of reasons to hate him. “You’re fine,” he says. “The conversation we had about what kind of BDSM content we allow was worse.”

She snickers, and her cheeks go even more pink under the blush she’s wearing. “Never thought I’d have to discuss whips and chains so in-depth with you, but here we are.”

Zoe pokes me in the shoulder, grinning. “Remember the time you had to explain to me why that anal scene in I’m Having Your Baby was unrealistic?”

I laugh, but my face goes hot with embarrassment, especially when I accidentally glance over at Daniel. I’ve never been so grateful for my deep tan skin. “All I’m saying is that it would have taken a lot more lube than that.”

“I don’t think all the lube in the world would have—”

“Maybe we should wait until we’re on the rooftop to continue this discussion,” Daniel cuts in smoothly.

It’s only then that I realize there are horrified hotel guests standing on either side of our group.

“Whoops!” Zoe says brightly, once again clutching at my arm as the elevator arrives. “Sorry, folks! We write romance for a living.”

The horror only grows at her explanation. One woman’s eyes go so big I’m afraid they’ll pop out, and I swear another clutches her pearls.

I stifle a laugh as I practically drag her through the doors. The rest of our group follows as Daniel herds them in. Once the five of us are ensconced and the doors slide shut, I can’t help but dissolve into giggles, and the other girls join me within seconds.

“Did you see that old lady’s face?” Nikki gasps as she presses a hand to her stomach and doubles over. “I thought she was going to have a heart attack when Zoe said anal.”

Ella wipes at her eyes. Her mascara must be waterproof, because it’s still flawless. “She’s lucky we didn’t play Synonyms for Penis.”

“Pecker,” Nikki fires off.

“Schlong!” Zoe shouts.

“One-eyed trouser snake,” I toss in.

We invented this game last year after receiving a rude email from a reader who didn’t like how often we used the word cock to describe penises in sex scenes. Ever since, we’ve played the Synonyms for Penis game in our group chat on Slack.

The premise is simple: we come up with as many awful ways to describe a dick as we can. This is only the second time we’ve had the chance to play it in person, and it’s a hell of a lot more fun this way.

Zoe turns her expectant gaze to Daniel. “Come on, give us a synonym.”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes, knowing he’ll decline in that haughty, artificially polite way of his, but to my shock, he throws one of his own out.

“Turgid man meat,” he says without pausing to think.

Zoe and Nikki cackle in delight at his response, and Ella squeals, “Disgusting! I love it.”

Soon, the elevator arrives at the roof and the doors slide open. Daniel steps back and presses a hand to the metal frame to keep the doors from closing on us. The other girls stumble through them, and I follow, ready to step out as well, but he shifts to block my exit.

“Is that seriously a game you girls play?” he asks, a note of disgusted disbelief in his voice.

My amusement fades and my blood heats to a boil almost instantly at his judgment. “It is.” I cross my arms, back on guard. “Gotta keep this job fun somehow.”

He shakes his head and huffs. “You have a very interesting definition of fun.”

This time I don’t hold back an eye roll as I shoulder past him. It’s just like him to rain on the parade.

“Lighten up, Daniel,” I say as breezily as I can manage. “It’s a party.”

I don’t spare him a backward glance. I don’t have time for prudes.

I was wrong before when I guessed everyone would be drunk by ten p.m. Turns out nine is more like it.

I’ve done my shots with the rest of the production leads, and I’ve eaten more deep-fried foods than should be humanly possible. Silly photos with my friends that I’ll cherish forever have been taken, and I even downloaded the DJ app in order to request a few songs for us to dance and shout along to.

In the two hours since the party began, it’s shifted from a polite holiday gathering into a rager. And much to my surprise, our bosses and the evil HR lady are leading the charge. I’m not afraid to let loose, but I’m also not interested in the regrets that come along with being that out of control.

Still, I have a pleasant buzz going as I dance to a Spanish song I only understand a few words of but love nonetheless. The classic holiday repertoire has been played out, and now the DJ is spinning a little of everything.

Despite the December cold, the rooftop space is equipped with enough heaters to keep its occupants from feeling the chill. Even in my thin dress and no tights, I’ve worked up a sweat on the dance floor, and after at least a dozen songs straight, I’m in need of a drink and a moment to catch my breath.

Shouting to the girls that I’ll be right back, I slide my way over to the bar and order another gin and tonic with extra lime. I’ve taken it easy tonight so I don’t make a fool of myself like some of my coworkers. More power to them, but it sure as shit won’t be me.

Once my drink comes, I sit and people-watch. Zoe will probably come over and pull me back soon, but for now, she’s preoccupied, doing some version of what I think is the Macarena. I can’t be sure. So for now, I rest my feet and soak in the goings-on around me.

Unfortunately, it’s not Zoe who sidles up to me a little while later.

“Having a good time?” Daniel asks as he leans against the bar, his attention on the crowd of our dancing coworkers, even though he’s talking to me.

I was until you came over here is what I want to say, but instead, I go for unaffected. “I am, actually. Are you?”

“Surprisingly, yes,” he admits, finally glancing my way. “This DJ isn’t bad, but you and I are probably among the very few people here who have any sort of…rhythm.”

His words are coded, but he’s right. Our company is, at the very least, 95 percent white-American, and by and large, our coworkers are not the best dancers. In the entire New York team, he’s the only Latino, and I’m the only one with Middle Eastern roots. We have two Black coworkers in other departments, but, sadly, that’s the extent of diversity at Naiad.

“John certainly doesn’t have any.” I chuckle at our advertising manager, who’s breaking out moves that might have been popular in the eighties if they were on beat. There’s a small circle of clapping people—also off-beat—surrounding him, which is embarrassing for everyone involved.

“I can hardly bear to watch,” Daniel mutters, but neither of us can take our eyes off John.

“It’s…not great.”

“It’s a fucking horror show, is what you mean.”

I laugh before I can stop myself. I don’t want to like or find humor in anything Daniel says. He’s a condescending piece of shit who doesn’t deserve the recognition, and he knows it.

He shifts into my line of sight, smiling in a way that does things to me I refuse to acknowledge. “Did you actually laugh at something I said?”

“It happens sometimes.” I shrug without taking my eyes off the train wreck on the dance floor. “Don’t get used to it.”

“I’ll cherish the sound.”

I suck on my straw with so much force my cheeks hollow out, all to keep from saying something I know I’ll regret, and scan the mob of people. Not even the shift from the fast beat to a slow song can deter them from dancing. Several of them even grab partners and sway, laughing the whole time.

“At least they’re having fun,” Daniel says with a grimace. Then, suddenly, he squares his shoulders and locks me in his gaze. “But should we show them how to actually dance to this?”

I set my now empty glass down on the bar and scoff at his suggestion, even though I could show them all up. “Yeah, right.”

“All you have to do is follow my lead.”

Flashing him a wide, fake smile, I chirp, “I would never do that.”

It’s probably the snarkiest thing I’ve ever said to him. In any other setting, I wouldn’t deign to stoop to this level, but it would be nice to let my guard down for once. Who cares if he knows I hate him? Everyone else does.

“Ah, I see.” He nods with a frown, like something disappointing has occurred to him. “You’re scared you’ll embarrass yourself as badly as they are.”

My head snaps up, briefly glaring at him before I can school my expression. “I just think this song is too slow.”

It’s a bolero, something romantic that requires a partner—and definitely the kind no one else here is pulling off.

Oh, Gavin, no… And Kelly, babe, maybe rethink this.

“Mm,” Daniel murmurs, drawing my attention back to him. “Coward.”

Offended, I fist my hands at my sides and stare up at him. “Excuse me?”

He dips his head until his cheek is practically next to mine and his mouth is millimeters from my ear. “You’re a coward. It’s okay. You can admit it.”

Oh no. Absolutely not. This man isn’t about to call me a coward and get away with it. He should know better than to challenge me. It’s a well-known fact that I never back down.

“Fine,” I grit out, pulling back enough to truly glare at him. “I’ll dance. But you better not step on my feet.”

My eyes are still narrowed when he offers his hand, perfectly unaffected by my annoyance. It only makes me even more annoyed with him. The self-assured asshole. I want to slap the smugness off his face.

I place my palm in his, an act that feels more defiant than it should, and let him lead me out to where several couples are attempting to dance a style they’re clearly unfamiliar with. The steps I learned during my years of dance classes, something I gave up in college, come back the moment we stand face to face. And I’m glad for it now, because Daniel…Daniel knows what he’s doing.

He cups my hand in one of his and lifts it to shoulder level while the other rests in the curve of my waist. Subtly, he squeezes there, a signal to ready myself. Then he steps forward, guiding me back at the same time in the slow, quick, quick steps. We fall into the rhythm easily, like our movements are as natural as breathing. As if we’ve done this together a thousand times.

“You’re a better dancer than I thought you’d be,” he says, almost echoing my thoughts as I watch the way his hips move.

“I’m a woman of many talents.” I shake my hair over my shoulders as he dips me back slightly, not daring to meet his eyes, even though I can feel them searching my face.

When he rights me and we fall back into step, our bodies are closer. His chest brushes mine as he curls his arm fully around my waist. The warmth of his body and the heady scent of his cologne distract me for a moment, and I almost miss a step, but then muscle memory kicks in and saves me. There’s no way he missed my mistake, but his only response is to slide his hand an inch or two lower on my back. Even though it’s still in a perfectly respectable place on my body, something in me sparks to life at the move.

Setting my jaw, I tamp down the way my body wants to respond before the flicker of heat can ignite. The song isn’t close to ending, so I can’t step away without looking like the coward he accused me of being. Instead, I’ll have to wait it out.

My best bet is to keep the conversation going. If our history is anything to go by, he’ll have me fuming within seconds, and I absolutely need the distraction. I can’t let myself think about what else he could do with his hips—things that would involve me and him and a dark corner.

“I bet you requested this song,” I declare. “I can’t imagine anyone else asking for a Cuban classic.”

He spins me out and pulls me back again, pressing me flush to him. Despite the proximity, it’s a relief, because in this position, I don’t have to look at him.

“You caught me,” he confesses as the top of my head brushes his jaw. “I couldn’t resist. But you’re a fan, aren’t you?”

I was wrong. I don’t need to keep the conversation going. The banter is only dragging me closer to the edge because of how fucking hot every word that leaves his mouth is. It’s the manner in which he speaks, the intonations, the steady rise and fall, and how he manages to make every syllable sound worth hanging on to. I get why he’s so successful at what he does, because he could negotiate a fish out of its gills.

No wonder I got fucked over.

“And that song you loved earlier?” he murmurs, his lips far too close to my ear. “The reggaetón one you and the girls lost your minds to? That was also my doing.”

I desperately try to hold back the sensation, but a thrill rips through me at his words. He’s been paying attention to me tonight.

But also, ew. What the fuck? Why do I even care? And why was he watching me?

Worse, though… Why do I like the idea of it?

I blame the dream. That stupid fantasy somehow changed my perception of him, and now I can’t escape it. Great.

As soon as the song ends, I drop his hand and take two steps back. I have to get away before he leaves me even more confused. The only emotion coursing through me right now should be hate, or at the very least, vexation. Yet here I am, actually having enjoyed that dance.

What’s wrong with me? Am I drunker than I realized? Did aliens implant something in my brain while I was sleeping?

I’m turning to make my escape when I spot the circle that’s formed around us. On all sides, bright faces and hands are lifted in applause.

“Selene, you have to teach me how to get my hips to move like that,” a girl from the design team whose name I don’t remember gushes. “I don’t know where you learned it, but you two are so talented, oh my God. I have, like, two left feet, and you guys are out here doing that with no practice. It’s not fair.”

As she and a few others laugh and chatter, I thank her and excuse myself with an awkward wave and smile, hoping no one has read into what just happened between Daniel and me. It’s not my fault that style of dance is sensual. But it is my fault that I let him goad me into it.

I maneuver my way through the crowd, feeling suddenly overheated. At the bar, I order another gin and tonic and smile gratefully at the bartender when he sets it down in front of me. I down half of it in one go, eager to forget about the crime I’ve just committed. But there was no way I could ignore the dare. Daniel always brings out the worst in me and triggers my competitive side.

He’s figured out how to push my buttons. And I’m afraid he’ll never let up.